I remember
To my longest standing best friend, my beloved Dadi
I remember your bedtime stories. They were the most exciting part about going to bed for a restless four year old. When the lights went off, and the house quietened down, you would magically take me to another world. Of Indian mythology. Of the evil British Raj. I remember jumping up and down on the bed, pretending to fist-fight the goras and driving them away. Oh how you used to panic at the thought of me falling off the bed in the dark, and quickly start to pat me back to sleep, reassuring me that they had left many many years ago, as they knew my father (who was born three weeks after Independence) was on his way to defeat them.
I remember the nights the electricity went. It was very often back in those days. Almost as if your sleep was secondary and mine more important, you would sit up, fumble with your small blue torch, pull out your trusted hand fan from underneath the mattress and magically produce a cool breeze, that made me nod off instantly. I don’t recall how long you used to do this. Was it ever the entire night? I shudder to think of you sitting like that, fanning away, while I slept unaware. I guess I will never know.
I remember walking back home with you from school every day. That little lane we used to cross with the tiny shop selling those Cadbury bars with a car made on them. You knew they were my favourite. And yet you didn’t want to spoil me without reason. As long as I got a Star or a Very Good for that day, the reward was mine. And so I remember walking with you, hand in hand, and then opening my bag as we entered that lane, proudly showing you my tiny notebook with those achievements. And subsequently unwrapping that beautiful purple and gold, marvelling at the stencil of the car and chomping on what felt like the most delicious thing in the world.
I remember how you warned me not to touch the chillies drying in the sun for your delicious pickle. I remember going right up and rubbing my hands all over them for fun, and a few minutes later, unknowingly rubbing my eyes. Of course I screamed and cried in agony, and I remember how you washed my face multiple times, applied your trusted Vaseline and made me sit in your lap till I quietened down. I also remember you telling me not to switch on the TV during the day, as during the early ‘90s, there was only static till about 7 pm, but to a kid who couldn’t comprehend that, you simply said it was the TV’s sleep time. But of course I went and switched it on one day, and got terribly scared at the loud noise and white stars that filled the screen, and called for you in anguish. I remember how you quietened me down and told me not to disturb the TV as it slept and I remember never ever attempting that again. I gave you so much trouble but I don’t ever remember you being angry about that. It is almost as if you knew what I was going to do and prepared yourself to deal with it when it happened.
I remember my first walkie talkie doll. The one you probably craved for me to have more than I did myself. I don’t know how many pains you took to have it brought for me and when it arrived, your joy knew no bounds. Only because you thought I would love it, and love her I did. Lisa. With her delicately perfumed golden hair and beautiful blue eyes. I remember playing with her for hours, with you by my side. You were as much a child as me in those hours and I could not have asked for a better friend to share her with.
I remember how much you wanted me to sing. And all those beautiful songs you would write for me. You were the first and only lyricist I have personally known, and you patiently sat with me everyday, teaching me each swar. I remember the casio, and then the harmonium, and your insistence on daily riyaaz which I did everything to run away from. I loved those moments with you but hated the idea of me singing. It is ironical that so many years later, I really wish I had a bit of rhythm in me.
I remember all those years of troubling and teasing you in every way I could. Standing on the bed and pretending to touch the fan, only to hear your horrified gasps that I would split my hand open on the blades. It never happened but just the idea of it filled you with fear every time while I laughed and shrugged it off. I remember those silly moments when I would grab your hand suddenly and furtively bring it to my face almost as if you were going to slap me, and how without fail you would always always pull back just before it touched my cheek with a loud cry ‘haye meri beti!’ Oh what fun it used to be to play these games with you, knowing you would always look out for me no matter what.
I remember waiting for you to remove your dentures every night, and marvelled at how cute you looked. I remember telling you that and you would simply laugh in disbelief. That little steel box you kept your grin in was always hidden from my sight, because you feared I might pull out your teeth and try them on someday. But what I really wanted was to remove my own and laugh a toothless laugh with you every night.
I remember that night, in our new house, when a cat entered through the window and fell behind the TV. And started to wail. And how another cat came to rescue it but got stuck in the window. And started to wail even louder. And in that comedy of errors, how you and I held each other the entire time, too scared to move or call for help, but knowing fully well that as long as we had each other, we would be okay. We sat like that until morning, until help came and narrated that adventure to everyone for years afterwards with much amusement.
And then I remember how slowly my life started to get busy with other things. New places, new friends, new schools. Teenage. What I don’t remember is appreciating that my newfound busyness was directly proportional to how empty your life would become. What I also don’t remember is you ever telling me about it or asking for more of my time. As my evenings moved from spending them with you, to wanting to be on the phone with my friends, or watching my favourite TV show or studying or just indulging in some sort of revelry, you started to be more by yourself, sitting in the garden watching the squirrels, or in the balcony, watching the world go by. Now that I think about it, I wonder if somewhere you knew this would happen. That I would go from wanting to be around you all the time, to knowing you were around but not giving you as much time as I earlier did.
But in all this I do remember that as my life evolved, your affection, pride, involvement never reduced. You were around each time I needed you. To share a secret with. To help wear my first sari. To give a ‘shaabash, hamesha class mein top karo!’ No matter how much I was growing up, you walked fast to keep pace with me, but always at a safe distance so that whenever I turned to look, you were there. Giving me what I needed when I needed it the most.
And then I remember the day it happened. I came home from college and walked into your room to say hello. You greeted me excitedly and I told you how my day went. Then I went out, only to return five minutes later. And you greeted me with the same excited ‘aa gayi college se?’ you had said a little while ago. I couldn’t tell whether you had forgotten seeing me earlier or were just excited to see me again. But then it happened again a few days later, and again. And kept happening. The doctors called it Alzheimers. They said this and a lot more would happen. And that there was no cure. All one had to do was be around you a lot more, and be patient.
And so I remember feeling like you were now becoming the child I once was. I had read in books about the seven ages of man, about how life comes a full circle but never imagined what it would be like when it actually unfolded in front of me. I slowly started to realise that after all those years you had spent looking out for me, the tide was turning. It was now my turn to protect you, to hold your hand, and help you navigate this difficult phase life was putting you through.
And so I remember finishing my classes at college, and rushing to hospital during your lunch break, the only time the ICU allowed visitors. I knew I had to be there because there was nobody else that you wanted to be fed by. I remember narrating stories of how my day went, of how the world outside looked, trying my best to build that magical world you used to create for me in those bedtime stories so many years ago. I don’t think I was ever that creative, but for a few minutes every day, I think you let go of your fears and listened to me talk about something that brought a smile to your face. I remember how afterwards your eyes would brim with tears as you watched me go, and how heartbreaking it felt to leave you like that. I don’t know if the same fear you felt years ago when I stood on the bed and tried to touch the fan was now coming back to gnaw me as the fear of not seeing you another day. I don’t know if the two can ever be equated but I remember feeling the anguish of watching someone you love being in pain quite vividly.
I remember when you were discharged and brought home, there was a giant oxygen cylinder you had to use to support your waning lungs. Oh how much you hated wearing that mask every single day and refused to breathe through it. I remember holding your hand and trying it on myself, to show you that it was okay. Okay to breathe that way. That if I could do it, you could too. And like everything in our lives so far, you and I were together in this too and that everything would be okay. I remember how you looked at me that day, your eyes staring at me as you wore the mask, and started to inhale and exhale slowly, as if silently accepting that this was now life. I remember feeling helpless, that I couldn’t comfort you as you used to do for me all those years ago, that I couldn’t make you sit in my lap and take your pain away but I remember I was as close to you as I could be, holding you up and how you rested against me, with your full weight on me for support. It was that day that I knew I was no longer the child. I felt more responsible towards you than ever before. And I remember hoping you knew you could depend on me unconditionally, the way I once did on you.
I remember in your last few days, how much you savoured the flavour of your favourite vanilla ice cream. And that one day, after lunch, as I was feeding it to you, you momentarily forgot what it was like to swallow. You asked me, as a child would ask an adult, how does one swallow? And so I remember putting a spoon in my mouth, and showing you how to push the cold cream down my throat. You looked at me with a blank expression, but as if on cue, followed suit. It will forever be my most lasting memory of you as that is how you and I ate the last bowl of ice cream you would ever have.
A few days after that, I remember coming back from college, only to find you unmoving, and in that haze, calling the ambulance, cradling you in my arms and the long drive to the hospital. You were unconscious and seeing you unresponsive like that made me instinctively wish you would tell me to slow the ambulance down which is why I told the driver to do so. I remember trying to talk to you, to tell you how my day went, hoping you were listening. And then I remember having to leave you like that and coming home, only to wake up the next morning, rush to the hospital, and be told that you were no more. I remember feeling like something was being ripped apart inside me, as I heard those words and that I could do nothing to stop it. Even though the fear had been building up in me for many months, when it finally happened, I thought it was impossible. You were my best friend, you had always always been there, for all twenty years of my life. The idea that there could be a world without you, was unthinkable.
They say the hardest part about losing someone you love is not the instant when it happens but the lifetime one spends thereafter, learning to live with that vacuum. The days and weeks immediately after you left were unbelievably tough. But slowly they turned into months and the months into years. Today it is fourteen years since that day. So much has happened in all this time. It is uncanny to think I have spent nearly half my life without you around. But when I think about you, everything seems like it was just yesterday. Your voice is as clear to me, as if you are calling out from the next room. Your cotton saris are in my cupboard, as soft and fresh as they were when you used to wear them. The touch of your hand is vivid, and the way the skin on your thumb would flatten slightly as I pressed it in affection feels as real as it did back then. The black and white of your hair is as clear in my mind as if you are sitting braiding it in front of me, admonishing me at the same time for not oiling my hair enough. When I see your photograph or close my eyes and imagine your face, I see your smile in my father’s smile and hear your voice in my buas’ laughter.
I hope you like me for the person I am today. I hope you are happy that I have inherited your love for ice-cream 500%. And I hope you know that I am eternally grateful to have had you in my life. In our next lifetime, I promise to trouble you a little less and sing a lot more. But most of all, I promise that every night before we sleep, we will remove our dentures and together laugh a toothless laugh, like the best of friends we always were :)
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