in the mornings, because my father never ever let me miss one day except when we brought her to Delhi, and then I came back home and cooked and looked after my mother while my father was at the shop, and even then I don’t think that I ever felt this tired. For almost one year I fed my mother, sponged her, gave her medicines, and I was only thirteen years of age, but I never ever felt like this, and it seems that it was because of the type of person that my mother was. She was a simple person, and her demands were always simple and direct. Get me a cup of tea, Renu, she used to say. Press my legs, Renu. Help me sit up, Renu. The demands were only made on my body. The demands on my head and heart did come afterwards, obviously, but that was after she was gone.
Then there was my father, my father and his lifelong heart problem, his four heart attacks. I did not actually have to look after him. He would have a heart attack, admit himself into the hospital for three or four days’ time, come back home, rest for some time and go back to the shop. He never ever let me go to the hospital to meet him, he never ever let me fuss over him at home. The only thing that mattered to him was that I went to school daily and did my homework daily. Still, I always felt tired with worry. I never had to attend to him, but I always felt tired. Why? Because this sick and quiet man never directly told me what he was feeling, he never directly told me what he needed, and so I tired myself thinking day in and day out about what he could be feeling, what he could need, what I could do. Even when I got married and shifted to Delhi I wasstill always worried. He did not allow me to come to Meerut to take care of him, and, obviously, he would never come and stay in his daughter’s house, my father would not even agree to one sip of water in his daughter’s house, so from far away in Delhi I just kept worrying about him. Day in and day out I used to think, Is his chest hurting? Is he breathless? Does he need better medicines? Is he dying? For years and years I remained tired, tired from thinking that any minute my father could die. And the truth is that it was only the night after my father died that I actually got my first full night of sleep.
But for how long could that peace last? For how long could my head and heart remain light enough that I could float through my days and sleep peacefully at night? After my father was gone, it was my father-in-law next. And in this case it was diabetes. Even now my father-in-law takes two insulin injections daily, and if he does not eat immediately after his injection, his blood sugar falls, and then he falls down to the floor, thud, just like that. He will not warn you of that sinking feeling, he won’t tell you that he is feeling uncomfortable and needs to eat. No. And so, like with all these men, you have to be alert, you always have to be alert. You have to watch out carefully for signs, signs that don’t come out from the mouth in the form of words, but in the small, little movements of the body, signs that demand your attention day in and day out. And now that he and my mother-in-law live in my house, in my care, it is my duty to understand his needs before he or anybody else does. It is my duty to make sure that he eats his meals on time, that there are always at least four doses of insulin in the fridge, and to keep all sweets and fried foods hidden from him as if he was a child.
And then, obviously, there is my real child, Bobby. But Bobby is fine now. By God’s grace, Bobby is well and truly fine now.
But who will need me next? Who will I have to worry about next? Who else is standing in line waiting for my attention? I sometimes think that the head and heart that God gave me don’t actually belong to me, that even though they live inside me, I don’t actually own them. Sometimes I just want to shout. Give me back my head! I want to say. Give me back my heart! When I talk to my husband about
Then there was my father, my father and his lifelong heart problem, his four heart attacks. I did not actually have to look after him. He would have a heart attack, admit himself into the hospital for three or four days’ time, come back home, rest for some time and go back to the shop. He never ever let me go to the hospital to meet him, he never ever let me fuss over him at home. The only thing that mattered to him was that I went to school daily and did my homework daily. Still, I always felt tired with worry. I never had to attend to him, but I always felt tired. Why? Because this sick and quiet man never directly told me what he was feeling, he never directly told me what he needed, and so I tired myself thinking day in and day out about what he could be feeling, what he could need, what I could do. Even when I got married and shifted to Delhi I wasstill always worried. He did not allow me to come to Meerut to take care of him, and, obviously, he would never come and stay in his daughter’s house, my father would not even agree to one sip of water in his daughter’s house, so from far away in Delhi I just kept worrying about him. Day in and day out I used to think, Is his chest hurting? Is he breathless? Does he need better medicines? Is he dying? For years and years I remained tired, tired from thinking that any minute my father could die. And the truth is that it was only the night after my father died that I actually got my first full night of sleep.
But for how long could that peace last? For how long could my head and heart remain light enough that I could float through my days and sleep peacefully at night? After my father was gone, it was my father-in-law next. And in this case it was diabetes. Even now my father-in-law takes two insulin injections daily, and if he does not eat immediately after his injection, his blood sugar falls, and then he falls down to the floor, thud, just like that. He will not warn you of that sinking feeling, he won’t tell you that he is feeling uncomfortable and needs to eat. No. And so, like with all these men, you have to be alert, you always have to be alert. You have to watch out carefully for signs, signs that don’t come out from the mouth in the form of words, but in the small, little movements of the body, signs that demand your attention day in and day out. And now that he and my mother-in-law live in my house, in my care, it is my duty to understand his needs before he or anybody else does. It is my duty to make sure that he eats his meals on time, that there are always at least four doses of insulin in the fridge, and to keep all sweets and fried foods hidden from him as if he was a child.
And then, obviously, there is my real child, Bobby. But Bobby is fine now. By God’s grace, Bobby is well and truly fine now.
But who will need me next? Who will I have to worry about next? Who else is standing in line waiting for my attention? I sometimes think that the head and heart that God gave me don’t actually belong to me, that even though they live inside me, I don’t actually own them. Sometimes I just want to shout. Give me back my head! I want to say. Give me back my heart! When I talk to my husband about
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