A World Within (2 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Is this a government hospital?’ he asks.

‘It is a private clinic,’ Rohit replies.

‘Why are we here? We should have gone to the government hospital.’

‘Dadoo, she is the only one in Shimla, there is no other neurologist.’

He is surprised. ‘No one else? No government doctor!’ and then adds, ‘Is she a specialist, I mean, a good one?’

‘Yes, yes, very good,’ Rohit too assures him.

‘Okay,’ he mumbles.

It is such agony waiting in the neurologists’ clinic, not sure of what the doctor would say about your mental stability. The verdict haunts. In the beginning when you still know that something is happening to you, when you are still aware that you are a human being, it is so very dreadful to sit here and wait to know what is wrong with your mind.

I wonder how difficult it will be for Dadoo to tell the doctor that he was losing his brain. He was not just an intelligent educated man but had been professor of math for years. Is he embarrassed? Or nervous? I do not know. But I am sure he is feeling sheepish and wants to run away.

I can see him pretending that everything is fine. But perhaps that is natural. A person waiting in a neurologist’s clinic does not fit into the conventional definition of a patient; he or she looks normal. People with diseases or injuries moan, whine and complain. Dadoo looked so proper in his cream-coloured suit, tie and well-coordinated tan shoes.

He smiles whenever someone walks in. No one is aware how ruptured his brain and soul is. Physical pain is nothing as compared to this.

Our turn. We enter the doctor’s cabin. She gives an affectionate and warm smile, ‘Please sit down.’

‘This is my father-in-law. He’s having a problem with his memory; he’s forgetting things. We’ve got an MRI done and the report says that these are age-related changes but … here’s the report,’ says Rohit.

The doctor takes the report, studies it for a minute or two and then looks at Dadoo smilingly.

‘How are you, sir?’

Dadoo smiles, ‘I am fine. We were just passing by so we thought of meeting you.’

‘That is so nice of you,’ she replies.

Dadoo smiles and says, ‘I have no problem but sometimes I do not remember things.’

The doctor nods.

‘Sir, I will ask you a few more questions? May I?’

‘Questions,’ he laughs and then looks at the doctor amused. This is all a pretension, I can feel that he is under lot of pressure.

She smiles. ‘Yes sir, so here we start. Can you tell me where we are sitting at the moment, I mean the place?’

Dadoo laughs as if this is the most stupid question and then mumbles, ‘What place is this?’

‘Dadoo, you know what place this is,’ I say my heart missing a beat as I look into his worried eyes.

‘Shimla,’ he says. I heave a sigh of relief.

‘Where do you live?’ the doctor asks.

‘Solan.’

‘Very good. What year are we in?’

‘2010.’

‘Which month?’

‘Month … ummm …’

‘Date? What is the date today?’ the doctor asks.

Silence.

‘What is the day today?’

Silence.

‘I mean … Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday?’ asks the doctor patiently.

Dadoo looks blank.

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Four,’ pat comes the reply.

‘Good,’ says the doctor.

‘Spell water backwards?’

He concentrates and slowly spells it out.

‘Okay, sir, now let us play a small game. I will give you three words to remember and then I will ask you about them after some time. Please do try and remember them. The words are
chashma
(glasses),
kutta
(dog)
aur gaadi
(and vehicle). Will you please repeat?’

‘Chashma, kutta, gaadi,’ Dadoo says quickly. He is back to his amused self now.

‘Yes, sir. That is very good. So tell me how you feel. Is there any other problem that bothers you?’ She then asks him about his sleep patterns, food habits and other minute details. Then after some time she returns to the three words, ‘Sir, could you repeat the three words I requested you to remember?’

‘Yes,’ Dadoo says and then tries hard to jog his memory. ‘One was
gaadi
, I think, and the other two … I do not remember,’ he mumbles. His hands are trembling now.

‘Please try again. Think,’ the doctor says

He gives a hollow laugh, ‘No, I do not remember.’

I can sense stress in his voice.

‘Okay, not to worry. Let us do some small calculations. Will you tell me how much is 200 minus 7?’

He instantly answers, ‘193’.

And then it goes on.

‘193 minus 7?’

‘186.’

‘186 minus 7.’

‘179.’

‘Very good, now count backwards starting from hundred.’

Dadoo starts, ‘99, 98, 97, 96, 95 …’

‘Good,’ says the doctor.

As I watch him making light of the doctor’s methodology, I see acute stress in his demeanour and a keen desire to get the answers right.

The doctor writes down a prescription and hands it over, ‘He has dementia and it may or may not be Alzheimer’s. We will have to put him on medication and these medicines will have to be changed frequently till we arrive at the right doze and correct combination. Therefore follow-ups are very important. The medicines may make him depressed or hyper-active at times; it varies from individual to individual. All respond differently. You have to keep a watch and give me feedback on any abrupt variation.’

With a heavy heart I ask, ‘Will he improve?’

She shrugs, ‘There is a thirty per cent chance that we may be able to arrest the decline and thirty per cent to slow the progress.’

Then the doctor asks me, ‘Has he control over bowels and bladder?’

I nod vigorously, ‘Absolutely! Nothing wrong there.’

I glance at the prescription slip; I read Dadoo’s score – 3/5.
Three out of five, not bad. Or is it?

He is on medication. It is a heavy day, full of strain and tension for all of us.

I get frantic calls from my siblings. Vikram, my elder brother calls from Chandigarh; Mala didi, elder sister, from Goa; and Deepak, the youngest of us all, from Singapore. Everyone wants to know what will happen now. Mamma is laden with grief and she repeatedly asks, ‘Is it necessary to put him on medicines? Can’t we do something else?’

We all know that there is no option.

To deviate our minds from this sudden reality check, which none of us was fully prepared for, we decided to focus on the goodness in life and chose to celebrate it. My parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary is due in about a month. We plan a bash so that he can meet all his extended family.

3

17 February 2010

My fiftieth wedding anniversary: Pages from Dadoo’s Diary

There are so many people. Should I call them people or
apne log,
my relatives!
I keep forgetting the occasion.
Well, well, it is definitely a celebration of some sort. Oh! Asha and I have completed fifty years of our marriage. She is looking beautiful. But I am not at ease. Why do these celebrations have to be in a five-star hotel? It will cost a lot. But then, who listens to me now. Children rule.

Though, thank God, my children are the best and most loving; I am so proud of all of them.

To whom do these faces belong? Oh, this is Maya, my sister. And is that her daughter-in-law or daughter? And yes, my nephew, Sanjay, who is hearing and speech impaired. Are these small girls his daughters? There are so many others. No, I must not fret. I will just have to be calm and composed. Asha has said so. Let the children enjoy themselves.
Yeh unka kaam hai
(this is their work)
,
they
wanted to celebrate our golden anniversary, but then how can it be their work? Wasn’t I the one that always worked, Wasn’t I the one that everyone looked up to? Wasn’t I the one that made decisions in the family?

When did this all change?
Yesterday? A month ago? A year ago? How can they decide on their own what to do and what not to do, they don’t have the experience of life behind them. But who is going to argue with Asha?

Whatever, I am happy seeing all my family here. My niece, Aadarsh from Mumbai is here too! And what is the name of the other one, Alka! Yes. After so many years we are together.

I don’t know how to respond to these people’s greetings.
I don’t remember them.
I will just have to smile and nod. But there are so many people here. Two hundred, three hundred, can’t say. Do I know them all?

How did they all assemble here, it must be either Rewa’s or Vikram’s plan. Is it something special? Why are they here? Why am I dressed in a suit and Asha in a sari?

‘Daddy, Mummy, come, let’s cut the cake,’ says Vikram, my elder son, happily giving his mom a peck on her cheek.

Cake! Why is there a cake? What sort of function is this? I look at Asha to show me the way. I think she understands because she smiles, takes my elbow and whispers, ‘Come, let’s cut the cake.’ I am guided to the table. I try to smile, conflicting emotions arise in my heart; I don’t like all this drama.

Oh my god! Is this a cake? It is a huge snow-white and golden thing, three layers atop each other. Now I just want it to be over and not think and analyze what is happening and why is it happening. ‘
Achcha
, okay, so we have to cut the cake,’ I mumble, smiling tensely and again looking for guidance towards Asha.

‘Yes, yes, Dadoo, though first you have to exchange rings,’ announces my younger daughter, Rewa.

‘Rings!’ I mumble, helplessly. What are they talking about?

‘Of course, the rings. Wedding rings!’ says Asha cheerily.

I am still at a loss. Whose wedding? What rings? And then I read on the cake, ‘50
^th
Wedding Anniversary’.
Oh yes, now I remember, it is our wedding anniversary.
I am delighted. I lovingly look at Asha who has given me all love, affection and support. What a lucky man I have been. I am blissfully happy as I look at all the smiling people around me, my own people, my relatives, friends and my children.

‘Where are the rings?’ asks Deepu, my younger son.

‘Rings! What rings?’ I ask surprised, the smile wiped off my face.
I have forgotten again.

‘Oh Daddy, the rings you have to exchange today on your fiftieth anniversary,’ says Vikram hugging me and kissing my forehead.

‘Yes, yes,’ I mumble.

‘Here they are,’ says Mala, my eldest child.

I look around, every one is smiling, so naturally I smile back.

‘Okay, who goes first?’ I ask bewildered.

There are loud guffaws.

‘Of course, Daddy, you go first, and then Mamma,’ declares Vikram.

I am handed the ring by someone, there is too much confusion, I look at Asha lost and though I love her I cannot express it; this is all so alien to me.

‘Wait, wait,’ I hear someone say out loud, ‘don’t hurry, let us take some photographs first.’

‘Photo! Why photographs?’ I ask bewildered.

‘Of course, it is a special occasion,’ Asha murmurs.

‘Daddy, go slow, we have to take pictures,’ says Deepu. I am getting irritated with all this
tamasha
(fuss) but then, what can I say. Asha is beaming, how this lady likes all these formalities! I am strained now and I can feel my smile disappear under this unknown atmosphere. ‘Come on, let’s get on with this,’ I mumble.

‘
Shaant ho jao
,
shaant ho jao
[calm down, calm down]
,’
mutters Asha, who can sense that I am getting fidgety.

‘Okay. Okay.’ I say. What else can I do?

Thank God. It is all over. The rings have been exchanged and the huge cake has been cut. Have I ever cut a cake before in my life, I can’t recall. There is animated conversation going around but I can’t make much about it. Asha has guided me to a sofa.

We are both sitting; the others are all around us. Now I just want this drama to end … suddenly there is loud applause. I snap out of my reverie and look at my younger son-in-law, Rohit. He is announcing something; I can’t understand anything in the cacophony. And then a white board is placed in front along with a computer. What are they doing? Rohit is standing near the computer. I want him to stop all this nonsense
.
Enough is enough now. We should eat and leave.

Where are we? Oh yes, I remember, we are in the hotel where Vikram works, the Taj. How much will all this cost? All sheer wastage of money, but now they don’t listen to me, not even Asha. I glance at her; she is happily looking at Rohit, waiting for whatever they are doing. I have no choice.

‘We are all here for a very special occasion,’ says Rohit, ‘This is a great day for Daddy and Mummy.’ He adds beaming.

Oh yes, today is my wedding anniversary, it brings a smile to my face. Fifty years with Asha and I am surrounded with all my lovely children and relatives.

But what is he saying? I can hear my heart beat irregularly.

‘We’ve made a film on the life of this self-made and farsighted person – that filled up our lives with joy and happiness – our Daddy. Even though the majority here know him, this film is a tribute to him.’

A film! How could he make a film on my life, from where did he get the information. I am zapped. I look around, all of them are smiling. But I am scared. Why? Why did I agree to all this? I was never told about this film thing. What is in it, my life? How could it be? What was my life? Thoughts swirl in my mind toppling over each other. I can’t recall anything that can be put in this film. Am I not a worthless fellow? I did nothing in life. Are they going to show all this and embarrass me. But then what can I do, no one listens to me. I look at Asha. It is no use, she is beaming with pride. Silly woman, I clutch my shaking hands and resign to my fate.