Deliberately Deadly

 

The cremation was over. Tomorrow they hand over Appa’s ashes in the brass urn we have given the crematorium staff. I was told to come back the next day any time after 11.00 a.m. as the ashes would have cooled by then. I can’t remember whether I nodded or not as I imagined my six foot tall Appa squished into an urn. I almost saw him squirming inside and giving me one of his familiar exasperated looks. I heard him spitting at me in a another fit of helpless rage. There had been so many of those episodes in the last few months.

 I managed to thank all those who had come for the funeral.  The priests were waiting to be paid discreetly. The hearse driver was impatient to go to his next appointment at the other end of Chennai. Our relatives were not sure if we were relieved or sad, and didn’t know how to deal with our stoic inscrutable silences.  They were also in a hurry to leave, to somehow escape from this dismal scene of dystopia and death.  

We drove back from the grey crematorium to my parent’s greyish house in a disoriented state.  The car had my brother, my mother, myself and my nephew who had just arrived from Delhi. Each one was lost in their own private memories, fears and sorrows. Grappling with questions never shared, questions that had no answers. The hum of the engine, sounds of traffic and blaring of horns, were almost welcome for once. We were exhausted. This was not the fatigue of the last few days. Our weariness had started over five months ago.  

Vinay, my fourteen year old nephew took out his phone and checked his instagram listlessly. “Do you have to check your instagram right now?” my brother Tarun, snapped. The anger and frustration of last few months were laid bare in the edginess of his voice. Vinay continued scrolling half -heartedly for a few a minutes and then put his phone away. The silence was back.  He was mourning a grandfather he barely knew, a grandfather who did not even try to get to know him. Vinay just stared out of the window for the rest of the journey with an expression so blank - it almost scared me. 

Once home, we rushed to bathe and change our clothes.  The maids were told to wash all the floors, the curtains, sheets, doors and windows as well. It was not just the death we had to expunge, it was the trauma of over a hundred days that had to be exorcised.  My mother went to lie down. She had not spoken a word for the last one week.  We were not surprised. She had said very little in the last two months.

Tarun made some strong filter coffee and brought it to sit with me in the verandah.  “ How are you doing?, he asked.   I did not know what to say and so kept quiet.  “It was a kind of suicide, wasn’t it?  He didn’t die of old age”, he said after a few minutes.  I needed more coffee before I could think of a response.  “I can’t get my head around this sis, and you are going all silent on me!”, he snapped for the second time today. 

“I don’t know what it was, Tarun. It was too many things. Yes he was old, but that was not all of it “, I said in as calm as voice as I could manage.

Appa, had retired from the Indian Railways at the age of sixty and had just died at the age of 79.  He had been a popular man at work.  His bossed loved his solicitousness, honesty and willingness to put in extra hours without a murmur. To his subordinates he was an avuncular boss, who chided, appreciated, cajoled and coaxed endlessly. Someone who rarely raised his voice to get a wide range of jobs done on time.  For several years after he retired, we had a steady flow of visitors from the Indian Railways. Dad loved their visits as they reminisced and shared jokes about various railway ministers, budgets, engines, train accidents and changes in technology, especially the ticket reservation system. I overheard these stories with a mix of awe and disbelief. More disbelief than awe, because the man I saw every day at home was almost someone else!

Among the extended family of my six aunts and seven uncles, my father mostly came across as stern and studious, the one who knew best, the one who could not be defied or disobeyed or even disagreed with. He had   never been “popular”.  Some of my aunts and cousins kept a distance from him, and by extension kept a distance from us. And yet, he was seen also as wise, knowledgeable about politics, philosophy, and religion, legal and financial matters.    My uncles would often seek guidance from him on their loans, investments, religious rituals, train travel and even on how to find a stable son-in law!  Those were serious conversations, where my father did most of the talking, with the advice seekers barely getting a few words in even after two hours. It was his way of giving of himself, of caring for their needs, securing their futures.    

In the immediate family with my mother, my brother and me, he was the protector, the breadwinner, the upholder of morals, the reminder of traditions, and the keeper of our collective honour and conscience.  That was his way of loving us. As children we did not see much of him, but his codes and rules dominated our lives. What we ate, what we studied, what clothes we wore, the music we listened to, the friends we had, the programmes we watched on TV, and what books we read, were all determined by him and his ideas of right and wrong, healthy and unhealthy. We found ways to escape his authority only when we left for college and we could finally choose our own clothes, friends and hobbies.  I found myself enjoying Pakistani Ghazals while my brother discovered the beauty and intricacies of Jazz. Appa was dismayed and never lost an opportunity to insinuate that our musical aesthetics had been sullied, and our sensibilities were now lacking.

For my mother, Appa was almost like a school headmaster. My childhood memories are filled with images of him giving her series of instructions. I occasionally heard her say,    “Let’s have pakoras today” or “Let’s go to the beach “. Her suggestions were mostly countered with “It’s better to eat those snacks our uncle brought yesterday”, or “the beach is too noisy and crowded on weekends“. Over the years, her occasional suggestions reduced, and finally they stopped completely. She busied herself cooking, cleaning, looking after us and our innumerable guests, always doing things the way he wanted them done. We often wondered how she acquiesced to his every demand without demur, no dissent, no disagreement. It was a while before we noticed that there was no enthusiasm either. By then we had gotten so used to it, we were almost treating her the same.

After college, I got a job with a bank and was posted in Mumbai.  When I completed a year of working, I went back home to visit my parents. I remember that I wanted to take my mother out to see new places in the city. I said, “Ma, let me take you to see the new dancing fountain”. She said, “Ask your father where he would like to go”. So we ended up again visiting temples, museums and the occasional concert if his favorite Ilayaraja was performing.

My visits home became infrequent as the years passed. Initially, it was because I was settling into my arranged marriage and trying to reconfigure my life as wife, daughter in law and aunt to a whole bunch of my husband’s nieces and nephews.  At twenty- three it was daunting to deal with so many new relationships and a new family all at once. Later, it was because I had a daughter who was born with a club foot that required surgery and several post-surgical interventions. Once that was over, the demands of my job in the bank increased as I became a branch manager.   I did somehow visit my parents at least once a year, but these visits left me feeling more estranged. The religious rituals I had grown up me now left me cold, and there seemed that little else was occupying their lives. A preoccupation with food was also difficult to deal with as I witnessed their experiments with different kinds of diets. My mother was becoming a shadow of the woman I had once enjoyed being with. She was increasingly immersed in her prayer group of women in their sixties, where recipes were shared, grandkids escapades were recounted and bhajans were sung with gusto. Their meetings were a reprieve from their routines and the multiple roles that had consumed their lives.  

In the meantime, Tarun had quit his job as a software developer and was doing music full time. Audio engineering became his new passion and his involvement with Jazz music had earned him quite a name in the music industry. His decision to leave his job was a shock to my father as much as his refusal to have an arranged marriage. Tarun finally married in his early forties and he chose to marry a lovely woman from Mizoram.  Manisha was an accomplished guitarist and music teacher. Appa refused to acknowledge their marriage. Tarun and Manisha lived in Delhi for many years. Their son Vinay was born and brought up in South Delhi. Appa made no effort to meet his only grandson. At first Tarun was furious, then he was just sad, very sad.  His visits to my parents’ were rare. He mostly visited them alone. He once came to a cousin’s wedding with Manisha and Vinay.  Appa just pretended not to see them. My mother couldn’t take her eyes off her grandson who was prancing around and gorging on ice-cream.  I realized  that she did not go talk to  the child out of fear of my father.

Though we spent time together only once in two years, Tarun and I talked frequently on the phone.  It was through me that he got to know how our parents were doing, When I decided to leave my difficult marriage, my brother was my confidante. Manisha, too was supportive.  I actually got to know her well only after my divorce when I took a break and spent a couple of months in Delhi. She had many qualities my father normally admired in people- a simple pragmatism, great financial acumen, culinary skills and a great love for trains. It was a pity he did not even try to get to know her.

My father’s difficulty in accepting my divorce, was something I expected and was prepared for. The more he encountered my strength and my convictions, the more silent he became. Lurking somewhere I sensed an admiration for my courage and resolve, but it was never articulated. I learnt to live with disapproval and his sense of disappointment. I decided to treat it as a generational issue and not a rejection of me as person. That would be too painful.

When I retired at 58, I moved back to Chennai and bought an apartment not far from my parent’s place.  Appa was now 73 and Amman was 67.  I visited them on weekends, keeping my visits short, sorting out their home repairs, helping clear out things they no longer wanted, taking them to the bank and accompanying them to their favorite temples. Once in a while I insisted on driving back along the beach to give them some views of the sky, the sand, and the changing city. “Is this Besant Nagar? Isn’t that where my school used to be? ” my father would suddenly ask when we passed a glass walled mall while I patiently explained where we were. The disappearance of landmarks that he was familiar with was hard for him.  I then started looking for routes which were less ravaged by  glass towers and stuck to familiar old market streets that looked somewhat the same as they did ten years ago.

It was about two years after I moved to Chennai that things changed suddenly. Appa was having severe bouts of gastritis and frequent bouts of bad diarrhea.  After trying a several rounds of allopathic treatment with no respite he became restless and bad-tempered.  The tests he went through over the next one year were exhausting and expensive.  Endoscopy, colonoscopy, CT scans, MRIs, dozens of blood tests, stool tests, and  x-rays  left him, me and my mother drained.  There seemed to be no diagnosis and the doctors appeared to be trying out various treatments, hoping something would work.  Tarun made several visits that year and he was part of all the discussions and decisions about which doctors to approach and what treatments to try. Appa was aware of his presence, but did not talk to Tarun about anything apart from the medical issues he was facing.

After a year of Allopathic treatment, Appa called me one morning and said “I have been reading about my condition and thinking and praying. I have decided to shift to Ayurveda. It will be less intrusive and I will be more at peace“.  So Tarun and I looked for Ayurvedic doctors, asking our friends for recommendations and scouring the internet.  Over the next eight months, we consulted three different Ayurvedic doctors who gave him five different kinds of treatment. His condition first improved and then deteriorated steadily. The diarrhea increased and with that his whole personality changed as well.    He stopped listening to music, stopped his pujas and stopped talking on the phone to his siblings and former colleagues, stopped reading the newspaper. He was beginning to shut the world out. By now Appa was 77, but looked about ten years older.

As he found it difficult to use the toilet which was not attached to his bedroom, we decided Appa and Amma would move into my apartment, where each bedroom had an attached toilet. He resisted this at first, but the discomfort of not always reaching the toilet in time, in his own house, outweighed his need to be in his familiar terrain. In the initial months of his stay with me, he was morose, sullen and withdrawn with occasional outbursts when he had bad days. These outbursts had almost nothing to do what was happening in the present, and were mostly about things that had happened long ago, moments when he had felt sidelined. With each outburst I got a peek into the demons he was carrying around in his head. The unresolved conflicts and unfulfilled desires appeared with so much force, I was amazed at the turbulence beneath his outward calm.

After about ten months of staying with me Appa decided to stop eating.  He called me and said “I have come to a decision. I am not going to force myself to eat and I don’t want you to force me either. I need to listen to my body as I can’t make it listen to me”. I said “Ok. Appa, you let us know when you are hungry”.  That day he did not ask for food at all.  My mother was getting angry and anxious. I said, “Tomorrow he will ask for food, Ma. Let’s make his favorite rasam and chutneys”. The next day as well he did not want to eat. He had a few sips of water and no amount of coaxing worked when it came to getting him to eat.  He sent my mother out of the room and said to me ” I need you to promise me that from tomorrow  you will not ask me  to eat.  You have not been controlled by me, and now I won’t be controlled by you!“ I was quiet, he seemed determined to somehow take control of his situation.

My mother tried making his favorites saarus, juices, and sweets and kept leaving these near his bed. I once asked her “Instead of just leaving it there, why don’t you try asking him to eat?” She looked at me with such contempt. “When he has never listened to me all these 42 years, what makes you think he will listen now?” she asked and went back into her room.   I noticed she was not angry with him, but was furious with me for expecting her to change the unchangeable. I went to her room that night and put my arm around her, but she was unforgiving and just continued folding clothes as if I was not there.

One week passed and he did not eat anything at all.  He lost a bit of weight but was otherwise ok.  The week after that he stopped drinking water as well.  Within two weeks he deteriorated rapidly. He lost weight and he was not able to get out of bed, but remained adamant about not eating at all. A male nurse was arranged to turn him in bed and change diapers as he no longer was able to stand or walk. After another three days of not drinking water, I was beside myself with worry. I kept on making different dishes and concoctions that might he want to try.  He refused to even taste anything. He was shrinking rapidly and was also dozing a lot.  I called the doctors and asked for advice.  “He will ask for food in a few days, be patient,” was the doctors’ response.  

Eight days later, we were desperate. It was now a month since he had eaten. Tarun called and said “Force some water down if you can”. I tried to force feed him water with a sipper bottle. Appa was furious. He spat it out all over me, and said “I want to go back to my house. Take me there now. “

“I can definitely take you once you start eating”, I said, hoping that it would be an incentive to eat at least a couple of mouthfuls. “How dare you blackmail me, you wretch of a daughter! Did you ask me when you walked out of your marriage? Don’t you dare tell me what to do now”. He was trying to shout, but it emerged like a tormented rasping mutter.  “I will eat only when my body asks for it” he kept repeating.

One night, a week later, when he was half asleep with exhaustion, he seemed delirious, muttering and swearing, cursing his wife, children and the pantheon of Gods.  I thought he must be in pain and called the hospital. I was trying to coherently explain the situation with Appa, but my words made no sense even to me. Finally I just said, “Can you please send a nurse to feed him intravenously at home? This needs to be done with his consent or without him knowing. Please send someone as soon as possible”. Sensing my desperation the hospital agreed to send a nurse.  I was relieved and yet worried about how he would react.  “Appa”, I said “A nurse is coming to check your BP, heart and sugar. Just that”. He looked at me suspiciously and snorted. “Ayye  ...Pah!” 

The nurse arrived smiling cheerfully, but when she saw his gaunt body, sallow skin and protruding bones she was alarmed. She looked at me and my mother almost accusingly and proceeded to set up the IV bottle. All at once he was alert and ready to put up a fight. He refused to let the nurse find his vein, kicking, thrashing, swearing and praying all at once. The nurse finally gave up and left. I had to go to the ambulance parked outside and apologize profusely.   

I called my brother and discussed what was to be done next. “Let’s do whatever he wants.”  “That’s easier said than done ‘I retorted.  I was worn out with fear, guilt, rage and despair.  “He seems to be wanting to punish us all.”  I said to Tarun.   “Punish us for what?”   He asked. “Maybe, for taking charge of our lives in ways that were not acceptable to him. Or for not needing or heeding his advice” I said.

 “I am not sure if you are right, maybe he just wants to die. Maybe he feels he is done with life and living. “   Said Tarun. I thought about this for a while. “But this way of doing it must be so hard on him. And it’s killing not just him but all of us! Does he realize what he is doing to us, to our mother? Is he being selfish? Or is he being selfless and trying to spare us the effort of looking after him for years to come? ” Tarun was now quiet for a few minutes. I was just sitting there holding the phone weeping silently. “Maya, I am leaving in a few minutes for the airport. Will be with you soon” I heard Tarun say before I hung up.

The next morning Tarun was there at 06.00 a.m. I opened the door and forced him to sit with me for a few minutes to warn him about the drastic change in Papa’s appearance, demeanor, his size, his body odor and his expressions. Despite all my warnings, the sight of Appa lying that bed was too much for Tarun. He broke down and wept.   

For another forty- one days, my father just lay there willing death to take him away.  He seemed to be in a stupor. With no food and no water he was shriveling day by day.   Tarun visited Chennai five times in those two months. Manisha and Vinay came for a few days and my daughter came for a week. We were all together for the first time ever. Despite our bizarre situation, the house was somehow filled with love and laughter. My mother was delighted and cooked all  our favourites over two days in a sudden burst of enthusiasm. Vinay and my daughter listened to our stories about a grandfather they never got to know. I noticed that Vinay especially hung on to every word, desperate to learn something about the man lying in bed, his life and his quirks.

After they left, I just watched him fade, watched my mother withdraw into herself. We watched each other suffer from helplessness for the next few weeks. He has a right to end his life. He has a right to end it the way he ways or live it the way he wants. It is just incidental that we are tormented in the process – not knowing what is right and what is wrong. Our torment is not his intention- or is it? Is he more tormented than all of us put together? Is Euthanasia an answer?  Is he really killing himself this way?  How has he reconciled his decision with his philosophy, his morality? What advice is this advisor uncle now giving himself?

On seventy sixth day of his refusal to eat, I called my brother to say the end was near. ““You better come immediately. His body was now consuming itself and his stools were smelling of putrid flesh.” I said.   Tarun arrived the same evening, to be there for me and for my mother. We were now waiting for a release from this unbearable predicament. Four days after Tarun came, on the 81^st day since he stopped eating, Appa passed away silently, meekly, without a fight. He was done, he had won.

Now that he is gone and the body is cremated, we are in disbelief. Is it really over? How do we move on now? The verandah feels different and the coffee I am drinking smells fresh. I come back to the present to Tarun’s “Was it suicide?” I find myself thinking we don’t really have a word for such tortuously slow taking of one’s own life. Nor a word for what it does to those who are reduced to bystanders or unwilling accomplices. “I don’t know what it was.” I finally said after a long silence.

My nephew came into the verandah and sat down with us. “We need to go to the crematorium tomorrow at 12.00 to collect the ashes.” he said with a worried look on his face.  This was much better than the blankness I noticed in the car. “We will go together”, I said. He looked at me and almost smiled.