There
are a few things I’m scared of. Not cockroaches (really!); perhaps
lizards (I think I’m disgusted by those than scared). Snakes!
I’m petrified of those. It doesn’t help that I dream of them once in a
while. But nothing scares me more than death. Not mine actually; but
those close to me. Any accident, natural disaster or calamity, robbery
gone bad, terrorist attack – I’m thinking,
what if it was someone close to me there? It scares me to lose
any one of my family members. But it’s an inevitable truth. An
uncomfortable fact we sweep under the carpets and hope that it’s gone.
It never is. It’s just hidden.
Perhaps I hadn’t given it much thought, until I witnessed my
Achachan die. And it’s something that made a lasting impression on me; more than I thought.
Achachan had Alzheimer’s disease and was slowly caving in. He
could do most of the things on his own, but it was as if his childhood
had revisited him. Those who know about this disease would know that
they behave like kids – they are adamant, forgetful,
angry, moody and at times playful too! It is quite something to see an
able man lose his memory; and it’s with a sense of sadness we realized
that he’s losing his sense of self. Memories come in snatches; they
remember far back into their life than the recent
past. And they could scream at you, annoy you, go wild – and you know
you can’t take it personally; it’s just the disease catching up with
them. His helplessness, coupled with your own on seeing him like this
is something everybody in the
tharavadu took time getting used to. We used to visit regularly and Ammamma would have her share of stories on his antics.
My
uncle was around; he had come down from Dubai for a short leave, and
was planning to return on that fateful day. It was early
in the morning; I was wiping the car or so. I am not sure what exactly
happened. The details are a blur – I could hear loud crying sounds from
inside the house. And I remember rushing in.
Achachan had tried to stand up and then his limbs started failing him, I suppose. My
Amma was hugging him and crying ‘Appa…Appa…’ relentlessly. Everyone had gathered in the bedroom and had surrounded him.
Achachan was slowly falling back into the bed, he had gone limp.
His eyes rolled back, I think. It was certain the end was near. But it
was a truth no one wanted to accept. And yet, there they were, pouring
the last drops of water into his mouth. A physician
was called in immediately. Of course, he only arrived to certify the
one truth no one was ready to deal with, at that moment. He said the
needful and quietly left. To this day – the scene haunts me; it’s been
eight years since then... and yet. Seeing
Amma crying out loud desperately; the anguish, the pain. I don’t
know how I can describe what I felt. I was quite shocked, I think. I
hadn’t been around when anyone was dying, till then. And it’s something
no one is ever prepared for.
To see the lights go out of someone’s eyes. I don’t think it has
prepared me any better. It is something I don’t wish on anybody. But
again, it’s a tough situation – everyone wants to be around at the last
moment. You would hate it if you weren’t there;
and yet, to see someone so close just slip by. A breathing, living
personality becoming just a body – sometimes you think, is that the last
thing I want to remember him by?
