Arnav looks at his mother lying on the bed looking fragile. When nurse had motioned to follow her into the private room, he had dragged Khushi along with him ignoring nurse’s frown and spluttering. His father’s donation to the hospital had earned certain privileges and he wasn’t far from abusing them in these moments.
“You came,” Sharada says hoarsely the moment Arnav is in her vision. Arnav represses the shiver that runs in his spine. “Khushi,” she smiles at the young woman. There was a lilt to her that to which Khushi smiles quietly.
“How are you?” Arnav asks her, mustering as much enthusiasm as possible. It isn’t much if frostiness in his tone is any indication.
Sharada’s eyes water. “I am sorry.” She says grabbing his hand and pulling him close to her. Arnav hesitates at first but moves towards her as if in a fog. The recent events leading to her admittance to the psychiatric facility is still fresh in his mind. It was he who had found her after all.
Stay for the weekend, his mother had said. With your father in town, we can all have dinner together, she had added. Wouldn’t he prefer to eat with his own family first, he had asked. His mother had frowned and looked away. He had hurried to cajole her. Yes ma, he dinner will be great, he had muttered and hung up the phone. His half-sister had looked at him sadly and shaken her head. “Be there for your mother. She will be disappointed,” she had told. He knew that already. When it came to his father, there was nothing but disappointment in that geography. When it came to his mother it was a little more complicated. When he had arrived, the house was sparkling. Let’s eat in the garden, his mother had said. They had waited, mother and son, as had become a tradition this household to wait for the father to arrive who most often did not. And that evening, he failed yet again. “There is a function,” his father had said. “I cannot disappoint my wife,” he had pleaded. “What about me?” his mother had screamed. “I am sorry,” his father had said. Arnav had plated food for them both and settled in front of TV and played a movie they both liked. His mother had tried to be nonchalant but he could see the cracks in her features. “Its okay ma.” He had said. “Maybe tomorrow he we can eat together,” he had her convinced. His mother gave him a beatific smile in response. “I am sorry,” his father had said the next afternoon. “There is temple we need to visit,” his father had apologized. “Good bye,” his mother had said. He had heard the exchange from phone extension in his room. In that moment he didn’t know who he hates more; his father for dropping all the expectations or his mother for raising them all the time. It is couple of hours later when he hears the cook and house helps screaming from living room. His heart sinks. He has an idea what it is already. His legs take him to his destination. His mind is already making contingency plans. His mother lies on the floor in front of the television, blood pooling next to both her hands. Dramatic, he thinks in one cynical moment. He finds himself unafraid. Uncaring. Unfeeling. Frozen. Dead. Decayed. The house helps look at him expectantly. “I will call the hospital.” The cook gives him an incredulous look. “Your father?” Arnav smiles at her. “He has a family. And he is busy.”
Sharada was admitted immediately to the facility once her wounds were treated in the outpatient. Arnav had held himself sturdy till he saw his mother disappear behind the closed doors after which he had collapsed on the nearest bench and burst into tears. Ignored by the passing nurses and orderlies, he had sat with head in his hands and sobbed silently. He had a father and a whole slew of relatives but he was completely alone. His mother had oscillated between happiness and sadness and in both cases he was a very minor factor unlike his father. It irritated him to no end, the control his father had over her and in turn how it affected him.
We need to talk about your mother, his father had said. “She isn’t your problem,” he had replied. “Son. You don’t know how deep this problem goes,” his father had sighed. Arnav knew then, his father knew more than he let on. But it was the arrogance perhaps of youth or dissidence towards parental authority that he scoffed. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he had scoffed. “Please son. She needs more help than you can imagine,” his father had begged. At that Arnav had fell silent. Beaten. Defeated. He had stormed out of the room. In the eyes of authority he was still a child. A minor. His father had had his mother committed to a longer term facility. “It is for her good,” he had said. Arnav had seethed. “Maybe she needs that help?” Khushi’s small voice had floated from behind.
He had stopped. Paused. The itch of anger paused and momentarily soothed. “You think so?” he had asked in a small voice. She had shrugged. “Sharada auntie needs more help than you can give her and besides, when you are in school, won’t she need professional supervision?” she had asked. He had frowned. His father and looked at the young woman with wide eyes. “Okay,” Arnav had acquiesced. “Please include me when you consult the doctor,” he had said. His father had nodded. “Since you aren’t around, it is best if I am abreast with the knowledge of her diagnosis and be updated regularly,” he hadn’t hesitated to add. His father’s sour look and falling face hadn’t lifted his mood but drove him enough not to resort to violence.
“Its okay ma. How are you?” He asks her again, smiling thinly. He has spoken to her doctors multiple times. He has been given enough guiding lectures by various kinds of doctors on his mother’s mental state to modulate his voice aptly. He is a child in the eyes of the law, but in this tiny six foot by ten foot room, he is the very foundation her recovery will be built on.
“Sleepy,” she says, smiling softly, fondly at her young son.
“I just came by to say hello and see how you are progressing,” he says softly and sits on the chair. She grapples for his hand as he shifts away from her to grab himself a chair. Khushi stands near the door and provides them an illusion of privacy. Arnav appreciates it.
“Where is your father?” she asks once he is in her eyesight again. Arnav swallows the anger, the curses that rise from this chest. “He never came,” she makes a noise of disapproval.
Arnav shakes his head. “He is traveling ma. You know how it gets. He will get here as soon as he is back.” He lies. His father is very much in town. His donation to this psychiatric facility is discreet, more so to ensure that the name isn’t made public. He wants to vomit. “Do you remember essay competition from last week? My team won second place in state.” He tries.
“Maybe we can call your father?” She asks, perking up at the thought.
Arnav smiles. “He is at a conference. No phones allowed.” Her face falls at this. He wonders if there is any way to convince his father to visit her. Knowing his father, it would be next to impossible. Knowing his mother, well, he doesn’t know anymore.
“I will write him letters then. I am sure I can do that.” She alternates her plans. Arnav’s heart gives up then. It was perhaps futile to think that his mother was in any state of mind to pay attention to anything other than her own grief. He remembers the words from her psychiatrist regarding that but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. His own battles with mental health is thrown to a spin with his mother’s blatant neglect to his very existence and his mother’s constant craving for his father’s attention, without realizing similar parallels running between her and her son.
“Okay ma.” He gets up. Perhaps sometime alone to reflect on how to move forward was necessary for him. He collapses into himself when he feels Khushi’s hand settle between the blades of his shoulder. Suddenly everything is heavy and too much. He turns around, shifts and settles his head on her hip. “Let’s go.”
“Give it a few more minutes. Just sit,” Khushi says. He nods into her hip. She runs her hand into her hair and he sighs, exhausted by everything. Of life itself.
Sharada mumbles a little more about his father, about a happy memory he wasn’t part of, of a distant memory that had ended in disappointment and it sends her into a wave of grief, making him yell for nurses.
He scrambles backwards as he is pushed back by orderly and the nurse holds his mother down and speaks soothingly. An injection later she is calming down but Arnav’s heart gives up trying to hold it all together. He turns and leaves his mother alone amid the facility’s staff with Khushi close behind.
“I am so fucking tired,” he says softly. She comes and stands next to him as they stand at the gates of the facility waiting for their car to come. He takes her hand in his and squeezes. She squeezes back in support, in tandem. Harmony, he thinks.
This event was private. He didn’t need to tell Khushi to keep it private. No matter what, Khushi would never use it against him. La would probably call him an idiot for this blind faith. But he was absolutely certain about it.
Whatever it is between us, we don’t talk, we wait, we linger, we look after each other in the fringes, we tear apart each other in anger and when everything around us burns and drowns, our foreheads touch and we exhale together.
I am running away from reality, as fast as i could... 