Endless platitudes are being handed out to me.
“Stay strong, M.”
“God chooses people like you who can face such situations.”
“Look at your mum for inspiration, she is so strong”
“You have to live now for T. Look at me. I did this when I went through similar trauma.”
Unflinchingly I choose to recoil to our room. ‘Our room’ where we literally grew-up as people. Where we mastered the art of mind reading as we transformed from being a bit-bohemian and quite a bit-reckless to responsible parents to T. Where we would be engrossed in our respective books or the multiple newspapers (which landed at our doorstep each day). Where we finally knew which part of our predictable conversations were meant to be tactfully avoided.
Off-late our most favourite subject of conversation was planning for our twilight years! We wanted to grow old watching T blossom into a young man and we were so keen to be worry-free about his future years.
Now my partner, my companion for over 25 years is no more. In an unreal turn of events I was left to witness the rest of our life’s movie, alone. I feel extremely cheated. There’s no ‘why me’ ever in my thoughts. I just feel lost. In a daze. Unprepared. When we discussed ‘what after us’ for T, our only child who is non-verbal and is autistic, we had never chatted in detail about this specific chapter on life – life after one of us!
We had rushed to the nearby hospital, on the eve of Holi, ironically his favourite festival. B had just recovered from a severe bout of jaundice, soon followed by a flu. But today he had woken-up feeling better. Or so he made me believe. “I will go pick up some mithai and abir,” he announced, in an animated tone. I thought to myself, “Oh he’s unstoppable when it comes to holi.” I never quite enjoyed holi till my marriage to B. The hooliganism around it, had made me shun it through my growing up years. And post marriage we would never miss a trip back home, celebrating it with his extended family, with so much revelry. I had been picking up newer, positive stories about festivities and rituals, centred around the family.
I have such vivid memories of that morning when we rushed to the hospital. I was stuck to my laptop, fervently meeting a deadline. It was going to be a tough week post Holi as we were changing base from Noida to Hyderabad. Moving to an exclusive autism-friendly community, our dream for over 5 years. At first this was B’s idea. To make this shift while T was in his late teens. Gradually it was ‘our’ secret plan. To thrive in the midst of nature, away from the ever growing demands of a city life. To pursue gardening. To lead a slower life. To chase our interests. To age comfortably.
“We will discover the southern part of India.”
“Enough of our ritualistic trips to Kumaon hills.”
The list was endless and we were so excited about this change.
I had spent the previous week packing stuff which I would immediately need on arrival. A carton was kept aside and labelled as mini kitchen. It gave me a sense of predictability as I planned this shift. I was worried about how T would settle in. About how I would need to pick up a new language – Telugu – to fully appreciate the cultural nuances of this remote village. We would feel uprooted, so we looked up friends who were now settled in Hyderabad, with promises to meet, seek their help. Umpteen checklists, excel sheets, notes of things, costs, resources.
Your tasks versus mine.
Now? All these lists are mine. No more task lists will be needed. No more quibbles about the choice of new curtains, fights over his controversial fb posts, arguments over missed deadlines for some hateful paperwork, of who made a better cup of tea!
Is this what being strong meant? Of being lonesome with your meticulous lists. Of hanging on to imagined conversations. Of feeling his quiet presence in his stark absence. Of wondering if he is smirking at this reckless thought which just crossed my mind. Of making the day go by for T and me. Of waking-up each day and missing my morning tea ritual.
Is just waking-up and facing the new dawn a sign of courage?
I unpack the carton labelled ‘mini kitchen’, as India goes into complete lockdown. The decision to postpone my move becomes easy.
I repack everything once again, months later, when we finally move to T’s cottage at Autism Guardians’ Village. We hang B’s picture on the wall overlooking our dining table. He joins us for every meal. In this version, he smiles all the time. I miss his complaints about his favourite baigan ki sabzi not being served off-late. I miss how he would seem to be in his own thoughts yet I could always read his mind.
I help T shave for the 1st time, something which was handled so deftly by B. Tears roll down as I struggle with different shaving gadgets. I resort to playing our favourite songs and chat with T as I do his morning shave. I start talking to T about everything and he responds with his beatific smile and a thumbs-up.
I learn to live for T. And I learn to live for me.