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BANSOD TYPING INSTITUTE MAIN ROAD GULABRA CHHINDWARA (CPCT) ADDMISSION OPEN MOB. NO. 8982805777

created Oct 19th 2021, 07:24 by sachin bansod


4


Rating

306 words
42 completed
00:00
Last month, I held my father's hands and confessed I cannot take care of him. It was a plea. He shook his head in response. The implication was clear: No hospital. Sitting in a room with more medicines than furniture, he appeared puny, as if the bed was slowly eating him away and what I was holding on to were his remains. As if he were a child prone to making towering demands for amusement. Except I was his child, a terrified 28-year-old witnessing the transformation of my father’s body. His eyes were foggy and mouth sparingly functional, restricted to gulping down medicines. He had not spoken for days. On August 30, just before my three-month stay in Kolkata was drawing to a close, Baba complained of a bad headache. I touched his forehead and realised he was burning up. Two days later, he tested positive for Covid-19. Nothing prevented it, neither both doses of vaccines, nor the many rows with my sister and me when we forbade him from stepping out. My mother and I tested positive soon after. A one-way ticket to Mumbai remained unused. For someone who visits her parents annually, I hear them ageing and see them aged. Ma tells me her feet are swollen over the phone. I come and find the turgidity resembling my grandmother's with a precision I did not think was possible. Baba complains about not hearing too well. When I meet him, I notice him smiling in response to my questions, as if he were putting up a defenceless guard for his vulnerability. When you meet your parents annually, you care for them from a distance, hoping to postpone messy inevitabilities. The lack of physical proximity acts as a buffer, retaining their unassailable image of caregivers and lulling you into thinking there is time to become one.

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