The pipe which was thrust into my uncle-in-law's stomach dreaded me. I tried not to look at him or more specifically the poly bag which was attached to the side of his stomach but curiosity often made my eyes flicker a bit in his direction. I saw fluid slowly travelling from the pipe into the bag. Her daughter- Priya tried her best to not let that gross feeling creep up to her face. Her younger brother- Anand was braver and also a great Chemistry teacher. He explained to her, "It's not what you are thinking. It's just the semi digested food which is not even going any further than his stomach." I had come to the rented house ,to deliver the lunchbox, where my uncle, his grown up children Priya and Anand, and his wife, Aunt Pushpa were staying for the time being while uncle was going through his chemotherapy for the treatment of Gastric Cancer.
The dead silence in the room and the smell of medicines was too much for me. Anand was sanitising the medical certificates, the hefty amounts of syrups and newly purchased medicine. I was silently sitting there observing. I did not know what to do with myself so I started fidgeting with the bundle of surgical masks to keep myself busy when suddenly a sound of splash came in from outside where my brother was busy spraying sanitizer over everything. I went to the threshold to see what was the matter. He had accidentally slipped a bottle of syrup and there were pieces of broken glass all over the floor near his feet, half drenched in thick red liquid. I told my sister that I was going back home.
It was a pain in the eyes to look at uncle, at that bag hanging near his stomach, at those swollen dark legs, at his weak body. It seemed like his skin was getting contracted revealing the sharp edges of his bones as if all of his bones had revolted against the skin and were trying their best to thrust out. His stomach was sticking to the back while his collarbone and eye sockets were bulging out. His eyes had a hazy look and always stared in the space like he was empty. Empty of thoughts, flesh, emotions and anything lively. He would just sit in his chair and that's it.
His eyes beheld the kind of tiredness which one feels after oversleeping. He had scary bags under his eyelids and one could make out that all he did was sleep the entire day but it was not the sleep kind of sleep, it was 'no matter how much I sleep, I still feel tired and helpless' kind of sleep. His sleep was not meant for relaxation like the one we usually doze off to at the end of the day, he slept because that was the only thing he could do. His face rested in a pout, like the insides of his cheeks wanted to kiss each other and perish the distance between them. I jogged out of their rented room and passed Anand who was still sitting at the threshold now picking up the pieces of glass. I tip-toed out of his way giving a last glance at the red liquid being wiped away by him.
I thrust myself out of the main gate and inhaled a huge gulp of air. My head was preoccupied with a thought- it was a sign - my unwillingness to stay there any longer, the unexpected breaking of glass and the red stingy syrup all over the place. Now I know, just like that bottle, there were more things on the verge of breaking. After a few days Anand decided that they would move back to their hometown in Chhattisgarh along with uncle and take the remaining doses of chemotherapy there. The visit to the doctor was scheduled after a few months for the routine check up and waiting for it meant an insane amount of rent here in Varanasi.That was the last time I saw my uncle. His tall unresponsive body was gently carried by three people to get him seated in the car.
It had been almost a month since the cremation of my uncle. Like it was promised, he did come back to Varanasi but not for the doctor's appointment but for burial near the Ganges in the lap of Lord Shiva's abode. Hardly did we settle back from the rampage in our lives of a year of gradual emotional damage from my uncle's impending death when another gush of wreckage hit tight across our face. With the slow degradation of my uncle, everybody somewhere in the very depths of their hearts knew and accepted that he was counting his last breaths. Even whenever I looked at my uncle, the defeated look in his eyes reminded me that he had accepted his fate. He was not fighting but waiting for the day when he could finally rest, forever, when he could sleep not because that's all he could do but this time to actually relax like we do at the end of the day.
The sudden news of our Aunt Pushpa's critical health hit us. Fear, shock and uncertainty filled the air. She was the eldest sister of my mother. She had not recovered from the recent loss of her husband and was rushed to Raipur from Chhattisgarh in an ambulance. Time was clicking hastily. This time the only difference was that nobody could hear those rapid tick-tick of the clock like it happened with uncle. My mother who was hurdled next to me sitting cross-legged asked me to call Anand who was with Aunt Pushpa in hospital. I dialed his number but it went unanswered. I kept on speed dialing for I was not ready to accept what was becoming obvious with each passing seconds. Then I dialed another cousin who was accompanying Pawan in Raipur. As soon as she picked up, my mother snatched the phone from my hand and worriedly asked about Anand. She hesitatingly replied, "He's crying."
My mother repeated in monotone, "Crying?..." She trailed off and hung up the phone. There was no point in raising anymore questions. She allowed her body to lose its stiffness. I could feel my mother shivering with glistening eyes.
Aunt Pushpa was in her old age phase but she and uncle would have easily gotten along for seven to eight more years. It was spontaneous as if she had vowed to her husband that if he would leave too soon, she would accompany him to his afterlife. It seemed- like a typical 90's Indian wife, she wanted to join her husband wherever he went even if it meant crossing the 'boundaries of Time and Place'. Aunt's death was more painful than Uncle's as I was closer to her. That night I held my father's torso and cried my eyes out.
My friend nudged me back into my senses. I broke free from my reverie of thoughts to see our English teacher looking in my direction waiting for me to answer. It had been more than a year since the demise of my uncle and aunt. We were studying the poem- 'Crossing the Bar' by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. The allegorical essence of the poem drove me in retrospection when my uncle and aunt were on their voyage of 'crossing the bar' that is onto their journey to afterlife, to meet their creator, the 'Pilot' of all our lives, God. Tennyson hopes his final journey to be calm, secure and without any turmoil. I started wondering about the rough journey my uncle had to go through during his last phase of life. The look in his eyes when I last saw him clearly bespoke that he had accepted his impending death like Tennyson wishes that there 'be no sadness of farewell' as he had accepted his fate. Did Aunt Pushpa also endured all the pain with the strength and hope of meeting her creator while crossing the boundaries of mortality? Her voyage, unlike Uncle's, was quick- without the months of suffering, without the moaning of the sandbar.
My English teacher repeated the question for me, "Is there hope at the end of life?" I answered, "Yes, there's hope because death is simply a stage, and the afterlife, a return home to the same unknown place from which the individuals emerge. The final crossing of worlds includes no judgement. Death marks new beginnings and rebirth."
