Ever since my father died three years ago, I had been trying to convince my mother to shut down her establishment in Kolkata and move to Santiniketan. Although she has been ailing for years, her fiercely independent nature did not allow her to give in easily. It is only in the beginning of this year that I managed to change her mind.
Besides her reticence to move in with daughter, the argument against the move, extended by friends and family, was the lack of adequate medical facilities in Santiniketan. I convinced my mother that fruit and vegetables that grow in the garden, fresh air and, of course, our company would contribute far more towards her wellness than any swanky medical facility that Kolkata could boast of.
Anyway she did move in and now seems happier about the decision. There were adjustments to be made by both of us but with each passing day, we are getting there. On some days, ma feels I am a tyrant who she is destined to spend the rest of her life with, and on others, she is the perp and I am the victim.
In the middle of all this bonhomie, mother needed some medical attention. She had a wound that was not healing, thanks to her age and general weakness. The surgeon who was called in to examine her said that it would require a few stitches with local anaesthesia and recommended a nursing home on the outskirts of Bolpur town where we could hire an operation theatre for an hour.
My first reaction was to take her to Kolkata but the doctor convinced me that although the nursing home that he was recommending would not be posh, it would be safe. My seven-year-long stay in Santiniketan has completely rid me of any love for posh-ness that I might have harboured in Mumbai. So, I reasoned that what was adequate for so many people of that area could not be bad for my mother.
Since my mother is wheelchair-bound, on the appointed day, we called in an ambulance to take her to the nursing home. The state of the ambulance was a pleasant surprise and we set off rather optimistically. When we reached the nursing home, I went to the reception to make enquiries. I was completely unprepared for what I saw. There was a TV on — I vaguely registered a Bengali movie — and the entire village sat around it. I got over the odd aspect of this medical care centre, finished registration and took off my sandals to enter (the mountain of shoes at the entrance was a pointer). But just as I was entering, a lady came and advised me to carry my sandals inside because she said that as soon as the movie was over, the shoes would disappear!
We found the room that was allotted to my mother (daily charges Rs 30!) and made her lie down there (I was carrying sheets etc thankfully) till it was time for her to go into the operation theatre. All the inmates of the hospital (who were well enough not to be bedridden) visited the room and wanted to know what was wrong, how long we would be there, and so on. Brought up on the belief that hospital rooms have restrictive entry, I had to be rude to get all the visitors out. Everyone left except for one young girl in a blue salwar kurta. When I gently pointed her towards the door, she gave me a dirty look and informed me that she was the “sister”.
Thankfully, the doctor came well in time and ma was stitched up in no more than half an hour. But the doctor advised us to stay back for about an hour just in case she had any post-stitch trauma. So, we were back in our room fending off fresh visitors when my mother suddenly asked what was for dinner. When we realised she was having no trauma, we called the ambulance and drove back to the safety of clean sheets and Dettol-disinfected surroundings. It’s been several weeks now; ma is no poorer for the experience and we certainly aren’t.
