Louisiana Catch

Chapter - 2

- 2 -

When I joined Freedom Movement as a women’s rights advocate, I didn’t need to travel much. For the most part, I had a non-demanding 9-5 desk job where I didn’t need to encounter people at work. On occasions, I was expected to mingle with the New Delhi socialites and help raise money, which I did successfully. Classic case of secret introvert—hiding inside an extroverted shell that is required to do her job well enough. But with my promotion to head of communications and fundraising, a leadership position which I initially resisted, things changed. As a high-powered official, my work was to build stakeholder and donor relations, raise funds for the organization, manage all the marketing, events, public relations and corporate communications for the nonprofit, and overlook all the internal communications aspect. I was new at all of this and hadn’t excelled yet.

I had left home early that morning because one of our rural sister organizations wanted us to showcase their work at the conference in New Orleans; they represented female workers in India who were scared to use unisex public restrooms because of the rise in s****l assault cases in these spaces. So they had invited me to their office for a site visit.

I was two hours away from the Indian capital, stuck in a tiny, hot car in the month of June, when I got a call from Dad, “Your mumma is in the intensive care unit.”

I couldn’t believe him. How could Mumma be fighting for her life when her morning was full of action verbs—she had done an hour of yoga and drank her green juice. She had rearranged her closet. She wrote a list for our New Orleans trip.

Dad went on to share the details. “She passed out while she was in the shower. I called the ambulance. I don’t think she has much time.” Dad sounded robotic.

I thought of the right things to say and ask. But I couldn’t. Mumma had been different today. She had scolded me for not living my life. She hated the summer heat, but she had chosen to sit in the patio, instead of the sunroom with the air conditioner on, and drink tea. She had taken the day off from her hospital, very unlike her to abandon her patients, because she felt she hadn’t been able to see some of her close friends. “Life is so unpredictable, beta. I don’t want to have any regrets.” What did she mean by any of it?

* * *

I remember every detail. When I got to the hospital, several of my parents’ friends were waiting in the lobby. Had it not been for the strong “hospital smell,” you could have confused the place for a five-star hotel: the amenities, posh clothes, the crowd, the gift store, and the restaurants.

I tried to avoid them, but many aunties formed a group and hugged me tight. “Nothing will happen, Ahana. We are here for you.” I didn’t blink or cry as they stroked my hair. This was the hospital where my mother worked. This was the space where she saved lives. The hospital aimed to bring India the highest standards of medical care along with clinical research, education, and training.

I politely excused myself and went to the washroom. There was no food in my stomach, yet I felt nauseated. After throwing up bile and retching for a few minutes, I splashed water on my face. I wiped myself with my dupatta—the long scarf over my salwar kameez covering my big chest since I was in rural parts of New Delhi earlier that day and didn’t want to draw any attention to myself—and bought a lemonade from the cafeteria to rehydrate myself.

My phone rang: Masi calling from New Orleans. “Naina just reached NOLA from New York. We are on our way to Delhi, beta. Don’t let anything happen to your mother.”

I got to Mumma’s room and stood at the threshold for a few moments. This can’t be happening. Normally, Mumma’s face glowed, but I could barely see her features since she was hooked onto a ventilator. Mumma, the person who was our lifeline, needed help breathing. Wake up, Mumma.

My feet didn’t want to move, but I slowly walked inside Mumma’s room. Dad was sitting next to her in a chair; he looked lifeless.

“Can I get you anything?” I rubbed his shoulders. He didn’t respond, just stared at Mumma.

I ran my eyes over her: Mumma in the hospital with tubes and machines attached to her. Despite being a doctor’s daughter, I didn’t recognize many items of medical equipment. A rough blanket was placed on her body. I wanted to cover her toes. Mumma often complained about her feet getting cold. Was she cold now? Can you feel anything? Monitors around her beeping. Needles and pipes poking through her once enviable skin. She looked like a frail, pale shadow of her former self. I couldn’t see Mumma like this. I started dry heaving again.

Suddenly, one of the monitors began to beep and distracted me. The nurse pressed a call button and spoke with urgency. It didn’t sound good. “What’s happening?” I touched her arm. The nurse ignored me, saying, “Everyone leave the room,” and ushered us to the bench outside Mumma’s room. Two doctors and three nurses flooded in. After screaming, “Wait outside,” they closed the door. I saw through the glass window that Mumma was having difficulty breathing. I started to shake. Mumma’s youngest sister, whom Naina and I called Chutney, hugged me.

Dr. Murty, Mumma’s colleague and chief of cardiology, stepped out of the room after a few minutes. He turned to Dad, Chutney, and me, “The leaks through her heart valves have flooded her lungs.”

Mumma’s heart failed us all.

“Will Mumma be okay? Can we see her?” I asked with my eyes flooded with tears. The noise from the heart monitor affirmed she was still alive, with its consistent, rhythmic beeps.

“Even if she survives, she’ll become a vegetable.” Dr. Murty patted my shoulder.

My heart sank. In that instance, I knew Mumma wouldn’t survive. She’d often said, “Dignity and independence are important to me. The day I must depend on anyone, physically or financially, that’ll be the end of it.”

I pleaded with Dr. Murty, “Can you keep her alive until Masi and Naina arrive? Please? Just a little bit longer?”

Even before he could respond, the nurses called out to Dr. Murty. Too many people moved rapidly inside Mumma’s room; it didn’t look good. I panicked. I peered through the windows again; they were trying to revive Mumma. They were doing some procedure. Dr. Murty attempted chest compressions a few times. Finally, I saw him remove the surgical mask from his face and shake his head. He said something to the head nurse—I couldn’t read his lips. I looked at the heart monitor; Mumma had flat-lined. The head nurse pulled a white sheet over Mumma’s face. My body sank to the floor. I had seen darkness before in my marriage with Dev, but it was nothing compared to what I felt in that moment. My life felt over without my mother in it.

Dr. Murty stepped out of the room and removed his gloves, “I am so sorry. We tried our best.”

I sat still.

“When did she pass away?” Chutney asked.

“Time of death: 7:17 p.m.”

Dad saw me, but he didn’t see me. He said nothing; just cried.

* * *

Time vanished. Grief came in waves—in some instances, I was calm and got all the paperwork in order; in others, I felt completely overwhelmed. Bills. Death certificate. Nurses paying their condolences as Mumma was their boss. Notifying friends and family.

At one point, I begged the guy on guard duty to let me into the morgue. He asked for five hundred rupees as a bribe. It was cold inside unlike the dry, sweltering Delhi streets. The morgue had an eerie vibe. He handed me a mask. His instructions were crisp, “Not more than ten minutes, OK? I am doing you a favor by letting you inside. Use the sanitizer before you leave.”

I covered my face with the mask. He pulled out the drawer in which Mumma’s body was kept. She looked so peaceful; it made me angry. How could she be OK? How could she leave us without any notice? With her gone, I was lost. I touched Mumma’s body. I poked her gently, hoping she would sit up. When she didn’t respond, I lay on the floor in a fetal position. I wailed silently and grabbed my chest. The guy asked me to leave.

I was alive but felt dead. Life wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Mumma was my best friend. I wanted to run away from everything, especially the aunties. “So what if your Mumma is gone? Think of me as your mom,” so many said as I stepped outside the morgue. “Did you take a picture of your mother in the morgue?” Mumma’s thrice-divorced bridge friend asked as she massaged my neck. I was so angry that I couldn’t think of any responses. “Poor, motherless child,” another aunty quipped as she adjusted her Burberry handbag and rubbed my shoulders. “If Dev was still around, he could have supported you. We all need a man. Everything is all on you. Tsk. Tsk.”

Dev could have supported me? When we were married, and attended social gatherings, Dev touching his collarbones was a secret signal that he wanted me right then. No matter the occasion—birthdays, housewarming, or funerals. There were times he would insist I meet him in a secluded corner or the host’s bedroom. I wasn’t allowed to make conscious decisions to look like less of what I felt Dev would want to see.

I shut down. I was physically in New Delhi, but I wasn’t there. I was an only child, that too a daughter, in the city of Delhi. “A woman can’t perform last rites,” many mentioned in passing when they came home to pay their respects. One of the aunties, while covering her pixie haircut with a designer, white dupatta, whispered to me, “Your Mumma’s soul will not be at peace if you put her body on a pyre. Hindu customs demand that a man must cremate for the soul to get reincarnated. If Dev…” She went on to say more insensitive things, but I walked away.

I put my tears on hold until Naina reached New Delhi.