It was the summer of 2011. I woke up seeing a missed call from Gopi. I was in San Jose planning to spend the rest of my week in the Bay Area. My phone, as usual, was on vibrate. I called back quickly. Gopi rarely calls. It is I who mostly call him. Son-dad type chats with some nuanced spiritual tones to it to keep me grounded, for he is born brother, but has become dad in life. Gopi’s calm voice on the other side. Still I felt something amiss. Amma is unwell, in hospital, the usual Medical Trust in Cochin. How serious it is chetta, ‘is she ok’, I asked. Amma, that’s what we mallus call our moms, was alright when I had called her a couple of days ago on arriving in the US. At 78, amma has many health issues. Behind Gopi’s calmness on the other end of the phone, I felt a tremor this time. ‘Amma is in ICU, but nothing serious’, he said, ‘a minor block in her artery. Come as early as you can’.

A day later on reaching Cochin’s Medical Trust, I went straight to the ICU. They didn’t let me in. Visit time was over. I wasn’t prepared to wait until evening. Hospital’s PRO finally got me a special pass. When I went into the ICU, Amma was sleeping. Sedated. The large ICU had many beds, mostly occupied. Nurses spoke in hushed voice. An eerie silence all around. May be for the doctor in duty to see from a distance, mostly the beds had just soft partitions between them, with curtains hanging from a road. The curtains were green. I sat on mamma’s bed for a while, didn’t disturb her sleep, just kept looking at her. I met the doctor. An young man who patiently explained to me about mamma’s medical condition. I came off telling him I will be back in the evening during the next official visit hour. And I showed up at 6 pm. Gopi had gone to get some medicines. ICU’s entrance is now transformed into a busy veranda. A Nepali security man holding a list of patients regulating visitor entry. By now I have a formal pass. I too registered with him. And my broken Nepali thoroughly impressed him. I knew I need him badly for another week! People queuing up for their 3 minutes slot. Finally my turn came. Mamma opened her eyes, tried to smile. Now I know I need to start working on her. Every time, she falls sick beyond what she can handle, she would call me, or ask Gopi to call me. This was the 4th in few years. But never this bad. Never in an ICU fighting back. So, my usual pep talks may not make her bounce back, I felt. Putting my palm gently on her forehead I asked – ‘so, what are you doing here ma’? She smiled again. All sorts of tubes and wires all over her. She was uncomfortable. I had my usual chat with her. Just as Gopi too would do with her, calling her by first name (that provokes her a lot, and makes her pleasantly angry), reminding her about the way too many things waiting home. Amma is always full of life, never alone for a noon meal. At her home, there is always someone visiting, just to get a taste of the fabulous meals she make. She is an amazing cook. Her backyard garden has way too many plants, the nutmeg trees were always a highlight. Her long term staff, Kamal and Manka were a part of the family. Kamal, brought us up. She accompanied us to school, often admonishing us when we try and step into the muddy rain water on the road side. She was almost like a mother. After my father’s death, my mother still lived life full. She has been a strong woman. All she needed is to remind her that she needs to get up and go. So, we agreed on a deal that day. In 3 days, she will walk out of the ICU, and in 7 days she will be home to take charge of all that at home that she has to. She said yes, feebly. The next 3 days, two visits to the ICU a day, I worked on her, talking her out of her illness. Of course the medicine too did its job. I knew she will bounce back. And she did.

It was the third day morning. I stood yet again waiting for my turn at the ICU’s entrance. The Nepali guard, by now familiar, exchanged pleasantries. I have been putting to best use the little Nepali I had learned during the hostel days from Anand dai, Kedar Poudyal and Saroj Shresta. By now rarely they asked me for passes at the entry gates. Gopi was arranging a room for Amma to move into. I was alone. I felt a hand touching my back, gently. I turned to see a man in his early fifties. The first thing I noticed in him is his beard. With his greying hair, beard, thick glasses and the gentle gestures, I guessed he is a college professor. ‘May I have a moment with you’ he asked. I said ‘sure’, moving to the little corner of the long hospital veranda where the queue ended. By now I am thinking what is he going to ask. An obvious first thing that came to my mind was this man might ask me for some money. I knew I shouldn’t pre-judge. He now spoke. As gentle as he could. I leaned forward not to miss him. ‘You are Manoj, right?’, he asked: I said ‘yes’, by now curious. He said ‘my wife told me’. Now I am all the more curious. I waited for him to fill in. ‘She wants to meet you, do you mind meeting my wife?. She is the one on the bed next to your mother. She has been hearing all that you and your mother have been chatting about. She wants to just see you’. He paused. His voice was gentle. And he spoke chaste Malayalam. Impeccable. The rest what he said unsettled me, totally. ‘My wife will live for just another week, that’s what the doctors say. So it will be nice if you could spend some time with her’. I stood still, my eyes shut, fighting back my emotions. The man in front me should have been doing that for a while. He was stoic, his face lifeless. I broke the silence. ‘Sure, any time”

Padmini Ramdas was her name written on the patient’s ID slot on her bed in the ICU. I gently pushed the green curtains apart. She turned her head towards me, tried to smile. I said ‘namaste’ bringing my palms closer, the Indian way of greeting someone with respect. This time she smiled. I said ‘you are Padmini teacher, aren’t you? By now I learned she is a high school teacher. And Ramdas wasn’t a professor. He also teaches at the same school. She taught physics and he Malayalam. ‘I am manoj’ as i introduced she smiled and gently nodded gesturing she figured that out. I stood beside her bed. Trying to say something. I didn’t know where to begin and what to say. None of what I could tell Mamma would mean anything to her. ‘kaav-our kaali temple, kulam – our nice pond where I used to have ornamental fishes, kulathinte karayile naattumavu – the huge mango tree near the pond that would be full of ripe mangoes in April during the Vishu times, the yearly rituals of having to pluck dashapushpam (the ten floral herbs) and place it before the ara, the little room that doubles up as the pooja room and the entry to the mezzanine floor, the observances of karkidaka vavu, vishu kani, kaavil bhagwatiyude para, ariyerichil, theeyatt, and then Onam, the harvest festival and of course her people Kamal, Kunjoonju, Appachan, and a whole lot of things around home, traditions, her beliefs, the annual rituals, and her celebrated cooking.. all of them would mean life only for Mamma. Nor could I cook up something to talk to her to make her feel happy. I knew am standing next to someone who is going to live for just another week.

I leaned forward and placed gently my right palm on her forehead. She lifted her hand and tried to hold my hands. I felt her feeble touch. I shut my eyes. Mamma’s face. That is what I could do for her. Allow myself to become a messenger, a passage. I could feel Mamma touching her through me. I let her feel my mother’s energy. A few moments later, I came off. Her smile meant a goodbye. Her husband was waiting outside the ICU. By now the veranda was empty. Visit hours was over. We walked towards the canteen. The man sat in front of me. I desperately needed a chaya, by now my escape from the heaviness of an experience. He said thank you, and told me about himself and Padmini teacher. I realized he too addresses her as ‘teacher’. They were a teacher-couple from Vazhoor who met at a B.Ed training college in Ottappalam, a small little town in northern Kerala. They both eventually got teaching jobs at the same school in Vazhoor, a chain of schools run by a minority education society. Since then they were happily living there with two of their school going daughters. The younger one is in 8th level, and her class teacher is her mother! That’s when she was diagnosed with malignant brain tumor. I heard him speak about just everything that turned their life upside down. Amidst all the noise around that the crowded canteen of Cochin’s Medical Trust Hospital, I could feel him fight back his pain. My phone rang again. Gopi calling. The room is ready, he is shifting Amma out of the ICU. I don’t need to go there again. I said to him I am coming. It was time to say bye to Ramdas. He held my hands, his eyes shut. He had another week of wait at the ICU..