An Apology, and Note of Gratitude
So one of the reasons Sujona Chatterjee and I share a symbiotic relationship is that we share the same birthdate. We were both born on the 28th of April, about three decades apart. Another reason is that she is good enough to say that I taught her some of the rudiments of English, when I was her English Professor, in College.
It is my personal opinion, though, that she taught me more about human behaviour, confidence, and courage, than anything I might have taught her.
That date was this week, and I was looking forward to calling up my ‘date mate’ from another country, for the first time, and exchanging a pow wow. But two days earlier, in my elder son’s house, I was in the shower, and I had bent down to retrieve something from the floor. I was seized by an agony so pure, so diamond-sharp and so pincer-like, that all I could do was gasp. I couldn’t straighten. I couldn’t stay where I was.
I couldn’t even cry out.
It was my old friend, Sciatica, come to pay me a visit.
I had locked the bathroom door, so I couldn’t call for help. I don’t remember how the next couple of seconds (minutes? hours?) passed, as I washed the soapsuds off me, wiped myself dry, put on what I could, unlocked the door, and called out to my husband.
Softly.
When he gets alarmed, his heart rate goes into overdrive. I didn’t want to alarm my son and daughter-in-law. And I didn’t want to wake up baby Asha, all of two months old, sleeping next door. My husband ambled up, knocked at the door, opened it, took one look at me, and tried to gather me close. He helped me with my clothes, frantic because I was weeping, and he has never seen me cry. “Don’t cry, please,” he kept on saying. My son came by, all six foot one inch, of him, and went into his professional doctor mode. Between them, they helped me, hobbling, into the next room, and lowered me onto the carpet, because I couldn’t walk to the bed, couldn’t sit on a chair, couldn’t stand, couldn’t think.
I could only feel.
My younger son dropped in, ‘en famille’ to celebrate my birthday. He has a three-year-old daughter, Anya, and a two-month-old one, Alia. He was aghast when he saw my plight. Between them, my sons and my husband helped me to an ergonomically-designed chair, plied me with food, painkillers, expressions of concern, and gentle advice. Anya came and stood next to me, staring at me with concern, and offering to sing me nursery rhymes or tell me stories. My daughters-in-law made sure that I didn’t need to move a muscle, and everything I needed would be handed to me.
I am writing this in instalments between lying down, physiotherapy, and pain, to apologise for my tardiness in replying to all the messages and notifications that have come my way. I am also writing this to thank the gentleman who has stated that he is very lucky for me since he is my 1000th subscriber. I don’t remember his name, but I am grateful for the honour.
I am also grateful, intensely and wordlessly, to the amazing Grace which surrounded me when I was in pain. What could be better than being with and among one’s children, husband, and grandchildren, in one’s hour of need? What could sound more melodious than the child you looked after, telling you, “Mom, don’t worry, I can carry you if you want.” I look at him in wonder and a sense of gratitude so deep that my heart and eyes overflow with it.
It was a day of indescribable pain.
It was also a day of indescribable beauty.
And I am grateful.
Wish you many, many happy returns of the day, Sujona Chatterjee. I love you to the moon and back.
