DAYS OF OUR LIVES

Saara din lagi rehti hai, my in-laws say, after I speak to the ophthalmologist for a sudden eye pain my father in law has. I call the medical store and organise the medication to be sent as soon as possible. My husband, who had tried contacting the doctor on his own and then “got busy” didn’t even have to delegate the job to me. It was a seamless transition that always happens. When it comes to the healthcare needs of the elders at home I take over — even if I may not always want to. It’s an Autopilot mode I’ve been in every since they moved in with us. My husband does the so called “big ticket” items – staying overnight in case of a hospitalisation, managing small procedures; I do the daily grind that is needed when older people live with you – the hot water bottle here, the medicine there, the blood pressure readings. Stuff you need to function but stuff no one really considers work.

The saara din lagi rehti hai sounds grating — like an apologetic platitude that needs to be said, perhaps meant as a soother for me, the youngest daughter in law, who now shoulders the responsibility of ensuring their well being. I feel guilty for the flash of irritability that wells up within me because deep down I know I am losing patience, even if silently, at two elderly people who are in a new environment, slowly losing their physiological abilities and dependant on us. That alone should take away the irritability and cloak the fact that their two other children and their spouses do not shoulder even a smidgeon of the responsibility we need to bear — one of them by choice and the other by distance.

The irritability stays, mixed with guilt, self pity and emotions I can’t always name — these are people who took me into their heart when I came into the family. But there are times I wonder if it’s because I was always so pliable, with too much water in me as they say in Memoirs of a Geisha, taking shape and flowing as things around me changed. And I wonder, even if I find that admission difficult, that somewhere deep down, my own flawed understanding of working out relationships meant I was eager to please. Would they have said these platitudes if I had been the girl who wanted her space and was staunch about it, even if she ensured they were being taken care of?

I brush the platitude off, as I do always and move away. And I call the doctor to fix an appointment as soon as we can.

Sometimes my alternate realities are hard to align. But if I need to keep things from going brittle, I need to align and accept them.

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I’ve always struggled with visibility though I’ve only understood that struggled as I’ve grown older. What do you do when the only things that seem visible about you are your flaws? “You need to rethink how you speak to the househelp,” my husband says.

I’ve just spoken to one of them a little angrily. Not rude, just angry at certain chores left undone after repeated reminders. It doesn’t sit well with my husband who is having a stressful day at work and the snatches of conversation have probably added to that. To him, I come with the baggage of short temper. I don’t deny the baggage but age, wisdom and a lot of self work has meant that temper stays in. At most times.

I bristle at his admonition and then wonder if I’m too sensitive. His criticism is quick, fleeting, moving on to something else unrelated to any of it. My reaction, even if within, doesn’t match up in speed. I feel judged, unseen and unheard. But I do what I always do to keep things from going brittle. I weigh my options. I could tell him the criticism of the way I spoke was unfair, especially without knowing what transpired. Would it lead to a little argument between us? I can almost hear it playing out in my head — one of those arguments in a long marriage that play on loop.

‘To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be.’ It’s a quote attributed to author Heidi Priebe doing the rounds of Instagram. But it is not our job to hold anyone accountable to the people they used to be. It is our job to travel with them between each version and honour what emerges along the way.

I wonder if I am truly travelling. Why am I holding on to silence, trying to stretch its compromising, agreeable cover over all things brittle, all things that have the ability to come apart at the slightest peeling of layers?

Is it the children? Is the unit we make as a whole? A unit that works superbly through parental illness and caregiving? A unit that brings together friends and connections? Is it because there are more than occasional glimpses of the person who is caring and will ensure his family comes first, even if his words can create hurt? Is it because I believe deep down that these words don’t matter in the bigger picture?

I chat on a group I’m part of about divorce and marriage. We talk of earning your own money, being independent and not taking any shit. I see a friend’s post on Instagram. A long term marriage is constant work, she says. Mostly on yourself. I click the like button and feel a sense of calm.

Sometimes my alternate realities are hard to align. But if I need to keep things from going brittle, breaking off and starting a chain of sadness across the generations that live with us, I need to align and accept them.

“Do you want to go out for lunch tomorrow? I have a holiday,” My husband says, his words coming as unexpectedly as the criticism had. I don’t want to be audible. I’m still hurting and I don’t want to reply. But the discomfort of that alternate reality is always at the back of my head.

So I find myself saying, “Yes, why not?”