Savitri?

Doctors are not gods. That line is used to convey that doctors cannot be expected to work miracles. A corollary to that would be doctors can...

Doctors are not gods. That line is used to convey that doctors cannot be expected to work miracles. A corollary to that would be doctors cannot foresee a miracle happening either. As it happened in my mother’s case.

She had had a sub arachnoid haemorrhage, they said. Considering that she was 83, with surgery ruled out, the doctors declared that nothing much could be done. Nevertheless while at hospital, they did plenty; poking and pricking and pushing down tablets. And we watched helplessly as she went down. A week later, she had a second bleed. Her neurologist son flew down from the US and reaffirmed that the end was imminent. Two weeks at the most, he said, let her be in the comfort of home. It was with a heavy heart that I watched her move into my house; horizontal, eyes shut, lost to the world.

It is three months since. The aroma of filter coffee wafting in from the kitchen is my suprabatham. The first few days I had to pinch myself to make sure I was not dreaming. Now I am used to it. Mother is back on her feet. Like a usurped king on a comeback trail. First she won back her faculties and that was amazing enough. But her picking up her duty as father’s caretaker is incredible. I watch with disbelief, as she makes him the coffee every morning, puts out a set of fresh dhothi and banyan, and mixes him a nightcap of horlicks. Yesterday she gave him a sort of hair cut. I am astounded. All the more because I know that their marriage was not idyllic.

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In fact, one could list the points of divergence in their personalities far more readily than of concurrence. Mother, having picked up the basics of astrology in the course of the marriage of her five daughters, often alleged that no astrologer today would match father’s horoscope with hers. Did love have a chance? Topal, the old Jew in the Fiddler On The Roof persists with the question to his wife. “Do you love me?” Her answer is candid. For 25 years her life had been his. “If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks. My parents have stuck together much longer, for 68 years. As far back as I remember they have never lived their life as individuals. Both had a role to play. He was the breadwinner. And she was the treasurer, manager, keeper of the house.

Sometime back, thanks to a festival, the story of Savitri’s tussle with Yama got refreshed. That has provided me the clue to mother’s recovery. I am convinced mother too must have battled Yama. ‘‘No way you are taking me’’, she must have said. ‘‘Not as long as I have my charge’’. The weaker sex? The daughters of this culture are a tough lot.