Something Like Love

I saw love today, felt it, almost touched it. All my senses could perceive it without any difficulty even in an intensive care unit ward in a nursing home.
He’s not my blood relation, but he is more than that. I call him Pishemoshai [that would be my father’s sister’s husband]. Aged and ailing, in his late seventies my Pishemoshai is now in a nursing home. Pishi [father’s sister, not related directly by blood either] who is a good ten years younger to him, and I visited him this morning with a change of clothes and today’s newspaper.
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Even in the cold white light of the neon lights and the typical smell of illness, medicines and anti-septics, I can see his face light up as soon as he sees Pishi and me.
Pishi has to lean over his bed to hear what he was saying, his voice now low and raspy. Their hands are touching carelessly and they are looking at each with anxiety and love writ in their faces. Love is almost tangible.
He asks about all his neighbours’ health, if she has taken her medicines, if the domestic help turns up regularly, if their son has called her up and keeps assuring her that he is alright. At the same time he reports every detail of his health meticulously.
“Hyan go, Gopal ke dekhte ichhe kore” he says.
[It’s difficult to translate ‘hyan go’. It’s an informal way in which Bengali spouses address each other. I’d say it’s equivalent to the English ‘dear’.]
* Dear, I wish to meet Gopal*
To which, she promptly rings up Gopal and asks him to try to come over.
He cannot talk much, it makes him cough and the excitement makes it difficult for him to breathe. So pishi admonishes him for talking so much and straining his nerves. He obliges, but for a moment or two and then he goes again, all words pent up in the twenty-two hours that he cannot see her gush out. He asks me about my parents and sister and then looks for a longish moment into Pishi’s eyes and like a child that has erred and is now ashamed, says ‘sorry’.
I read out to him from sports section of the day’s newspaper. Watching cricket is what he misses the most, cooped in a nursing home cabin with a few other ailing aged people. He’s characteristically calm, composed and cooperative otherwise. Everytime I hand him the glass of water he calls me “sona meye” [darling child], everytime a new visitor drops in to see him he draws his attention towards me, showering praises on me generously.
I tell him “Tumi taratari sere otho, bari fire cholo, ami tomake dekhte asbo”*Get well soon, come back home and I’ll visit you*
He sounds excited at the prospect “Nischoy!” *certainly!* “but not at the cost of your studies.”
I can only smile.
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It’s time for us to leave.
He has been telling pishi about a dream he had the previous night. Both Pishi and Pishemoshai are God-loving people and he speaks about seeing his God in his dreams.
Pishi petulantly pouts her lips and asks him to stop dreaming. He can only smile indulgently.

Then he says “Tomar jonyo koshto hoy” *I feel sad for you*.

I can see she’s near to tears but she looks ever so affectionately at him and consoles him.
He hears about my Maa’s decision to stay with Pishi for a couple of days and animatedly exclaims “Such a sweet sister! Such a sweet sister!”
He holds our hands in both his hands, he is not willing to let us go but he is one of those few men who never complain.
We leave him sitting with a newspaper, propped up against a stack of pillows, wrapped in a blanket and an air of sadness and hope.

I wish you get well soon Pishemoshai.