It is 2:12 am. I scroll through my Instagram feed, still giggling at the last reel I saw. I refresh the dashboard of my virtual classroom and check if any class has been scheduled. Nope. Another hour to chill.
“Jassiiii..” Babli calls out from the bed next to my table.
“Haan, mera baccha?” (Yes, my child.) I respond in my signature sing-song voice. “You need to use the washroom? Come, let’s go.”
I go over to Babli’s side and smile down at her. Then, I slide my hands under her and pull her up to a sitting position. I used one arm to hold her up, and the other hand to gently move her legs off the bed, rotating her body at the same time. She grunts with the effort. I put both my arms around her now, and pull her up, and off the bed.
Uh oh! There’s a sudden catch in my lower back. I can’t hold her weight. She won’t make it to the wheelchair! I think, panicking. It takes an enormous amount of control for me to gently, carefully lower her to the ground. She is now lying flat on her back on the floor of our bedroom.
She looks at me in alarm. “Kya hua?” (What happened?)
“Sorry, Babli. I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t take the weight. I’ll need some help.”
“I can’t hold it. I will have to pee in the diaper.” I hear the apology in her voice.
“Koi na! That’s okay. I’ll change your diaper. But first, we need to get you back on the bed.”
“Bro is not here. And your friends are sleeping. You’ll wake someone up?”
No, Bro is not my brother. Bro is not even a bro, but we like calling her that because of what she means to us. She is our paying guest, Smriti. She occupies the other bedroom of our apartment but is currently on a break, at her home in Kinnaur.
Coincidently, my colleagues from Mumbai are visiting. I tip-toe into their bedroom, straining my eyes in the semi-darkness to spot DJ. With bodybuilding featured in her hobby list, she was an obvious candidate for the job.
I drag the sleepy and confused DJ to our bedroom. I gesture animatedly with both my hands to make light of the situation.
“Ta-daa!! Look where Babli is sleeping tonight!” I say, with a flourish, like I’m introducing a silly child’s antics. Honestly, it seems quite hilarious to me all of a sudden.
We manage to haul Babli up to the bed. Babli thanks DJ, which embarrasses her a little. I give her a big bear hug before she retreats into her room.
At 28, you are too young for back aches, I scold myself silently. The weight of my daily chores has begun weighing heavily on my body and mind. When I carry her and tend to her needs, both physical and emotional, I carry not only her weight, but also her age, her pain, her regrets, her hopes, and her dark clouds of gloom. I’m currently 28 plus 53.
I sit next to my mother. I look at her as one would look at a baby. This is how she used to look at me. And then one day, the roles got reversed. Suddenly, I was the mother and she was my child.
I detect discomfort in her eyes. We’ve been reading each other’s eyes for years now. She wants to say something. Instead, she asks me to get her some grapes.
“Diaper change karte hain pehle, Babli. Uske baad pet pooja. Okay?” (We’ll change the diaper first, Babli. And then feed our tummies, okay?) My sing-song voice has returned.
It has been two years and 3 months since her stroke. Our lives went on pause mode and we are waiting for someone to press play so that we can play out the rest of our life dreams.
It is lonely on this side of the equation. I know it is lonely on her side as well. But we meet each other in the middle, as best we can.
I feed her some grapes and tell her a joke that one of my US students had told me yesterday. She chuckles at the absurd joke.
“Pagal” (Nutcase) she calls me, tenderly.
“Mai pagal hoon?!” (I’m a nutcase?!) I protest, putting on my dramatic, shocked face. “Aur tu?” (And you are?)
“Mai pagal ki maa.” (I’m the nutcase’s mother.)
Last year, I traveled with two colleagues and my three children to Himachal Pradesh. In Solan, we stayed with our beloved friend and colleague, Jasleen. The few days we spent with Jasleen deeply impacted us all.
I wrote this slice-of-life story from Jasleen’s POV, during the Ochre Sky Writing Circle with
and , for the prompt ‘That time when I crossed the border’.
This is one of the most beautiful pieces I've read on Substack in recent times. It touched me and reminded me of pure love. Please keep writing, I would love to read more of what you write.
This is so beautiful, Sumira! What a gift to both Babli and Jassi. And for you to now have their pictures for this piece - what a precious gift! 💖