I Cannot Say Goodbye to You by Rithvik Singh
Naani and I were sitting by the bank of a river. Twelve-year-old me rested my head on her elbow as she told me an Akbar-Birbal story she had read in a magazine, but I wasn’t really listening. All I cared about was how peaceful it felt. I was sitting beside her, my head lighter than the breeze and my heart a butterfly, fluttering without being worried about someone chopping my wings off.
Suddenly, the river began asking me for water. Why is the river asking me for water? I thought as the river’s voice grew louder. Paani. Paani. I could hear it screaming, unabating. I got up and moved towards the river, but then realized it was rushing towards Naani instead. I ran to save her, but she had already begun to disappear. The water was now vanishing like it wasn’t even there. Her voice faded into nothingness. That was when I heard someone’s voice and woke with a jerk.
Paani.’ Naani said, her voice barely audible as I realized it wasn’t the river that was screaming struggled to sit upright. Upright was never quite the right word-all my life I had seen her back shaped like a crescent moon, the upper part of a question mark. I had seen old photographs of her standing straight, but I could barely recognize that version of her. I noticed her eyes were wider than usual, both hands clutching her chest. I knew I had to rush to the kitchen, but the loudness of my heartbeat made her whispers inaudible. I froze. I couldn’t feel my feet. I stood there as she kept repeating the word ‘paani’. My feet had been frozen by the four-letter word they had taught me at school-fear. I stood there for a few seconds, staring at her, still frozen, almost as if I were still asleep.
I mustered all my courage and regained composure. I rushed to the kitchen, but the moment I turned back, she was on the floor. Her voice had stopped. I could now hear the voices of my parents, who were fighting in the background in their room. I knocked ceaselessly on the door. How long had she been asking for water? Why did I even go to sleep? Why did I not stay awake just a little longer? Tears flooded my eyes as my parents came out of their room and called the ambulance. I couldn’t feel my eyes or the rest of my body. My hands were shaking. Where do you hide when an earthquake is born inside you and spreads in seconds? When you can feel your entire body turning numb, where do you look for sanity?
My Naani, who had loved me so much that she made me feel warmth in a house that was always burning, was being taken to the hospital. All because I didn’t fetch her water. I froze. The one time she needed me, I was not there for her.
I watched three men lift her into the ambulance. I covered her head because I knew she would never be okay with going out without her head covered. Her hair was undone. She had oiled mine every day.
She would never step out without putting her hair in a braid. I wanted to braid her hair, but there was not enough time.
We took her to the hospital, and my father was quiet on the way. Maybe he was happy that she was in that state. He had never liked her anyway. But I wanted to believe there was latent humanity in him-umeed, as Naani had once tried to teach me. He didn’t say a word, and that was better than anything he could’ve said.
They changed her into a hospital gown. Foreign clothes on her frail body. I remembered how she always wore poshaks. She even had poshaks for nightdresses. She must be so uncomfortable in those clothes, I thought as they took her into the operating theatre.
I saw Ma crying on the hospital floor like an infant who knew nothing else. I saw her breaking down into what I now understand was a panic attack. ‘Please don’t leave me,’ she yelled at the top of her lungs as the hospital staff asked her to calm down. Even when
her mother was critical, she wasn’t allowed to express herself. Social conduct mattered more than personal grief.
‘Stop making a scene, please. People know me here,’ Papa said, annoyed.
‘My mother had a heart attack. She might not make it, and you’re asking me not to create a scene? If you hadn’t been so drunk, she wouldn’t be on her deathbed,’ Ma responded with more tears in her voice than tears.
Deathbed. Deathbed. The words settled in my mind without consent, the way Naani was made to wear a gown against hers.
‘Blame God, not me, and stop yelling at me in public!’ Papa snapped, immediately reminding her of her place.
I watched Ma, her sari drenched in tears and sweat as she struggled to sit upright. Her kajal streamed down to the bottom of her cheeks, and strands of hair fell loose over her face. I couldn’t even cry, and to this day, I don’t know why. Naani isn’t going anywhere. She will stay for me if not for anyone else, I reassured myself as the doctor came out of the operating theatre.
It had been several hours, and Ma hadn’t stopped crying ever since. It had been hours since Papa sat with his head bowed in a corner opposite us. His bent back reminded me of Naani, who could never stand straight because of him