Camaraderie

“Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey.” Vera Nazarian

The soft tune of the mobile ring broke the profound silence. My sister  answered the phone in a low  voice. We could hear her assure the caller that my father was truly at peace then and that he could go to Kerala for his holidays. We understood that it was Prabeesh, the male nurse from Red cross who had been a help for my father. Memories deluged as we remembered the day he was appointed. He was just in his late teens, lean, bony and shy. He was trained in a few basics of nursing by Red cross society in Kerala. It was his first job and we wondered whether he could manage my father who was in poor health. His job was to be a companion and look after my father who was gradually losing his muscular coordination due to neuro muscular degeneration. 
The worst part was my father who could never sit at home, lived a sedentary life. He was intellectually safe. He had slowly begun resigning to his fate. This young boy was trained further and within a few weeks he knew my father extremely well. He would administer insulin injection painlessly, take care of him lovingly in spite of my father’s mood swings. He called him ‘Muthacha’in Malayalam which means ‘Grandfather.' He spoke Malayalam and my father being a native of Alappuzha in Kerala felt at home conversing back. There was a maid to wash and clean, all the meals were provided by my sisters and brothers who also got an opportunity to meet them regularly. 

Prabeesh was punctual in following the charted timetable while  taking care of my father tenderly. As a sport, they played games and playfully he would help my father exercise and practise writing. My father was meticulous, an early riser who wished to have his bath twice a day and all his rituals as he had throughout his life.   We felt the adoration and a bond of camaraderie strengthen between them. Prabeesh learnt speaking English and  improved on his content through long discussions on various subject matters with my father. They shared their fondness of watching  television programmes and serials together. 
He had gained a prominent place in my father’s life, and my father would never agree to let him go to Kerala to visit his mother. He once went after three months but was back soon, the second time he was given a choice of another assignment by the Red cross who have the work ethics of changing the nurse periodically. Perhaps it was work pressure or an aspiration for more wealth which made him accept another assignment at Hyderabad. My sister in law tried her level best to convince the authorities, but it was vain. My father kept probing about Prabeesh, he missed him, and we could initially see his frustration,  slowly the realisation lead him into a depression. He was brave and accepted  this reality of life. There was another  male nurse appointed  from a local hospital, but my father never felt happy with him as he had lost faith in people. 
The new Nurse was older and had the least respect for the job. Though we were looking out for a better person we could not get one. One day everyone was ushered at three in the afternoon by the nurse saying that my father was unconscious. It was found that he had left us peacefully in his afternoon nap. I could reach only the next morning. We had begun the funeral rites and it was then that Prabeesh had called my sister from the railway station on the way to Kerala, to enquire about my father. He wanted to come back to take care of my father. My sister felt that she would break the news when he would reach Kerala. We knew the affection he had for my father. Though they were living apart they craved for each other’s company, for fulfilling their own emotional needs. Who says indebted bonding is only through blood, bonding is where factual warmth lies. My father’s life reminded me of Mother Teresa’s words “There are no great acts. There are only small acts done with great love.”

50^th post, dedicated to my late father for having bestowed me with the skill of narration through his own narratives.