
“How are you,” I asked.
“As you see.”
A grimace disappeared on Praful uncle’s wrinkled face, which also had a tinge of complaint. “I am so happy to see you. After so many years,” he continued. “I had visited my birthplace in India twice in the past three years, but I fell sick every time after returning.”
“I didn’t know. I would have met you. I was also not in India for a few years, so I couldn’t get the news,” I said.
He appeared to be understanding.
“The health carer told me to prepare to ‘go’ on both occasions. She said I had no one to look after, no insurance to foot bills, and no strength to bear the pain. I told her I didn’t desire to go so soon. I like to live, and I have matters to finish. On both occasions, they kept me in the hospital for a few nights and the consultant, with a smile, sent me back home,” he said with a chuckle.
I joined him spontaneously, appreciating his spirit to live.
His mobile alarm went off. He looked at it: “4 p.m. — time for my afternoon tea. Would you care for some tea or coffee,” he asked. “Let me make it. What kind of tea you drink? Red or with milk and sugar?” I offered. “Don’t bother. The attendant from the social service will come now and make it. Let us talk. You have come after so many years.” I kept chatting. He asked about my family and work. I wanted to know what unfinished business he still had. He replied with a smirk, “Nothing. I tell them to keep them guessing and not pressure me to go.” I controlled my laughter.
He complained about the dust, traffic, and crowds in India and the massive change happening in the U.K. We talked about spirituality and enlightenment and the possibilities of explaining our civilisational way of living to the people in the West. He was upset that the local community service would soon auction two of his paintings. He complained, “They shouldn’t auction living artists’ works.”
Praful uncle was sitting on a sofa. A walker on the side and a multipurpose table were conveniently placed before him so he could reach out for water, medicine, and any other needs. I had a look around. One of his beds was very similar to a hospital bed, raised and fitted with vital reading machines, and the other had a regular comfort mattress with a footrest so that he could reach his bed comfortably. I checked his toilet — the commode, the shower, the washbasin all have been modified to cater to his needs.
“So they have provided you with all these facilities,” I asked.
State support
“Yes. The social services and the NHS try to ensure the passing of a lonely senior citizen as painlessly as possible. But I don’t want to go.” He laughed after a pause.
The nurse arrived late. She apologised while still panting out of brisk walking. “Today was a bad day. I was swamped and missed the bus,” she told him. She then performed routine supervision and checked his medications.
“Aa ha, you forgot to take your medication after lunch,” she said.
“How will I know? You should have ensured I took the medicine before you left,” ge blamed her.
“I gave you a glass of water and told you to take it. You said you would take them in a bit. I trusted you,” the nurse explained. I looked at the table: four different-coloured capsules in a small medicine container.
“I am waiting for my afternoon tea and have a visitor. Can you give us some tea, please,” he expressed his impatience. “I am making it in a minute,” the nurse replied.
I felt slightly uneasy during the conversation between them. As I rose to use the washroom, she whispered, “He is a difficult old man.” I didn’t know how to respond. She said goodbye after she finished her work. It reminded me of Praful uncle’s family members saying the same thing about his angularity when he was not very old. He came to the U.K. after his college in India in the 1960s. He studied town planning but followed his passion to be an artist and became a painter. He drew abstract paintings with Eastern mysticism. He settled in London after working in a few other cities. He did not marry. His siblings and other family members stayed divided in different cities of the U.K. and India. He loved his village in India and ensured that he visited it regularly, almost annually. I had met him about 20 years ago when I was posted in the Indian High Commission in London. He is 93.
After over two hours, I wanted to take his leave. Despite my discouraging him to walk, he came to the door to see me off. He hugged and kissed me tightly and said, “I was thrilled to see you. I want to live.” I could see his eyes welling up.
I bade him goodbye before I melted. I was relieved to see that he would spend the remainder of his life in safe care. However, it also brought into mind the debate over voluntary and assisted euthanasia in societies that are ageing and where the state does not have the resources to care for its older citizens.
(The writes is the Ambassador of India to Bulgaria)
arun.sahu68@gmail.com
Published – January 19, 2025 03:45 am IST