As is my norm, I woke up a little while ago. Around 4.00 am. It is a Wednesday morning. My two mugs of chai are ready and the sounds of silence are around. The silence will last a while longer. Grim news was conveyed to me by my friend and family physician around midday yesterday. “He’s got 72 hours on the outside.”

It was dad he was talking about.

The first time I had attempted to write about dad and him slipping away was when a stroke too him down. The prognosis sounded grim then as well and the physician attending to him the ICU sounded as unambiguous. But he survived — to put it bluntly, as a vegetable.

Since then, for all my philosophical differences with dad, it compelled me to step back and look at life from his perspective and the times he lived in. When looked at from there, I feel grateful for all of what he gave me.

Much water has passed under the bridge over these months. An ecosystem of sorts has come to breathe around this semi-comatose man who lingers in Bardo as articulated by the Tibetans, or in Purgatory as his Catholic faith defines it. I am no authority either in theology or on the medical condition and can be challenged. But in my limited understanding, this is where he now lies. I don’t intend to delve into the philosophical moorings here. But on the ecosystem that has grown around him. And how, like he would have, I have come to empathise with it.

Every morning, on the dot at 8.00am, the doorbell rings and a nurse walks in. Come hell or high water, festival or domestic problem, she’s there. My little girls are comfortable with her, and over time, she has grown to be fiercely protective about them.

She is now as much part of our home as any member of the family is. She spends most of her waking hours with us. She is the one who knows most about dad’s physical condition; the one mum has gotten used talking to most often because they are more or less of the same age; and perhaps share the same set of concerns.

When in doubt about what her son ought to do, she sends him to me. When in distress, she shares it in confidence with my wife.

Yesterday morning, though, I thought she looked troubled when she walked in and started on her routine of checking his vitals. She called my wife and me aside. “His time to go has come”, she told us quietly. I asked of her what is to be done next.

“Nothing," she said in the quiet Marathi we talk to each other in. “You can call the doctor if you want a second opinion.” That’s how my friend had gotten there.

But unlike dad who would have dropped everything else, I had other things playing on the mind. Such as calls to make for a story I had been obsessed about for a while. And other fine print to be pored over. Life, after all, must to go on and death is a part of it, a voice in the head said.

“Are you doing okay or in denial?” my wife asked a little later. This had to do with that a little before the nurse walked in, the attendant who spends his nights at home, from the time dad fell unwell, told me first thing in the morning on waking up was that dad’s time to go had come.

“And how do you know?" I asked him.

“I’m not a doctor," he told me. “But I’ve worked at a hospital all my life. And I know when a man is dying. He and I had gotten to bond over the months in an interesting way. The first thing I do when I wake up is brew the both of us chai. Two mugs for me. A small cup for him. He tells me I make lovely chai.

Each night, a little after the nurse leaves, he comes home to spend the night. Like her, he has become a part of this ecosystem.

My younger one waits for him because she likes what his wife cooks. And he makes it a point to bring a little portion of his dinner for her. It’s pretty much part of her daily routine and they seem to enjoy it.

Yesterday morning, though, things were different. He looked different. Even as I started my routine, he walked into the kitchen and, the devout Catholic that he is, asked me to call in the priest to administer the “Last Sacrament”. That’s what had triggered all this activity around.

I muttered “not again" and asked him if he’s up to a chai. “Whatever," he said. “But call the priest." A little after the nurse walked in, basis her observations and jottings, she confirmed the man’s prognosis.

One examing dad, how did the my friend, the doctor, conclude he has no more than 72 hours? Things certainly couldn’t be as clinical as he made it out to be. “He is now in coma. The pupils aren’t dilating in response to light. The urine output is negligible and the swollen body means his renal system has begun to fail. But he can’t feel pain."

“So what do I do now?”

“Stop all medications. His kidney’s cannot process anything, any more. Reduce his liquid feeds from 2,500ml to 2,000ml. Let the nurse take a call depending on what she thinks is right."

I eventually managed to connect with Dr Rajat Chauhan, a close friend. He put things in perspective: “It is a physician’s assessment basis his diagnosis and the statistical evidence that supports the diagnosis. He may be on or off the mark by some time. But accept it and move on." 

I got the point.

The way I look at it, the only person who needed to be cared for was mum. She needed to be prepared the fact that her spouse with whom she had spent all of her best years was on his way out. And it was best if my brother and I had a conversation with her. But I guess she intuitively knew. 

My wife told me later that the nurse attending to dad is the only earning member of her family. I’ve known that for a long time. But over the many months that she’s been the primary caregiver to dad, she had confessed how she has gotten emotionally attached to him and our family. 

So, in spite, of her economic compulsions, and in spite of knowing what medical evidence tells her, she does not intend to take up another assignment. It turns out that she needs time to get over her bonding with dad, my kids and her being part of what is my home. It isn’t only the money that keeps her going. 

For a man who starts his days at 4 am, 11 pm is a late hour. The eyes were beginning to droop. But my younger girl, who is now four and a half, wouldn’t let me be until we had shared our secrets for the day and exchanged notes. 

“Dada, can we take daddy (my girls call dad that) for a picnic when he is fine? Daddy looks so tired."

I didn’t know what to tell a girl as little as that daddy will never be fine again. 

The best answer the atheist in me could come up with was “Some angels want to take daddy for a picnic baby. So we’ll have to wait."

“Oh! Dada, can I talk to them? I’ll give them my chocolates if they let me be with daddy for some more time and take him out."

“They’ve been waiting for a long time baby. They’re friends of his, you know."

“Angels don’t like chocolates?"

“I don’t know. Maybe they do."

“I’ll give them my chocolates if they let daddy stay."

My eyes drooped as she snuggled close to me. For the first time I felt a tear run down my cheek. I wished I had spent more time with dad. The lines from a song I’d almost forgotten existed started to play in a loop someplace in the back of the head. 

I’m sittin’ here with my kids and my wife

And everything that I hold dear in my life

We say grace and thank the Lord

Got so much to be thankful for 

Then it’s up the stairs and off to bed and my little girl says 

“I haven’t had my story yet." 

And everything weighin’ on my mind disappears just like that 

When she lifts her head off her pillow and says, “I Love You Dad" 

I don’t know why they say grown men don’t cry 

I don’t know why they say grown men don’t cry

This is an abbreviated and modified version of a piece that was first published in Mint in October 2016