The Staircase - By Nayana Gadkari

You always arrive where you are meant to be, not where you intended to go. And so, I found myself unexpectedly in Mumbai, pacing up and down the staircase outside the ICU where my mother was admitted.

It was a traumatizing sight that afternoon; I had met her for the first time since her brain surgery, her beautiful soft hair, her crowning glory, had been shaved off. She had a row of staples running down her beautiful bald head from the center all the way to the back and left, marking the spot where the neurosurgeon had exposed her brain to remove the clot that was threatening to send her into a coma.

Her face lit up brightly as she saw me walk into the ICU. A slight grimace as she struggled to recognize me and then magically that thousand-watt smile when she remembered it was me! It took a superhuman effort to push back the tempest of tears threatening to betray my composure as I walked up to her, held her hand, and told her that she looked absolutely perfect as she did every day.

The staircase on the outer perimeter of the 7 storied building became my refuge for the next 10 days. I spent most of my days in the hospital waiting for doctors and visiting Aai. Still, I was determined to keep up with my training schedule for my upcoming hike to Ecuador the only way I could. The hospital had 7 floors with 24 steps on each floor; I loaded up my hiking backpack with dumbbells and decided to walk up and down the stairs as and when I could each day to get to my 1000 steps.

Turns out that the staircase was a refuge for many others, too. Each hour, as I marched up and down, the refugees changed, and some kept coming back. The operation theatre was located next to the ICU on the 2nd floor, so the staircase morphed into a waiting room during some hours of the day. Loved ones holding hands, waiting with bated breath for the doctors to call their names. It became a communal cafeteria some hours of the day, with people pulling out their packed lunches or dinners and setting up to nourish themselves for the battle ahead, always asking if I wanted some of it. It was also where the Muslims amongst us would answer the call of Azaan several times a day, laying out their mats and praying fervently.

One particular day was more excruciating than others; a group of people sat huddled together on the stairs, their faces full of anguish, unable to bear what was coming next. They were told that their father would likely not survive the night. I remembered listening to the hiss of his ventilator each time I visited my mom; it was breathing precious oxygen into him, urging his body to heal or perhaps giving his loved ones one more day with him. One more treasured day… And then the vent stopped hissing, and they said their goodbyes and waited. Waited for the rest of their lives without him. The doctor came outside and told them he was gone; the staircase turned into a mourning room. They wailed, they cried, they were angry with God, they were inconsolable.

And then I heard my first Code Blue. “Code Blue, Code blue,” the speaker crackled. What the hell was Code Blue? I saw a team of nurses and doctors rushing full speed with a crash cart, I hoped against hope that they wouldn’t stop next to my mom, and they didn’t; they went past her. A massive wave of relief washed over me, and my knees nearly buckled, immediately followed by the guilt that I wished it was for someone else.

It was also the day when my mother was more incoherent than before. At first she thought I was her sister, then she thought I was her granddaughter; memory and words were failing my literary goddess of a mother; words were failing my Saraswati. I was angry with the universe. I was inconsolable.

I remember going to the cafeteria in a thunderous mood; it matched the thundering monsoon outside. It was relatively empty. I took a “cutting chai” and picked a spot to look at the rain outside as the parched earth hungrily drank it all up. Beautiful tropical plants swayed drunkenly in the deluge as the flirtatious monsoon played its magical “Krishnaleela” on them all. I was oblivious to all of it. All I could feel was thunder inside, and then something happened. A tiny stray cat came and sat next to where I had set down my chai. It didn’t purr, it didn’t look at me, it just sat. I gave her a bit of my glucose biscuit, and she accepted it. And thus, we sat there for a while, girl and tiny cat in quiet solidarity, just watching it rain. My sense of peace restored and my faith in the universe renewed, I returned to the staircase.

Ms. Tiny Cat did one more thing besides restoring my faith in the universe: she lifted the pain-riddled shroud I was in so I could see the heroic battalion of attendants, nurses, assorted therapists, and physicians who worked tirelessly to restore Aai to health. We all collectively cheered each time my mother was able to lift the spoon to feed herself, each time she finished a bowl of soup, each time she counted from one to ten accurately, each time she recognized my brother and me, each time she moved the beads on the abacus, each time she feebly threw the tiny foam football to them. One step forward using the walker? “Woah! You go, Anupama ji!” 

As I walked up the staircase, I reflected that life had come a full circle for me. The countless nights my mom must have paced when I was sick as a child, the same kind of elation from her when I took my first step and when I said my first words, concocting tricks and treats to make me eat. How beautiful this all was! How lucky were my brother and I to get this opportunity to give back to our mother, who nourished us with her mind and body for pretty much all our lives.

Aai was finally discharged with a long battle to recover ahead of her, ahead of us all, really; I felt blessed to be able to take her home. That is her domain; she is its Queen. I had felt like an imposter, usurping her dominion. As we got ready to take her back to her kingdom, I went around and met each person who extended a healing touch, a helping hand, or even just a smile with a “Kaisi hain aap ki maa.” I said to them with a heart full of gratitude what countless others had likely done; I told them that to me, they were the hand of God. Enough said.

As the ambulance started blaring its sirens, ready to take Aai home, I turned around and said one last mental thank you to the staircase for housing my fears and tears. Thank you for giving me the space to see love and kindness, thank you for letting me see faith and prayer.