Dad had a serious arterial blockage in his heart four years ago. A triple bypass was the only thing that could save him.

Away from home partly through circumstances, largely through choice, 23 years old, first job, first apartment, gloriously single and free of all worldly care, one tended to view the episode more as an annoying interruption than anything else. Getting leave sanctioned a royal pain, telling the boss with an embarrassed laugh "the old man’s unwell, needs surgery".

D-day minus one- arrive home, as always a little disappointed no reception committee at the airport. Tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Spend hours on the only available phone (mobiles being still expensive back then) catching up with old friends, regretfully declining invitations to meet up for a drink or twelve. House a bit of a mess, rare if you know my mom! Dad phlegmatic as ever, but a little fear showing. A little irritating that is- These days, a bypass is like root canal. And don’t worry these guys are professionals.

The next day, wheeled into surgery at the crack of dawn. No time or inclination for breakfast. Absolute lack of information- where do the nurses disappear when you need ‘em? The red light on the top of a handpainted sign "Operation Theatar" in your average Hindi flick doesn’t seem so funny now. Hours measured in cups of Nescafe and the occasional stolen Gold Flake. Occasional because Didi’s increasingly "how can you smoke at a time like this?" looks are getting uncomfortable. People drop in, some welcome, some irritating. A guy I don’t like all that much puts Mom at ease "Ghaabroo nakka kaakoo, sagale barre hoil" and I resent him for it, then love him for it, one isn’t up to doing those sort of things on one’s own, right about now. Watch strap itchy, take it off, slip it into pocket, you don’t want to see the same time every time you look anyway. A half-hearted attempt to find some nurses actually yielding results- bright cheery smile, “don’t worry” in thick Mallu accent before one catches her sneaking a peek at the charts, she’s not a clue who this sweaty young rather overweight young man is, just being the nurse. Lunchtime comes and goes, Mom incredibly asks for some so go to the noisy, overcrowded canteen, a welcome relief from the sterile walls and long silences of the waiting room. How many magazines can you read in a day? Back after a surprisingly fulfilling meal, feel rather guilty tucking in with the old man’s insides all cut up but does it matter? The gloom returns with the afternoon, no chance of catching a catnap on these chairs, run off for a post-lunch smoke and chat with a friend who’s dropped by in his lunch hour. Stretches into a little more than an hour, but in a much better mood when he leaves. Panic stations- nobody in sight! After all that, missing wheel-out time? Rush to the ICU.
.......Hate those three letters. Sound as cold as the place actually is....
No sign of Dad yet, just anxious relatives- I thought they allowed only close relatives into this place. Yes, apparently they do, a little closed circuit B&W shows a frail white-swathed person being wheeled into some room even further down.
Doctor, even cheerier than the nurse, if such a thing were possible, strides in. You’d think he was back from a nap rather than hours-long surgery. “Everything went fine, nothing to worry.” Tension melts away as quickly as it built up slowly. But not for long. He’s not moving! The unasked question hovers around our lips. That can’t be my dad, up at 6 every morning for his morning walk, errand run and chores-about-the-house, never a quiet moment except for his 17-minute snooze post lunch and the 8 hours every night. A doctor friend I call tries to explain what trauma is. Apparently surgery by itself is traumatic, which I’d find funny if it wasn’t being enacted right in front of our eyes right now. No signs of movement, nothing except the assurances of the surgeon who by now seems to have closed this file and moved on to the next. Can we go see him? Too early, take some rest, go home for a while, stay here by turns, seems to be the prevailing wisdom. Now that the danger has abated, they seem to lose interest in us a little. I call night duty, just to get out of there.

Which isn’t a whole lot of fun either, as it turns out. Dad breathes funny, maybe because of the tubes stuck into him. I get up close for a look and nearly faint, it seems impossible that many tubes can be hooked into a little body like that. The wounds of surgery still open, raw, bandages barely enough to conceal the permanent damage. Still the ennui of the day seems to have helped, sleep comes easily. Up by six, when the nurses come tumbling in. The routine as it is steadies the nerves and cheers one up a bit. Day shift starts at eight, by which time I’m starving. Should have more faith in Mom who, as it turns out, packs a breakfast, on a day her husband is lying perilously close to death in a hospital bed, can you believe it? Give her a hug and head back home.

The routine steadies, he comes to after a day or two, no “I did it” punching fists in the air, just a dull resigned air of what must happen, must. Soon realize the early morning shift entails jobs one cannot imagine doing, walking him to the toilet, getting him on, then off, cleaning up afterward. Endless stream of hushed visitors, each of whom demands a lengthy explanation and feels it’s their responsibility to offer meaningless homilies. “If there’s ANYTHING we can do to help…” Time measured in pages of Robert Ludlum novels. Blood replacements to worry about (“6 bottles please”). Hospital bills and surgeon’s fees to pay- all planned for and neatly organized into little (and some not so little) envelopes by the old man himself, the week before. Seem to spend a lot of time gazing at him, hugging mom, watching her watch him, never having realized before that their frown lines seem to have become permanent.

We never talk about those days now. Sometimes the younger grandson spots the still-hideous scars and asks “Ajja, what’s that?” and all we do is exchange looks and the occasional smile. One likes to pretend like it never happened, that it can never happen again, not to him, not to anyone.