Death Came Calling

We knew the end was near. The doctors told Dr. C so almost two months ago. And he told me over the phone. It would be almost 10 days before I could make the trip out to Peterborough to go see Anima baidow (elder sister, in Assamese). By then, she had already been moved to a palliative care unit. They had stopped the treatment for the cancer raging through her already battered body and were now making her last days as comfortable as possible.

I am shocked by what I see when I walk into the room. This is not the Anima baidow I know... this is a tiny, shrivelled, hairless person. But she looks me directly in the eye and demands to know why I’ve not been by to visit her earlier. Something in me says, oh, she’s not doing as badly as people had been saying.

But a little sob escapes T, who has come along with me to see her. She rushes out into the corridor. M, Anima baidow’s yoga teacher, follows T out and whispers encouragement to her. S and I put on brave faces and speak to Anima baidow quietly. Dr. C. is standing by the bed looking helpless. Resigned. A great sadness weighing his shoulders down. People are whispering to each other in the room. And out in the corridor. Both the family/visitors rooms on the floor are also taken over by Anima baidow’s visitors.

What do you say to someone who’s dying? What do you say to Dr. C?

He has been at the hospital every day for almost two months. From 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. For months before that, he had been cooking and cleaning and caring for his ailing wife. He looks tired and much shrunken as well from his usual self. His reserves of inner strength depleted by the sadness and a dull acceptance of what was surely now just weeks, perhaps even days, away.

Those of us who knew the couple, who considered them surrogate elders in the absence of our own, now grieved for both. For the one who was leaving, but more for the one who was to be left behind.

I sit by Anima baidow's side and reach for her hand, which lies limply across her chest. She squeezes my hand back, ever so slightly. Dr. C gets her lunch from the pantry. Home cooked food that someone has brought for her. We elevate the bed and help her up into a sitting position. She can barely hold the spoon but attempts to eat a bit. It’s painful to watch. She gives up after a few birdlike bites. I help her rinse her mouth out. It’s like helping a child.

A steady stream of visitors drops in every day, Dr. C says. During the time I was there that first Sunday... maybe two hours… I counted at least five families. Peterborough’s Indian community has rallied behind Dr. C in an unprecedented show of support. Everyone who visits, brings some home cooked food. He says his refrigerators at home are overflowing. And he’s taken over half the refrigerator in the hospital pantry. Anima baidow doesn’t like the hospital food. The doctors have said she can eat whatever she wants or is able to. They don’t see the need to put any restrictions on her in the short while she has left to live.

What I didn’t know at the time was that, behind the scenes, some of the leaders of the Peterborough Indian community, like BM and RK, had already begun preparing for the funeral, starting the day the doctor said the end was near. Dr. C had signed the necessary papers and everything was more or less in readiness for when the time came, so that there was no last minute panic. A sequence of events had been mocked up, the funeral home and chapel alerted, tasks assigned, lists of guests made, food and drink planned out, etc., etc. It was an awe inspiring display of calm and logistical planning, all done with great compassion and caring for Dr. C.

The hospital staff is amazed at the steady stream of visitors. I worry that the friends and family of other patients in the facility may be getting upset at the hordes of people visiting Anima baidow. Other hospitals do not allow more than three people in a patient’s room and then only during strict visiting hours. But this one being what it is, they have no such restrictions. And the staff, despite knowing that a patient rarely ever left the floor alive, is cheerful and compassionate. One of them hugs Dr. C when he gets emotional as we look over some old photographs. She tells him that she loves Anima baidow for her quiet dignity in the face of death. I choke up hearing that come from a complete stranger.

I go back and sit by Anima baidow as the others chat quietly in the corridor. She says something. At first I don’t understand her, but guess she wants water and pour her half a cup. The bed has to be adjusted so she can sit up to drink. I hold the cup to her lips and she takes a few weak sips. Even that little effort exhausts her… she sinks back onto the pillow. But she reaches out and caresses my wrist in thanks.

I don’t want to leave… the 135-km drive back into town is one of the longest ever for me. I've driven that highway probably a 100 times in the last 10 years, in all kinds of conditions. But on that windy and rainy evening, with the sadness and greyness merging into a tight little knot that sat deep in my chest and threatened to cut off my air, it felt like it took forever to get to Toronto. Even T’s three-year-old daughter is quiet in her baby seat all the way. She can feel it as well.

I drive to the hospital a couple of more times over the two weekends. P flies in all the way from Calgary to spend a couple of hours with Anima baidow. And takes the next flight back home. The people keep coming, and coming, and coming. There are tears, hugs, quiet words, and silence. Silence in the room. Anima baidow is sinking rapidly. She no longer speaks. Can barely open her eyes. When she does, there is no sign that she recognizes any of us. She hallucinates. She sees giant caterpillars on the wall. All her life she was terrified of the critters. Now that she is so close to death, the doctors say the hallucinations are a result of the slow ebbing of life. Her neurological systems are beginning to misfire.

I get calls from people. I call people. We reach out to each other in despair. The loss of Anima baidow was going to be a huge blow to our small Assamese community here in Canada.

Saturday, 25 November. J's been watching over Anima baidow all through the night. The doctors had said the previous evening, "One more day." Twice during the night, he was on the verge of calling Dr. C back to the hospital when he felt the end had arrived. But he held off and finally called only at about 6:30 a.m.

8:30 a.m. I wake up late. With every intention of jumping right into the shower and heading straight out to Peterborough, I get caught up in responding to emails and puttering around the house, trying to neaten up after four weekends of missed chores. The phone rings at 12:10 p.m. It’s S...

Anima baidow had passed away about 30 minutes ago.

I hang up and sit frozen for about five minutes, unable to move. Instead of being sad, I feel guilty for not having done as I had planned… I could have been there. I should have been there.

But now there’s no point in rushing, while they move the body to the funeral home. I find a picture of Anima baidow, set it up on a window sill and lit a tea light. I leave after about two hours and get to Dr. C’s place just before 5:00 p.m. He’s at the funeral home with BM and RK to finalise arrangements. I wait, along with J and U. I get the door when Dr. C comes back. He looks calm. But he shivers and holds on to me when I hug him. He makes a funny little sound deep in his throat… like he’s agreeing with something someone is telling him.

First thing he does after taking his shoes off is call a meeting in the living room. BM and RK chalk out the plan of action for us… visitation on Monday, funeral on Wednesday, and a multi-faith prayer meeting on Saturday. And the Saturday following, an Assamese Hindu prayer meeting at Dr. C’s residence. Everything is already planned out. I am impressed. Right down to who’s driving whom, from where to where, and at what time. Left to our own devices, we—J, R, B da, B, S and the rest of us Assamese—would never have been able to pull this off in such a smooth manner. Atleast not on our own.

I’m asked to re-engineer an existing piece written on Anima baidow into an obituary for newspapers in Assam and Peterborough. I end up writing almost an entirely new piece in about an hour. Dr. C is satisfied. So are others who have gathered at his home that evening. I am to email it to the newspapers overnight.

It's cathartic to be caught up in the logistics of preparing for the funeral. For all of us. It takes the edge off the moment. J and U will stay and watch over Dr. C that night. J asks if I will stay Wednesday night following the funeral. I say yes. He rounds up four others from among our friends to take turns staying over a night each to keep an eye on Dr. C.

We worry about Dr. C. He seems calm and collected enough, but we watch nevertheless.

Monday. Anima baidow is laid out
in a simple casket at one end of the hall at the funeral home. Visitation hours are from 2 to 4 p.m. and then
again from 7 to 9 p.m. I walk over directly to Dr. C, afraid to see Anima baidow in death. He takes me by the hand, leads me to the casket. “See how beautiful she looks,” he says, his voice cracking. I see the body for the first time. Her friends have dressed her up in a sari with a red floral pattern. Red, the colour of matrimony. Someone’s laid a gamusa, a thin hand-woven towel unique to Assam, and a symbol of Assamese nationalism, across her chest. But I don’t see a resemblance between the person in the casket and the picture of the radiant, smiling woman in the photograph on an easel on a table nearby.

I reach out and feel her cold hand, and yet it’s all very unreal.

The aroma of incense fills the room. Showing an understanding of Hindu customs, the funeral home directors have laid out sheets on the carpeting so people can sit cross-legged on the floor, as we prefer. It is a bit incongruous as all of us are in dark suits. Someone starts singing a bhajan softly. I notice R; she’s dry-eyed, but looks shocked. I can’t bear to be in the visitation room anymore.

I put my shoes back on outside, and stand by the door. K, Dr. C’s old student, and his wife M hesitate as they come in, not sure of what Hindu customs dictate in such circumstances. I told them what to do and they seemed relieved. I had found myself something to do to escape the raw emotions filling the room behind the open door.

Through that door I can see Dr. C and his son B, side by side on the sofa. Dignified. B, come to stand by his father in his hour of grief. I am struck by how much he resembles his father. And, he a professor too, just like his father.

Soon the room is almost full. The bhajans continue. J sings an Assamese naam. Which cuts deep again. M and Anima baidow’s fellow students from the yoga classes are there. A good part of Peterborough’s sizeable Guajarati community is in attendance. Her friends from the chanting group she loved so well. Almost all of us Assamese who could be there. Some have driven in from Ottawa. As have others from Montreal. Folks from Trent University, where Dr. C once taught math. All gathered to pay homage to this diminutive and popular woman from Assam. I saw people I hadn’t seen or spoken with in years. With some, there had been unpleasantness in the past. But now we greeted each other quietly…

… death… the great equaliser.

Wednesday. I’m up early, dressed and ready to go, but the phone won’t stop ringing from the office. The emails keep pouring in. I’m supposed to be at the funeral home at 10:00, and it’s 9:10 by the time I manage to get out of the house. 135 km... 50 minutes. I pray fervently for the police to be looking elsewhere as I hit 150 km/hour in a 90-km zone on the 115 North. The Gods listen and I make it to the funeral home… 10 minutes late, nerves a bit frazzled, but I was there. The hall in the funeral home is filling up slowly. People file past the casket. Some weep. Some pray. People of all faiths and persuasions. J and B, Anima baidow’s close Parsi friends, hold up proceedings for a few minutes as they say farewell in their own way. We wait for them to finish.

At 12 noon we carry the heartbreakingly light casket out to the waiting hearse. B and I are the lead pallbearers. For me, a huge but sad honour. BM, RK and two others bring up the rear.

The crematorium is in a chapel at a different location about 15 kms away. The motorcade holds up traffic for almost two blocks. (I later counted 40 cars parked outside the chapel.) In the confusion as the casket is being taken off the hearse to be carried into the chapel, I’m bumped off my spot and someone else grabs the handle. BM tries to get me back in position, but I let it go and follow the casket in.

The chapel is small, but intimate and beautiful in its simplicity. A plain, but enormous metal cross hangs on the wall behind the pulpit. Anima baidow’s casket is rolled in directly underneath it. It is fitting. God, by any name, is watching over her in her final physical moments on earth.

The casket is opened again as a Hindu priest sings and translates a few couplets from the Vedas. Short and sweet, but touchingly delivered. J sings verses from the Assamese kirtan book. I have heard him sing these on dozens of occasions over the years. Today, despite his sorrow, he sings with a deep conviction. His voice rises clear and strong up to rafters, and the tears flow again in the congregation.

There are about 100 people in the chapel. We line up for a final farewell. I’m second last in the line, behind R. I don’t pray. I can’t pray. I look down at Anima baidow and touch her cold hand one last time, and walk back to my seat. My mind is blank. J goes last. He breaks down quietly by the casket and doesn't seem to want to walk away.

Someone directs Dr. C and B in the final ceremony of walking around the body three times, stopping each time at the foot to pray. The funeral directors close the casket. They slowly wheel the casket out into the crematorium chamber, followed by Dr. C and B, who was to throw the switch, and three designated witnesses.

It’s all over in about 10 minutes. When Dr. C is helped back into the chapel by B and the others, I see him truly shaken up for the first time since Saturday evening.

As we file out of the chapel, the sun peeks out briefly in what had till then been a dull and cloudy day.

We head back to Dr. C’s for a quick lunch (again a part of BM, RK, J and B, and their friends’ huge organizational effort). Everyone leaves by about 4:00, and soon it’s just Dr. C and I alone in the house. K and M and their kids drop in for a while to see how he’s doing.

I sat up late with Dr. C that evening, talking about life, love and death…

… and Anima baidow. How she never complained once through close to three months of suffering.

How she opened her eyes briefly at the end and looked directly into the eyes of her husband and companion, knowing that the end was at hand.


Photo courtesy J. Bhubhariwala. And that's my photo art.