ENEMA! ENEMA! EVERYDAY: memoir-in-progress

 

ENEMA! ENEMA!  EVERYDAY

 by Nighat Na-koja

 

Wahida, the new cook who replaced Ata: Baji, should I add potatoes to daal?

No! Who in the world adds potatoes to daal?

Who left the fan and lights on in the dining room?

Who threw kitchen garbage into the wheel barrow?

Why is the kitchen sink tap dripping?  Agaaaain?

Try to stay calm and unattached to transcend the daily  trash. Easier said than done. Domestic dard-e-sari is my daily headache. On most days my performance is, I would say, fair to middling. But on many days I fail dismally. Crazy-making days are plentiful. Everything is in short supply: Love. Honesty. Caring. Clean air. Water. Electricity. Gas. Leanable shoulders. Large-hearted, tree-like people you can rest your weary back against. 

In this bleeding to death economy,  crises are plentiful[1] . There’s the electricity crisis. Gas crisis. Water crisis. Economic crisis. Ethics crisis. Environmental crisis.  Terrorism crisis.When the house you live is also crises-ful, what do you do? Where do you go?

What can you do? Your mind feels it’s about to collapse, and you just want to overdose on something that won’t wake you up until all the crises have passed and you’ve arrived at an alternative (better?) universe. 

I came across tips online for transcending daily crap: when you feel like you can’t do anything to change the situation, don’t do anything! Simple. Just don’t do anything? Don’t waste time trying to make sense of a senseless situation whether it’s the world or the household?

***

My phone rings. It’s Atif, Abba’s day-time attendant. It’s noon and around this time, Abba is usually sitting in the loo after his breakfast, or he is done with the loo and is taking a pre-lunch nap.

Kya hua? Me dreading another crisis, me dreading my lack of equanimity if there’s a crisis.

He’s asking for enema. I told him it can’t be given every day. He said bakwas mat karo. He wants me to ask Hashmat to bring 2 more enema tubes. What should I do?

When did you give him the last enema?

Yesterday.  He had loose motions last night. But he still wants enema today.

In that case you certainly can’t give him another enema today!

Ji, Aapa. I’ve already told him that. But he told me to shut up and said mujhe mar jaane do. I have no desire to live. He said he would kill himself if suicide wasn’t haram in Islam.

What? Wait! Wait! I’ll come and talk to him.

When I entered his room, Abba was sitting naked, stubborn as a spoilt child, at the edge of his bed. I could tell from his impassive, resolute face that he will not not have the enema.

 

I told Atif to cover Abba’s nakedness while I googled enema use and side-effects. Occasional use is ok for up to three days. Prolonged use can lead to serious electrolyte imbalance and death of good gut microbes.

 

Abba, it’s not good for you to have enema every day.

I don’t have it every day.

You had one yesterday.

No, I didn’t.

Atif says he gave you one yesterday.

He’s lying. He’s always lying.

 

 I look at Atif. He shrugs.

 How do I explain to Abba about electrolyte imbalance and what it can lead to? What if he increases his fibre intake? How about walking a little more to help with constipation?  He is obsessed with his bowel movements. I know he’ll dismiss it all as nonsense. Abba’s daily walks are made up of walking from his room to the dining table and back to his room. He eats very little fibre. He even stopped eating the 2 spoons of salad he used to eat at lunchtime. He eats rice at every meal because he can swallow rice more easily than rotis. Rice doesn’t have to be chewed much. The laxative tablets are to be taken at night, but he takes them after breakfast, when he’s sitting on the toilet. He thinks he’ll have a bowel movement right after swallowing the laxative. So when his bowel don’t move, he gets annoyed and insists on having the enema.

 I have to think fast. Not doing anything is not an option.

 

Ok Abba, I will tell Asmat to get the enema. Can you wait for a few minutes?

 But hurry up, ma. My stomach pain is killing me.

 I motion Atif to come outside the room.

Give him only one-third the container, ok? Not the whole thing. Put the rest in the fridge. And don’t argue with him over anything. Just go along with what he says. Ok?

 But he wants to see the emptied container, Atif says. He doesn’t trust me. He says show me the empty container.

 So show him the empty container. Where’s the empty one from yesterday?

 I threw it away.

 I fish out the empty enema container from the dustbin in the bathroom, wipe it with sanitizer and hand it to Atif.

Save the empty ones.  Don't throw them out. It’s a psychological thing with him. Show him the empty container when he asks for it. You have to understand his psychology. Will help you deal with your other elderly patients.

***

 

The rest of the day, I cried at intervals every time I thought of Abba’s words: mujhe mar jaane do. Why did he say that? Does he really want to die? Are we keeping him alive against his wishes? When I cry too much, my sinuses get blocked and I get a headache. I reached out for my anti-anxiety tablet and my antidepressant. Every time I think I can do without the buffering effect of these little pills, they prove me wrong. They are my buffer between events and emotional reactions. I need them to function. Anti-anxiety pills calm you. You don’t stay awake all night wondering what Abba really means when he says he wants to kill himself. Antidepressants numb all uncomfortable feelings and responses. You don’t feel sad. You don’t cry. But you don’t feel happy-chirpy either. You feel like you’re in neutral gear, you feel nothing. You just observe the events unfolding in the world around you like a wall-fly without reacting. You don’t cry and you don’t end up with sinus headaches. You become functional.

 A friend called that night, and I told her what Abba said about wanting to die:

I felt so sad when Abba said mujhe mar jaane do.

 Well, she said, in a way, he’s right, isn’t he? 

 Yes, I know. If it were up to me, I would let him die. And wave him onto the abode of peace. But it’s not up to me in any way.

 You’re doing the best you can. Being with him, that’s what he needs most, she said.  

 I am?

 

Afterwards, a more self-centered me thought:  But what will I do when Abba is no more? How will I go on? Find meaning in life? The breakfasts I make for him, the music I play for him, the sugar-free desserts I make for him are my sanity savers. Serving him gives me a sense of meaning. It makes me feel needed. Necessary.  Like I'm somebody’s priority.

What will I do when Abba’s gone? I asked my friend.

Life goes on, she said.

 

***

 

No situation is eternally bleak, no matter how bleak it seems at first. With hardship comes ease. Abba was given the enema that morning (only one-third the contents) and shown the previous day’s empty container salvaged from the dustbin as proof that he had received the full dose. He was satisfied. He emptied out his bowels and took a long nap.

Abba came out of his room for lunch and I served him the chilled no-sugar-added ras-malai [2] I had made. Rasmalai was his favourite dessert. He ate it with relish.  I watched him eat it for my own relish.

Abba: ek aur milega?

 Ji, Zarur, Abba!  I said and rushed to the kitchen to refill his empty bowl.

 It was a moment of pure joy to ladle another plump, soft, creamy rasmalai, adorned with the greenish fuzz of ground pistachio, into his bowl. Placing the bowl before him and watching Abba devour the second helping, his mouth moving in contented savoring, his veined and slightly tremulous hand scraping the bowl's bottom for the last vestiges of sweetness—this was an unadulterated pleasure. In that instant, I had momentarily defied the death-wish. Abba, in that moment, had no desire to leave this world. He was content, relishing the second serving of rasmalai. This joy, however, was ephemeral, its delicate surface inevitably giving way to the return of an inescapable, relentless melancholy.

The question, like a serpent coiling around me, persists even now, more than two years after Abba's departure: What would I do when Abba was gone? Well, he's been gone two years. What, indeed, am I doing? It's not as if I lack tasks. When one is no longer another's priority, one must become their own. I must tend to my well-being, ensuring my health remains sound. I cook. I go for walks. I get groceries. I pay bills. I read. I write. I am, for instance, composing this very book. But why? What purpose does it any of this serve? The 'why' remains an insistent, unanswered echo. Isn't doing and not-doing all the same in the long, long, very long run?

So why am I doing anything instead of doing nothing?

That why doesn't leave me alone.

 

 

---

 

State of the world in May 2022:

 

Cyclones in Bangladesh rendering thousands homeless.

GLOF (Glacial Lake Outburst Floods) submerging normal life in Gilgit-Baltistan. 

Sindh’s once-mighty Indus teetering on the verge of running dry.

Temperatures have risen above 50 C in some towns of Pakistan.

60 million people have been internally displaced in 2021 around the world.

No-sugar added Rasmalai recipe

 

Ingredients:

1 packet Laziza rasmalai mix

Artificial sweetner powder according to taste

1 egg

1 litre milk

1 tspn Cardamom powder

Kewra essence

Ground pistachios (or any nut of your choice)2 tbspns

 

Method:

 

Boil the milk. Lower flame and simmer for  5-10 minutes. 

Stir in the artificial sweetener. Stir.

Add half the cardamom powder to the milk. Stir.

 

Follow the directions on the package for making rasmalai balls using the beaten egg and add half the cardamom powder while kneading the dough. Shape the rasmalai dough into 10 balls.  Or fewer if you want bigger rasmalai.

Lower the balls carefully into thickened milk. Turn the flame to medium. When the milk bubbles, turn down the heat. Simmer for about 5-10 minutes or till the balls puff up to twice their original size.

Turn off heat.

Sprinke the kewra essence.

 

When cooled, transfer to a bowl.

Sprinkle the powdered pistachio on top.

Chill in fridge.