#21Days

It's still Day 2

4.51 am

The hospital pager beats his alarm clock to it. By the time I'm aware enough to squint my eyes and look at what's happening, Rohit's already dressed. I know he hasn't eaten anything for breakfast. I also know he skipped dinner last night. I rub my eyes, willing them to open and force myself to get up from the bed, walk to the kitchen to brew some coffee in a takeaway mug. I place it near the catch-all on the accent cabinet right next to the main door. Then as an afterthought, I pick up a sticky note and write Breathe! and stick it on the mug.

Rohit comes to the door, picks his coffee mug, looks at me gratefully. He presses a soft kiss on my forehead before he leaves the apartment. I close the door after he leaves and make my way back to the bed. I know I won't be able to sleep but am willing to lay down and rest my body.

*****

10.10 am

There is no house help for the next twenty days. Everybody has been asked to stay at home. All businesses are closed, except for the essential ones. Doctors are essential. I dunk a dust cloth in a bucket full of water and squat to wipe the tiled apartment floors. Twenty minutes later, I'm sweating profusely. I haven't even finished mopping the living room. I still have the bedroom and kitchen to go. Thank God, the apartment's not that big.

I remember the first time he took me home to meet his family. I felt conscious walking into Sippy Mansion. Situated on Napean Sea Road on a one-acre plot of land, the three-story bungalow was modest looking from the outside. But anyone who lived in Mumbai knew the house was worth hundreds of crores.

I remember trying to straighten the invisible creases off my dress as I walked in for the very first time. The Sippy's were South Mumbai's typical poster family. Three generations living under one roof. Yet none of them had much to do with each other.

The reception area, where I was asked to wait, while the house staff rang for Rohit's Mom, Veena Sippy was graced by a life-size portrait of Dr. Piramal Sippy, patriarch of the Sippy family and the founder of Sukhmani Sippy hospital. Piramal Sippy had left his ancestral home in Karachi and made his way to Bombay Presidency on a boat with one hundred and forty-three other people. When Piramal Sippy entered India, he only had with him his wife Sukhmani, his elder son Naren and his medical degree. But Sukhmani had sensed that would not be enough. And so she'd decked herself with as much jewelry as she could lay her hands on overnight, covered herself with an Afghan kaftan to hide it, and boarded the boat.

By 1957, Piramal Sippy was a well-celebrated doctor in India, who commanded the respect of the country's top politicians. He was always grateful to his wife, whose practical thinking had saved them from a life in the refugee camps. Three years ago the patriarch passed away. But by that time, the Sippys' had become a brand in healthcare, with hospitals that lined the length and breadth of India. Dr. Naren Sippy now headed the consortium. But Rohit had complete authority over the workings of the Sukhmani Sippy hospital in Mumbai. It's what Piramal and Sukhmani, Rohit's grandparents wanted.  

While we waited for Rohit's mother to make an appearance, he kept regaling me with tidbits of family history, to calm my nerves. Suddenly I held his hand and looked him in the eye. Was he sure about this? He brought himself forward and hugged me. He would stand by me through thick and thin.

I take a break, wiping my sweaty brow with my forearm. I glance up and look at the Sukhmani Sippy Hospital building. I know Rohit is in there somewhere, fighting for another person's life, not taking care of his own. On impulse, I abandon cleaning the house and decide to cook. Rohit is going to get a hot meal for lunch.

*****

12.40 pm

I pack his lunch in a container and make my way down. I know I shouldn't be doing this. Rohit specifically asked me to stay home. But I don't trust Rohit when it comes to eating food on time.