Come to your senses

“Stop laughing, the teacher is looking at us,” my friend would warn me after cracking a joke. I’d be giggling away, unmindful of the most complex math problem being taught in college. And just when the teacher points to my friend to explain what was just taught, she’d answer it with no flaws whatsoever. 

I’d look at her amazed, “How did you do that? How can you listen to someone while speaking to someone else, all at the same time?” 

She’d wink and say, “Am I smart or what?”

“What,” I’d say, answering her question. 

It’s not just her sense of hearing, Tilotama sharpened her senses several notches more now.

“Did you have masala peanuts with onions?” she’d ask when I enter her room after dining with a colleague. That was bang on. “Do not come close to me. I don’t like the smell of Colgate that you brushed your teeth with,” she’d say wrinkling her nose with frown lines growing between her brows. We had several toothpaste options in our closet to suit the acceptable scent of the day.

Every item in the house was fragrance-free - right from the sanitiser, the detergent for the clothes, to the lotion for the body. There were times when I felt I needed to have some aroma around me. My friend made us realise the importance of something that we always took for granted - the sense of smell.

If there was something that I was happy about, it was the fact that she began to hate the pungent odour of onions and garlic. While I don’t mind onions in certain dishes, garlic is always a strict no-no in my life. I was happy we became ‘Jain’ partners.

The door to her room had to be shut all the time for the ‘Doberman’ (we fondly named her that) was constantly sniffing the air. One day, I was heading out of the room when her father sitting inside was having a conversation with me. I was holding the door half-open while talking to him. My friend was annoyed and she barked at me, “Will you please close the door? You can either be in or out.” 

I advised her not to lose her temper because we are all trying our best to keep things comfortable for her. She started crying. “You don’t understand. It takes all my might to tell my mind and my nose not to entertain this particular smell for it is extremely nauseating. I do not want to barf. I want to be normal,” she said. I was cringing in pain. I felt like I failed her this time.

My friend could hardly eat anything. She lost around 10 kgs since the first chemo. Health experts say that every cancer patient must force themselves to eat despite all the strain and struggles. It’s different when you read and advise others. And when you watch someone go through this at close quarters is when you’ll decide never to advise anyone. 

“Baby, I feel like having Maggi,” my friend said. Her mom was so excited that her child was finally demanding something to eat. And just when we brought the dish into her room, she said, “I hate that smell. My stomach says yes, but my nose says no!” And she ended up starving. 

On days when she was able to eat, her mouth ulcers made sure she didn’t.

Doberman aside, her sense of hearing grew sharper. We were sitting in her room talking about my work. And she suddenly alerted me saying, “I think my dad is in the lift. Can you open the door?” And damn it! She was right.

That was not all. She would suddenly sit up in the middle of the night. When I asked her why, she’d say, “I can hear the kid in the opposite building laughing. And I can’t sleep.” I honestly thought this friend of mine was possessed. 

While she had a nose for news and her ears to the ground, the senses that were deteriorating after Tilotama found its means of ingress were ‘sight’ and ‘touch’.

“I think I need to check if my eye power has changed. I have trouble reading. My vision is blurring,” she said. My friend used to handle marketing and analytics for Lawrence and Mayo before she made her way to Singapore. She has a lot of clout there. A team from L&M came home to check her vision. They said that her power has indeed changed and we ordered a new pair of glasses. Her vision didn’t improve. “The letters seem to be dancing now,” she said.

Our oncologist suggested we take the opinion of an ophthalmologist. We landed at Prabha Eye Clinic. “Can you please hold me and lead me through? I just can’t see,” she said, adding, “I never thought Tilotama would make me blind baby.” I felt bereft.

My friend has always been involved in helping blind children. She has taught them, helped them financially and has donated her laptops and more. And here she was fighting to get her vision fixed. After examination, the ophthalmologist claimed that the muscles around her eyes had weakened due to chemo and that explains the blurring of vision. The power in her eyes changed again, but the new set of spectacles didn’t cause much trouble luckily. However, more often than not, she kept saying, “I can’t see anything!”

While my friend was having a hard time with her eyesight, she was striving to deal with the feeling of numbness at her fingertips. “It feels weird when I hold a pen,” she said, explaining that her fingers felt like they were on pins and needles all the time. While it was mild after the first two chemos, she soon said, “It’s getting intense. I can now feel that in my toes too.”

A closer look at her fingers and we noticed some of her fingernails were discoloured. And when she dried herself, the towels were discoloured too. “Skin pigmentation and dead skin cells peeling off are common side effects of ABVD. In fact, Vinblastine is the one that triggers peripheral neuropathy, which is the reason behind the weird feeling in her fingertips and toes,” explained the doctor.

“Don’t touch my fingers please,” she warned me when I tried to apply some hand cream. “I just don’t like that new sensation,” she continued. But she always clutched my shirt and slept.

Whenever she had nightmares, which were quite often, she’d wake up startled, pull me closer and shriek, “Save me, I’m getting trapped in ice!” And each time, I’d hug her tight, pat her gently and whisper, “I will make sure you storm out of the traps. You are safe. Sleep now, baby.”

Stop the music!

“Baby! Listen to this… This interlude reminds me of some other song. Can you guess it?” my friend would holler on the phone at 7am, which is midnight to me on a Sunday. “Wait until 10am?” I’d groggily snap at her. “C’mon! I can’t stop until I find that song. Open your eyes,” she wouldn’t stop, yes. 

With my eyes still closed, I’d listen to it again. Within seconds, I’d be wide awake connecting the tune to our old favourite melodies. “You are right, baby. I knew you’d find that song. Now, you can go back to sleep,” she’d say, winking at me, and awaiting my angry retort. 

She is good at connecting songs, creating fusions and learning the lyrics. Though it is a rare treat, she sings very well - be it a rap for the song ‘Akele hain’ from the movie Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, a bass voice duet ‘Hai Rama’ from the movie Rangeela or a classical melody ‘Ini Achcham Achcham’ from the movie Indira. The list just goes on. No wonder, she was one of the ‘most wanted’ members of the Indian Music Association in college. She later became the Secretary of the association too.

“Music makes me happy,” she’d often say. Fast beats that go dhinchak, obscure notes that are typical AR Rahman or classical melodies with a touch of fusion can make her head bob from side to side, as she’d hum along loudly when no one’s watching her or just remain elated with eyes closed.

Have you listened to the famous song by Simon and Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence? There is a line that goes: Silence like a cancer grows… Well, my friend grew to love the sound of silence gradually. After Tilotama’s introduction, she said, “Don’t play music. It makes me sad. It reminds me of the happy days when I enjoyed music.”

Her sister was heading back to the US to be with her family before Christmas. My friend tried to gather all her strength to climb the stairs and get to her sister’s room on the first floor of the duplex apartment. She wanted to help her sister pack. We decided to listen to some music together so she can have us around while letting go of her emotions. 

As her sister’s phone reverberated with a song from Atrangi Re, my friend’s eyes were brimming with tears. “I can’t help but cry,” she said. She was always a fan of music composer AR Rahman, while I vouched for Ilayaraja first. They say music is therapeutic. To her, music seemed to be a distant dream of joys. “Please, stop. I can’t bear to listen to these tunes,” she said, as tears rolled down her cheeks. It was an arduous journey as she struggled through every step while descending. Another quiet tear, laden with emotion, flowed out of her eyes as she said bye to her sister. “Be back soon. I’ll miss you,” she said to her sister.

I tried to talk her into listening to some of the latest songs. “Did you know there is this latest Tamil song that is going viral? I’ll send you the link, try listening to one song a day,” I said. “Just let me be, baby. I don’t want to now,” was her immediate answer. I didn’t want to force her, but I missed sharing my latest favourite tracks with her. Even though I sent her the links, they remained ‘unread’ on our WhatsApp window.

The closest she came to was a podcast. At least, there was something that she could turn to. And they kept her company, most often, when I wasn’t there to entertain her with mindless gossip.

I stayed back for a couple of days through the cold winter week and headed home to welcome the New Year with my folks. I didn’t have the heart to leave her behind. It was crushing each time I said bye to her. 

My aunt and cousin were spending New Year’s eve with us. We decided to have a karaoke night and it was my turn. I thought I’ll try singing a song that I’d never attempted before. I chose to sing ‘Abhi mujh mein kahin’ from the movie Agneepath starring Hrithik Roshan. There is a line in the chorus that goes: Mar jaoon ya jee loon zara (meaning: do I die or continue to live for a while). I was choking with emotion.

It was heartbreaking. I broke down. I felt torn. I felt guilty for revelling while my friend had shut herself in the sound of silence. 

As I wished her a ‘Happy New Year’ the next day, she was barely able to speak. I knew she answered the call for the sole reason that I wanted to speak with her. The last eight New Year celebrations were spent with my friend. She’d swing her head, tap her feet and twist her lips with the attitude of a pop singer. Man, she knew how to fool an audience despite having two left feet.

I felt left out this time. Or was she?

Superstar’s punch dialogue

“You speak like Superstar Rajinikant da,” I said to my friend, laughing all the while. My friend was super anxious about her presentation at work the next day. “What? Am I talking too fast? I need to slow down. Keep reminding me that baby,” she said with worry curling up between her eyebrows. 

It’s not just the way she speaks. Like the Superstar, she can wear the most colorful pair of sunglasses or even a fluorescent jacket and look pretty stylish. Just the way Rajini would walk fast and throw the pen right into the pen stand with his left, my friend is like the ‘express train’ in whatever she does.

Well, things have slowed down now. She gasps for breath after walking barely five steps. All thanks to Tilotama. She was lying down after her sixth chemo. She became both physically and mentally weak. “I’m tired of this, baby. Let’s just stop all this chemo. I can’t take it anymore,” she said, tears flowing incessantly through her eyes. 

“We have crossed the halfway mark. We can’t give up now, can we?” I said, knowing very well these words were least comforting to her ears. What do I do to cheer her up? Her birthday was fast approaching. I sat down to make a plan. I rummaged through my memories to recollect the requests that she had made to me in the past.

Ting! One memory chip of my brain lit up. I remembered a time when she had said, “Take me to music director AR Rahman’s studio once please. I want to see him in action there. Please do that for me. What kind of a journalist are you otherwise!” 

I began with an e-mail to Rahman sir’s personal assistant. He said he would try. I followed up for a couple of days, but was petrified that this may not fructify because the legendary music director was busy with a concert in Dubai. I was back to square one. 

How about our ‘Thalaivar’? Was it far-fetched? My friend and I are die-hard fans of the Superstar. I messaged one of the closest associates of the family. I wasn’t too sure if I’d get a response in my favour. I heavily banked on the Tilotama card. I was desperate, nervous, fidgety and anxious. I got a reply almost immediately. “Remind me on December 14,” it said. Does it mean Rajini sir would oblige on the 14th? Or does it mean ‘we’ll see’ on the 14th? This cryptic message was killing me.

Like my friend, I tried to keep my expectations low. I thought of personalised gifts. I thought of a clock with our picture in it. I thought of a few other things that would excite her - right from a watch strap to a neon cap. I surprised her with a gift every day for at least 5-6 days leading to her birthday. Every morning, I’d wake up and say, “What is my friend waiting for?” I’d have no answer. I’d then unwrap the gift and show it to her. I’d be overwhelmed to see her smile holding the gift close to her heart. I kept wishing she'd wake up and ask me, “Where’s my gift today baby?”

That never happened. 

It was December 15. We were at the hospital getting an ultrasound done for her. The doctor wanted to keep a close eye on the lymph node near her pelvis that was showing an uptake in the PET scan that was done earlier. To our luck, the size had decreased assuring us that the uptake was due to an infection, in this case the Fistula.

My friend was too weak to celebrate. Just as we got home, I got a video message. And I literally jumped off my seat. It was Superstar Rajinikanth’s video message, wishing my friend for her birthday. Oh my God! Was he stylish? I was floored and humbled. I thanked the person, who helped make this happen. I was so pleased to know that Rajini sir asked for my friend’s reaction once the video was shown to her. How sweet is that!

I’ve never kept anything from her. It took all my might to keep this video message a secret until her birthday. Her parents and sister were busy decorating the hall with balloons. My job was to put her to sleep early. I partially succeeded. Right through the night, a couple of balloons burst with a loud noise, waking her up. And I kept coming up with the most ridiculous explanation for the noise.

The day dawned. She was too weak to walk on December 16. We all sat up to wish her a happy birthday as she slowly waltzed through the hall. “Hey balloons! Am I a kid? I am 37 now,” she laughed at all this, hiding her embarrassment. We decided to cut an ice cream cake in the morning since she wasn’t quite well that day. She wore the ‘Friends’ t-shirt that I had got her. She was struggling to sit at the table because the smell of the balloons was nauseating for her.

We moved the table to her bedroom. We video-called a chosen few, which included my parents and a cousin of mine. Her niece, aunt, uncle and brother-in-law were present virtually to wish her. It was just a matter of 30 minutes where she cut the cake, smiled at everyone, personally said ‘thank you’ to each one, and had one spoon of the cream on top. The next minute, she was lying down. She was fatigued. She had no energy the entire day. 

How do I show her the Rajini video when she is like this? She couldn’t even walk to the loo without help. She was miserable that day. I was sending ‘thank you’ messages to her friends on the phone. All of us were dull and gloomy. The effect of chemo and the filgrastim injection that she had taken a day earlier to up her blood count were playing havoc in her body. 

I was hoping the next day would be a better one. That’s all we can do - hope! The night was dark and lonely. 

She woke up the next day and seemed a bit better. I judge that by the way she walks. I requested her to wear the ‘Rajini’ t-shirt I had got her earlier. She said, “Anything for you baby.” I smiled at her attitude. She tries to be cheerful on days that she can. 

I finally sent the video to her phone. She was in shock. Then disbelief. “What!” she exclaimed. “How did you do that?” she squealed in delight. “Hey! Did he really say my name?” she screamed.

The Superstar’s voice thundered through her phone, “Hi there! Happy birthday. God bless. Stay strong. Everything will be alright. Have faith in God. I pray for you. Love you!”

She played it at least 200 times that day. She was in tears. “Tell me from the beginning! How did you do this?” She asked, curiosity killing her already. I started with an apology. “I wanted to get you a message from AR Rahman. I’m sorry I couldn’t do that,” I said. “Are you kidding? Here’s the Superstar calling my name! What more could I ask for?” she said. And we both started crying.

I have this newfound respect for the legendary star. In one of the movies, Thalaivar said, “Po da! Aandavane namma pakkam irukaan (meaning: Get lost! Even God is on our side).” My friend and I began saying this to Tilotama, “Po da! Thalaivare namma pakkam irukaar (meaning: Get lost! Even Rajinikanth is on our side).”