The Home and The Heart, part VII

I know that this was Life,—the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.

But this it was that made me move
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear,
Because it needed help of Love:

Chapter 7

The Weightless Weight

She was home.  She was extraordinarily weak.  She had lost fifteen pounds during that banishment away from home.  Her body was tattooed with innumerable needle pricks and internal bleeds.  Her hair were in shambles.  But she was at peace.

As she entered her home, she breathed in the long-desired, long-awaited air of her past, and absorbed the love and belonging that was all hers.  Her soul was soothed, and her restlessness went away as she took step after step inside her house.  She looked around with tired eyes, and the sight of every little familiar thing gave her nourishment.  That chair!  That towel!  That mirror!  She became languorous, and lay down in her bed and went to sleep.  I could not have enough of looking at her sleeping peacefully in her own room, the room that was built of affection and understanding.  I had waited for this day for so long.  Her own pillow, her blanket that smelled of love and jasmine, offered her the embrace of her own world.

I felt as if we had just married, and this was my bride coming to her conjugal home.

In the coming weeks and months, I knew that we both had to climb a steep mountain, whose peak we could not yet see from here below.  Without saying anything, we were joined in our resolve.  We were together now, and our love would see us through to the other side.  Together, we would climb.  Holding hands, walking shoulder to shoulder, we would climb.  We would get tired, and we would catch our breath, rest for an afternoon, and with renewed resolve, we would climb.

It was an immense vindication of our decision to come back home "against medical advice" that she healed as if miraculously.  She started walking within a few days.  She never needed a cane, what to speak of needing a wheelchair.  Her right arm, though very weak, was moving again.  Though I had brought a supply of thick liquids for her, she never had a need for those.  She started having normal liquids.  In tiny gulps, ever so slowly, but she tasted water and milk and tea and coffee again.  She would cough, and learn to swallow properly, and try again.  And she started chewing again.  It was utterly remarkable.  And immensely fulfilling for both of us.

I bathed her, and fed her, and held her as she tried to walk, and made her again see the trees, the rivers, the birds, the sun, the moon and the stars.  Nature took over, and she slowly regained her weight and her strength.  I tried to engage some therapists, but it was hard to find a good one.  And by necessity and by desire, I ended up as her therapist.  I made her do little exercises every day, and fed her milk shakes, smoothies, eggs, porridge, and bowls of soup.

She started smiling again, and every little victory over her condition gladdened her heart.  Her headaches were now a thing of the past.  She was on her way to becoming herself again.

We never spoke about the hospitals and of our trials there.

Her eyes would well up when she saw her wedding bangles, or an ornate dress, or the photos from our journeys.  But as I held her in my arms, her tears would stop, and she would be at peace again.

A day after her homecoming, I took her to a hair salon.  The hairdresser looked at her hair and stepped back in horror when I told her we needed to cut them short.  She would not do it.  It was a sacrilege, she said.  She could not bear to cut such long hair and have them fall on the floor.  It had taken years and decades for those long hair to be, and it seemed so ruthless to put scissors to them.  But I convinced her that there was no other way, that the hair were matted beyond redemption, and she with immense gentleness slowly cut them short.  My wife did not flinch during that session, and when afterward she looked at herself in the mirror, she looked almost fashionably modern.

To climb a mountain is difficult only if one does not want to climb.  To a mountaineer, or to one on a pilgrimage, every step of the ascent is sacred, and fulfilling.  The legs may get tired, but one can rest.  The strength comes only partly from the muscle.  The real strength is in the heart.

(to be continued)