When a broken leg shifted roles

Through the chaos of her special mind emerged an affectionate person

If there ever was a good time to break a leg—quite literally—this was it: just after the trek had been successfully completed and a reasonably good breakfast eaten. Of course, this clarity arrived in retrospect, long after I had heard the doctor announce, in that unnecessarily cheerful tone, that “we’ll do a quick surgery and put a plate in you.”

Life flings unexpected things at us all the time. We feel oddly entitled to the pleasant surprises—the perfect sunset despite landing in Goa mid-monsoon or the time-warp joy of a low-traffic day in Bangalore. But when the unexpected turns unpleasant, there is instant consternation and a sharp sense of victimhood.

Anyway, armed with such mildly annoying philosophical thoughts, I settled down to stretched legs and bed trays for a month.

The homecoming after surgery was easy enough. Husband manfully pushed the wheelchair to my room, where I would shuffle around with a walker for weeks. Son strung up fairy lights, arranged flowers, and made the best cup of tea ever. Soon, I was well installed in my little universe—laptop, phone, book, and spectacles neatly within reach.

Husband and son adopted a routine of peeking in cheerleader-style a few times a day and otherwise left me in the kind, efficient charge of the woman who had long been my support system.

All the while, my daughter—a special needs adult—was watching. She had visited me in hospital, staring uncertainly at the unfamiliar sight of me in a gown with a bandaged foot and drips. Once we were home, she did not leave my side that first week. She was constantly at hand, ready to switch the fan, TV, and chargers on and off for the tenth time or to bring water, cushions, or anything else she thought I might need. She followed me carefully from room to dining table and back, carrying my essentials—phone, book, and spectacles—making me feel like royalty. 

The tables had turned. Our princess, who once flung open her bedroom door each morning and shouted, “Amma, come up!”—sending me scurrying—had herself become an Amma. She slept beside me, carefully folding herself into a corner to avoid my injured foot. She kept me company through the day, blaring Indian Idol songs but pausing them instantly when I took a call. She handed me my meds and asked about my next doctor visit. 

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when they realise, often to their surprise, that their child has grown up. For many mothers of daughters, it is marked by frocks turning into saris, rebellion mellowing into wisdom, and a daddy’s girl becoming the mother’s best friend.

For me, none of these had happened. My little girl had remained a little girl at thirty. But that bedridden month was a watershed. Through the fog and chaos of her special mind emerged an affectionate, capable person. And I felt certain that there would be a time when she could and would become a woman.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.