journal d'une transition

1410

Our approaches were divergent. We here placed our trust first in the Mother’s Grace, then in doctors, medical science, proper care, and genuine attention. Madho had no experience of the Mother’s Grace and was intent on showing what a devoted son ought to do and could do for his mother, for whom the very best was due, even if that meant taking her away by helicopter… We diverged in another deep way as well: in our experience, the priority was not in wanting one to live; it was on uniting to and surrendering to the movement of the soul and the Divine’s fiat, whatever it may be, in peace and harmony. In Madho’s experience it was indispensable to deploy all the means needed to “save” his mother, to keep her alive, to make her continue to live. We would also strive to get all the means at the disposal of healing, but not at the cost of peace and clarity and inner protection. In those days of waiting, both Arjun and I took care of Madho, in our respective ways; he would be extremely emotional, and would turn to me for comfort and encouragement. Two days later, the nursing staff decided to shift Kusum to a single room; this was too early; she at once felt very poorly, and complained to us that she wanted to leave her body. For me there was one overriding sense of necessity: that she should not be swallowed by this experience; that she should not be pulled by this medicalised world; even if the time had come for her to leave, it should happen in peace and in surroundings permeated with Her presence – not in Cluny Hospital, and certainly not away from Pondichéry. That day, we were all there in the evening, to see her or be near her; I was struck by the expression on Kamala’s face, when she said to me she did not find Kusum in a good condition: it was as if we were overtaken, trapped, overwhelmed, cheated – as if Kusum had been grabbed, seized; I went in to see her, and Madhu came with me, and we were alone with her; she kept saying “margaya, margaya… ”, meaning, that’s enough, let it be over with, that’s enough of this life… And Madhu could not bear it; and neither could I. I talked to her strongly; I said that no matter what was the inner choice or decision, to leave or to recover, it had to take place in the Mother’s arms, in a truer atmosphere, and she must somehow get herself healed enough so we could leave this place. She listened, and she understood what I meant, and she agreed, and she became quiet. Madhu too was a little relieved. That day, I was so uptight that I had a small accident on my way back: I had to veer off the road crossing the village as a bus had suddenly swerved, and I fell off the bike and the bike fell on my foot; there was only a small wound, but I was shaken out of this helpless upset and had to regain some balance. The staff took her back up to the isolation ward. She was examined again. The diagnosis was bad: a septicaemia had taken hold. Oddly the surgeon had not left a drain in her abdomen; we had questions, and some doubts regarding the chief surgeon; Madhu was very worried, almost frantically so. But Kusum fought the infection. She remained conscious and calm and kept her sense of humour. The nurses were impressed with her. After a couple of days, on our nagging insistence, she was fed especially nutritious fluids; and the chief surgeon, along with Vijay, agreed that a drain had to be inserted and a small operation was scheduled for that evening. They did it, and were satisfied. Kusum felt a little improvement. Madhu’s son, Akshay, whom I had never met before, had also come by now, from Ahmedabad. A couple of days later I realised, too late, that they had plotted to have Kusum removed from this hospital and transported all the way across the country to a