My dad and I

So this is how it usually works, every time—like clockwork. I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this ruckus, because every time I’ve told myself that this was the last time that I was going to be dragged into one of these—I’m dragged into one of these again. And it pisses me off that I can’t do anything about it—that it was so easy for him to push my buttons that I’d have no control over my objectivity. On the other hand, in all fairness—my dad’s just being my dad I guess, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing, or the effect it’s having on me, and others. Why don’t I start at the beginning: I’d just started getting out of my latest depressive stint, I’m bipolar, so whenever there’s a change in mood that I’m not able to deal with—I usually end up going under, and man it hurts. I usually spend the whole day in bed, and sleep for the entire night (that’s like 12, 13 hours) and only come out of my hibernating cell when everyone’s asleep, and I’m the only one left at home who’s awake. And what do I do… nothing… absolutely nothing. Usually just think about what had gotten me immersed into the state that I’d be in right now. And beg my mother to kill me; just add some chemicals/poison to the food that she’d have to serve me, so that I wouldn’t even know what was happening, and I would go, quickly. It would usually end up happening like this, and this is the state that I was in right now, until the beginning of last month. I’d started to go under around the last ten days of the month before (august), and had started coming out of it during the first ten days of the month after (september). So that’s like a 2,3 week window which I’ve reduced this thing down to (it was worse when I’d first gotten diagnosed—much worse… the depressive states used to stay for months, and I’d have maybe a couple of days of my manic phases, which have now equalized after the medication I’ve been on for a couple of years now ((but it’s tricky to stay on those, too, and not be so discouraged at times that you stop taking them, and things only start to fall apart))). Ever since I’ve started getting out of this, this thing that shrouds over me, I suddenly become a totally different person. You wouldn’t be able to believe that I was the same guy who you’d met (if you had) a couple of days ago. Even I can’t believe the change sometimes, it’s that startling. And it’s during one of these changes that what I’m about to tell you, happened. It was today that my father and I had decided that we’d do a couple of things that we’d planned to for a couple of days, but couldn’t. There’s a workers strike type thing going on here, in my state, and so it’s been more than two weeks since we’d booked our gas cylinder and it hadn’t been delivered. It’s not like we didn’t have a spare—but just in case, my dad didn’t want the delivery guy to come to our house, find it empty, and then have to go back without having delivered the cylinder. So we didn’t go out during the time he’d usually make his rounds, between 11 and 5, and just the day before, while my father had stepped out to say his prayers, and I was at home—the guy showed up with the can, and took the money and left. So now that the gas was taken care of, we decided to do the other things on the list and scratch them off too.

First of which, was going to the atm and taking out our quota of cash for the month. My mom’s gone to the states to visit my two sisters, so it’s just my dad and me for the time being. I’d gotten up early that morning (actually, I’d hardly slept at all, in fact). Something else that I’ve got a gripe about… whenever I’m in my High phase—I can hardly sleep, maybe 3 to 4 hours, tops, intermittently—a couple of minutes at a time—or an hour at most. So that’s like 4 hours out of a total of 24, which gives me a whole 20 hours to deal with everything else that I’ve got on my plate, and man—do I have a lot when I’m like this. When I’d be low, it’d be just the opposite; I’d be low all the time, and awake for maybe 4 hours. But now, I’d just feel free-er. And the 4 hours of sleep that I’d get, would come to me in stages, like 5 hours apart, for an hour exact (if that long). On the dot. Except now, after my mother’s badgering me from Baltimore—I’d succumbed and said I’d try harder to get more sleep. Even then, she’d asked me to stay in bed if I didn’t feel sleepy—I’d spend like an hour or two just lying there staring at the ceiling, or listening to my mp3, and the minute I’d close my eyes—I’d be awakened again, and it would feel like I’d been asleep for the longest time, when in actuality—only 15 minutes had passed. I had substituted my 1 hour sound, 1/6th of a day’s sleep, with these spurts of slumber. Mom was still pretty insistent that I’d take the medication that they’d given to me after the accident I had gotten into like 3 years earlier (to the day, actually), but I still remember them as being way to cumbersome for my tastes. They were these tiny little pills, shit—the tiniest in the arsenal of pills I’d have to take those days—but boy, did they pack a wallop of a punch. I mean, I’d have to take one small circle, and then sit down for my dinner, and about a half an hour later—when it was time for me to get up, and wash my hands—and walk back to my bed—you were lucky if I didn’t tip over and fall down somewhere. So no, I told her I didn’t want to be taking that medication, which would put me out for like a half a day at a stretch. It’d be like me going back into my depression again. So then she asked me to break it into half and take it, which we had tried the last time, but the doctor had asked us not to since it was only decreasing the potency of the pills. (I think I had woken up at 3 this morning, and it’s almost 12 am… another 3 more hours and I would’ve been up the entire day, again, except for that nap I took in the afternoon for about an hour, hour and a half.) So when I’d come downstairs to ask my dad if we’d go now, it was 7am in the morning and I had nothing else to do except lie in bed, he said it was too early and that we’d go in another hour or so. Yeah, I guess I was kind of pushing it, so went up stairs and decided to sit on the computer for awhile and send some mails that I had to. An hour or two passed, and I went downstairs and got my dad. We drove off to the machine, which is like a 2 minute drive from our place, and parked the car and got out. Thankfully, there wasn’t much of a rush—three guys and three machines. So I stood behind the man standing in front of one of the machines which was working (there was another one with an “out of service” placard hanging over it) and as soon as it’s my turn to withdraw the cash (ever since I had this accident that I keep on talking about—I was involved in a hit and run about 3 years back, which broke my left leg and kneecap, and punctured my skull, not to mention giving me a slight brain clot—I’m still struggling to put my life back to the way it was, and do the things I’d always do, one of which was going to the atm) my dad comes up behind me and starts pointing at what I’m supposed to do, and how much money I’m supposed to take out, which really irks me, so I raise my hand without looking at him and tell him—yes, yes, yes, I know, I know. And by the time we get the cash and the receipt and the card, I wonder why I had done what I’d just done? (Okay, now I recall—before we leave—my dad tells me some additional things that we have to do, which sort of puts a crimp in my plans—and that only makes me a little more testy for the day.)

Although, just now—I’d behaved exactly the same way that I’d always criticized my dad for behaving with me—I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to extricate myself from this mess. (I’d scratch my father’s back whenever he’d ask me to, before it used to be his feet that I’d used to press and scratch, but ever since the accident he’d stopped me from doing those. But lately, ever since he’s started these new meds that he’s on (he has a problem with his thyroid), he needs someone to scratch his back properly, as he can’t reach it obviously, but it’s the way he’ll ask you to scratch it, or rather—the way he’ll show you where he wants it to be scratched next that I hate… he’ll lift his arm, put it on the side where he wants you to rub it—and then tap it—dhub, dhub, dhub, a couple of times. I mean it’s okay the first couple of times, but after about the hundredth time you start to get irritated, and it just feels like (I don’t know) insulting in a way, that you’re not even worth acknowledging, that I’m now starting to wonder if the whole atm business wasn’t a direct result of this. Just giving him a taste of his own medicine, I guess, which is kind of harsh if you’re living in a country like India, where your parents are to be worshipped like gods. But it’s kind of difficult when you’ve been raised on western culture so much, which idolizes individuality over everything else, and demands that you stand up against conformity of any kind. We come back home after taking out the cash, and I tell my dad that I’d have my breakfast and we’d go to the pharmacy to pay the guy what we owed him from last week and get the new medicine that he wanted, hearing which—my father repeats his reminder to me earlier, that we also had to go to the garage and have the car looked at (its fuel gauge wasn’t working and we had no idea how much of petrol was left in the car) which kind of put another spanner in the works, like I’d said, because I hadn’t taken a bath yet, and my hair was getting a bit frizzy, and even though I’d wanted to go to the atm at 7 (which would’ve given me enough time to come back, take my bath, get ready, and then head on over to the medical shop guy, and then, as I had now found out—the garage). But dad hadn’t bothered to tell me anything, as he always never does—he just tells you something at the last minute—and expects you to follow it. The last dictator, my dad. So I decide to take my bath and get dressed, and by the time I’m finished it’s 10, and I think since we are going at this time—I might as well have my breakfast there too, so I tell my dad about my plan, and he says fine. But he tells me not to wait now for another half an hour until the medical shop guy opens (by 10:30) we’d just take care of him while returning, so I say fine, and we take the car out, and soon we’re off. The mechanic is a little further than the atm or the pharmacy, and I knew we’d have to spend some time there with a lot of people, so I didn’t want to look like a derelict. The place was just being opened up as we got there, and within another half an hour I had parked the car inside, first in line. My dad gave me the money to get my breakfast, and there was a pretty decent place next door where I got the food from. As I’m returning, one of the workers in the workshop tells me that the car needs to be taken to one of their showrooms where it can be checked to find out what the problem exactly is. He tells me that my father had tried to find my number to call me and tell me, but he couldn’t, and so had walked out to see where in the area I was in. I’d told my father before taking the cash from him if he’d thought me going for my breakfast now would be such a good idea, since it was only now that the staff was showing up for work, but he said no—it’d be okay.

When I’d reached the garage, and the man there had told me that I’d have to follow him to a certain place—I said fine, and while we were taking our cars out (I don’t know if you’ve ever been to India, but it’s pretty crowded—and the roads can get really congested at times), the guy saw dad coming and motioned to me, and I signaled to dad that I was going with him, and dad had his same old demeanor again: frustrated with me as if I had done something wrong, even though I’d aired my apprehension, but had just been shrugged off as usual… this is the point where I usually start to go over the edge, but thankfully—was able to hold it together. Besides, I didn’t have time to react—I was too busy driving—racing after the guy trying not to lose him, and it was nice for me to try and stay as close to him as I could, cos the place was a bit far off, and crowded of course, but I enjoyed the ride. After reaching the destination, the guy who I’d followed told me that the electrician who had just come out and met me would tell me what the problem with the car was, and I said fine. I then asked him whether he was leaving and he said yeah, so I just confirmed that it was a turn or two here, and then a straight road all the way back, until you had to make a couple of more turns to the garage, and he said yeah, so I said fine. Thanked the guy and then waited for the electrician to show up again and take a look at the car. Maqbool showed up 10 to 15 minutes later, and he got straight to work. He knew the guy who owns the garage to whom we had taken the car to… after removing the seat and taking out some of the electrical wiring, he asked me to check if I could notice the fuel dial going up or down, I could, so he explained to me how it was the problem with this thing called a flute, that’s in the petrol tank, and the tank would have to be emptied first, and then the flute replaced. I asked him if there was any way if the gauge could work without it, and he said no, so I said fine—I’d go and meet Yusuf at the garage and tell him what you’d just told me. He said sure, and he said he’d call him right now and tell him as well. Thanking the guy, I was on my way back, and it was a pretty straight forward ride. By the time I came back and told Mr. Yusuf the assessment given to me by Maqbool, he gave me a rather pensive look. He asked me if I’d had any food, or needed to, and if my dad was comfortable sitting there, because this was going to take a while, at least 2 hours. I told my dad what he was telling me, and since my dad needs to take some food every couple of hours so that his stomach isn’t empty—I told him I thought it would be best if we left now and came back tomorrow. But after going back and forth, my father and I agreed that we’d come back there again in the evening, around 4, and give the car to him then, and he said, sure—that would be fine. So we left and headed for the medical shop now.

The pharmacy was on our way back home, and it took us a couple of minutes to pay Dinesh for the medicine which we had ordered last month, and take the new ones that my dad had to take. He had overcharged us last time, and since we were paying that bill today—I’d brought along the strips that we’d gotten and showed them to him. And after going over the calculations again, he said yes—there had been a mistake. I joked and said—hey, my dad’s a fair guy—he doesn’t take anything extra from anyone, nor does he want anything extra to be taken from him. Dinesh smiled and said it was because of a discrepancy in the rates of the new stock of medicines that had come in last month that he didn’t realize that we’d gotten billed extra… so we picked up all the medicine, and I paid him, and we left. We reached home, dad went out for his prayers, and I thought I’d take a nap on the couch and was soon out. My dad woke me up at 4, and told me to give the mechanic a call, and I said fine—but no one was lifting. So I told my dad since he’d asked us to be there by 4 today, I’d go and get changed and we’d leave. So I went upstairs, said my prayers, locked everything up and shut the doors behind us. I had given Yusuf another call before leaving, and still no reply. However, by the time we reached his place, he was standing right there—busy with a couple of other customers… so my dad and I decided to wait for awhile until he wasn’t so busy and decided to take our seats. I asked my dad if I could go and smoke my hookah (we were talking about the men in our family and their addiction to nicotine, and how my great grandfather used to smoke a hookah, and how my father would always joke that I’d be going out to smoke my cigarettes whenever I wanted to go and drink a bottle of coke, that I’d rather it be assumed that I was going out to smoke my hookah from now on). After coming back I went and stood with the guys taking out the petrol tank, and it was almost empty—so it was a good thing we’d brought the car in today. One of the guys took out the flute, and then showed me the filter and how the oil coming out of it was almost black. Mr. Yusuf then called me and told me that we’d be going round the corner to get the stuff that needed to be replaced, and I said sure but how much of cash do you think we’d need? He said 500 would be enough, so I told dad that I was going with him to the market next door and getting some stuff for the car. Dad gave me the money and we both left. Most of the shops in the area are of one or the other automotive types, so there are a whole slew of places to buy from, and Mr. Yusuf has been in that area for more than 25 years now, so the people know him pretty well. He also happens to be the elder brother of this very good friend of my fathers, so it’s easy to trust him.

He sees a store that he likes and steps inside, and I follow him. We’re both seated inside while he chitchats with one of the guys, waiting for the elder brother who’s the owner of the shop to return from his prayers. He then tells him what he wants, and he asks one of his spot boys to get it for him, and makes sure that what he’s giving us is the exact size and measurement as what we’d brought. He tells Yusuf how much the amount’s coming out to and I pay the man. We then leave. On our arrival back at the garage I go and tell dad that we’d got the stuff, and that he charged us 50 for the filter, and 270 for the flute, and here was the 180 remaining. And what’s the first thing coming out of my dad’s mouth after I’d almost lost all capability of communicating with the outside world (the accident had put me in a coma for ten days, and then when I was out of that—I wasn’t able to talk, and then when I was I’d talk with a lisp or slurred speech and words would just escape me sometime): but my dad, all he was concerned about was “didn’t you ask for the bill?” with a stern look on his face. No, not good work son, you’ve been going up and down the whole day and you’re handling yourself pretty well—keep it up. No, that would be too much of a compliment for my dad to give to someone. So, what do I do… I have to let this steam out somehow, and I always let it out on my mom, but she’s not here these days, so I make a call to Baltimore. My sister’s got this magic jack attached to her phone line, so she’s asked me to give her a missed call whenever I want to talk and they’d call back, which I do… and a couple of minutes later mom calls up, and I unload everything on her. “Do you know why I get depressed, have you ever asked yourself why I do?? Do you think that dad behaving in this way would have something to do with it??” And then go on and on and on about my relationship with my father (or lack thereof) and how she and I are in the same boat sometimes, and she encourages me to be strong and not go into my depression again, and I tell her it’s the last thing on my mind right now. By the time I finish my call, the works all done, and yusuf asks me to fill petrol in the tank as soon as I’d pass a pump, and bills me a 100 bucks for the work that he’s done, which is more than reasonable. You go to some place nowadays and they’ll tell you ten things that aren’t wrong with the car, including the one that is, so it’s always better to go to someone you know. We stopped at a gas station on the way home, and my god—was it full. There are strikes that have been going on for the past couple of days here, so finally when a new shipment of fuel does arrive, everyone makes a beeline for the pump. It took us a couple of minutes standing in line before we reached the front and asked the attendant to fill an amount for 500 bucks… 3 hours after we’d left, we arrived back home. I told my dad that since we’d have to pick up mom from the airport next week, I’d go to the station tomorrow and get another 500 worth of fuel filled, and he started to explain to me how we shouldn’t, and that he wanted to wait till the 11th when mom was expected, to go and get the gas pumped, but I told him what would he do if there was another strike soon and we couldn’t get more petrol in the car until then (because it was quite low even now, and the airport is a good 3 quarter of an hours’ drive away from the city, on the outskirts) so he said he’d wait until the pumps were open and get it filled then. And I said, what if they aren’t open even then, and he looked at me and he said—well, then I’ll just walk it up—and I smiled, and said—sure dad, be my guest, and went upstairs to my room. By the time I’d changed my clothes and said my prayers, my mom had called up again and while we were talking I heard my father leaving and I wondered where he was off to, since his scooter was still parked there when Ichecked. A couple of minutes later, I heard the door opening, and then something being cooked on the stove, and I knew it had to be chicken since it’s the only thing my dad’s mastered since moms left (to clean it and cut it up into tiny bits, and put in a frying pan with oil and fry. And even though I know we have these miscommunications with each other, often, I know that it’s not something that he can control… that he is, and always will be the man that he’s gotten used to being and it’s just me who’s going to have to make the adjustment, for better or worse.