In the lingering hours of twilight...

"About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age."
_Gloria Pitzer_

Monday mornings kind of became more hectic once I began to babysit two 88-year-old silver-streakers in my neighborhood. Even though it was just an hour job, from 11a.m. to 12p.m., it consumed the whole morning. For, it entailed not only preparing coffee and  breakfast for our family of three and getting myself ready, but also coaxing my eleven-year-old home-schooler son to accompany me. I thought it would be a good way to expose him to the notion of community service.

In my quest for sharing some quality time with the ladies, I took along some magazines from my collection of Birds and Bloom, Reminisce, National Geographic and Smithsonian. I learnt on-the-job that reading aloud articles, while pausing at intervals to discuss and reflect on what had been read,  filled up the hour faster in an interactive way. And it also helped Marcia, who suffered from dementia, out of the same rigmorale in which she tended to fall into, and suck us in as well. Even though she loved making conversation, her ever shrinking repertoire of phrases, coherent sentences and Shakespeare’s poetry couldn’t get anyone of us anywhere.

“My mother was a concert pianist,” she would start, continuing, “then, the Depression came, so we had to tend to the horses ourselves. We were little, but, we did it.” And, “My first husband was killed in action. He was the first one in Belmar to be killed. And the next day, the war broke out. It was terrible…” Every time she narrated this incident, her face welled up with sorrow, which neither age, nor dementia had been able to erase.

Mentally not together, Marcia had however retained her physical fitness. She walked a couple of miles every day. A devout Catholic, she savored the name of the Lord and looked forward to Sunday masses. On the other hand, every day was a Sunday for her, which left her wondering why no one was taking her to the mass.

Lillian was frail and needed the support of a walker to sit, get up and walk around. She often had little control over her bladder movement. Moreover, getting up and hauling herself to the bathroom required stupendous effort. Lillian’s daughter was a Buddhist and well-travelled, and some of her influence had rubbed onto Lillian as well. She enjoyed when I talked about my childhood in India. Marcia, however, seemed curious about how I felt when I arrived to this land of great and free. Did I even understand the language, she wondered. She could never quite comprehend how most people in India were multilingual. “I only know English,” she would say, almost as a confession, looking sadly apologetic.

By and by, as one Monday heaped onto another, the range of topics we covered, widened. I tried to find books/articles, based on what my own receptacles had picked up during our discussions. Knowing Lillian’s interest in Buddhism, I once brought an article on Bhutan, published in Smithsonian. On another occasion, I asked my son, who was then studying the Chinese Art and Culture, to prepare a presentation on the ancient Chinese gardens and the importance of yin and yang in their lay out. Yet another time, it was a book on camels that I had borrowed from the library, that we read together. Now, how exactly did we land on camels, I don’t recall. But, I think it was when Marcia, once again, had started sinking into her “We had horses, and…” soliloquy, that I felt compelled to draw her out of it. “My mom and my uncle used to ride camels through the fields,” I interrupted her in mid-sentence, almost rudely. “I love camels. They are really beautiful, with long eyelashes and dandy legs,” I added. I went on to tell them the story about the time I had bought Paul, my German brother-in-law, a stuffed camel, decorated in traditional Indian patterns, with tussles hanging from its neck. It was a souvenir for him to take back to Germany. He seemed to like it, until, candidly, I let him know that I had bought this particular animal because it so reminded me of him. Of course, I had meant it as a compliment. To my surprise, he was rather offended. Back then, I didn’t know that in the west, camels are regarded as ugly and ungainly animals . In a few days, my sister and Paul returned to Germany, and the camel stayed back – with me. To this day, it adorns the window ledge of our living room.

“Is a camel much like a horse,” Marcia's curiosity knew no bounds. 

I reminded her of three kings who came riding on camels when baby Jesus was born. That clicked. But, a few minutes later, she was on her questioning quest again, as she bombarded me with, “Are they dangerous? Do they bite? Do they eat people? What is their diet like? Can they run…like horses?” etc…etc..I thought it best to enlighten Marcia and enliven Lillian by bringing in some books on camels. So, a Monday later, there I was, with a whole collection of books from the children’s section, reading about these assiduous, hardy, smart ships of the desert. We learnt how they could shut both their nostrils in case of a desert storm. Their eyelashes are designed to keep the sand particles at bay. And what’s more, they can go without water for more than a week! After we had seen some great photographs and made ourselves a bit more acquainted with this amazing humped animal, we all looked gratified and awestruck. “I’ll never think of camels the same way again,” said a revivified Lillian.

“We had horses, and…,” began Marcia.