We’re Slowly Making Progress But There’s a Problem by P.S. Joshi

`I’m sorry it’s taken so long to write this blog.  Our son was using the computer a lot typing up this and that, typing, scanning and printing.  He was trying to pull together important papers necessary for the possession of the flat, etc.  He’s hired a local lawyer and a new Will is being drawn up as Ajay can’t remember what he did with the original of the old one.  Our son insisted I start applying for a PIO card (Person of Indian Origin).  I’m American but it seems I can get one of those cards since Ajay is an Indian citizen and I’m married to him.  I don’t quite understand it but our son said that if I ever had to sell the flat, I’d need to have the card.  Our daughter, a U.S. citizen since birth, has one and our son, also born in the U.S., is applying for one.

 Perhaps I shouldn’t worry about what might happen when I become a widow because our son and the caregiver we hired, Prakash, took Ajay to the hospital for tests and results came back that, other than a urinary tract infection, my husband was judged by the doctor to be the healthiest 83-year-old he’d ever seen.  He has some mental problem being bi-polar, but otherwise might outlive me. I’ve suspected that for some time.  He’ll likely be one of those very elderly old men inching along the street to the park and back.  One old fellow used to ride a bicycle.  It seems though there are worse problems than old age to be faced.

 Several years ago my husband made the acquaintance of a greying, middle-aged, mentally-disturbed woman.  He had met her family, probably felt sorry for her and brought her here once.  She didn’t seem threatening, but I had a feeling that there was some problem.  I didn’t even realize at the time it was mental, but told him not to bring her here to our home if he met her again. Naturally he didn’t listen.  He seems to be a kind of human magnet for what our daughter calls “Birds with broken wings.”  This woman came the other day all of a sudden and I couldn’t get her to leave and go home.  Our son came in and asked her, as he was leaving to go somewhere, if she wanted to leave at the same time.  It was now dark and he thought he’d walk a short distance with her. She left with him but soon returned mumbling about leaving something.  I gave her a few minutes and then told her she “had” to leave “now” as it was getting late and already dark.  She began to stall, starting to stick foam ornaments on the wall for decoration.   My patience gave out and I started to count to ten.  She began to tear open the ornament bags with her teeth and frantically smack each ornament onto the wall surface.  “Get out!” I shouted.

 Then I told her I’d call the police if she didn’t leave.  She said, “Go ahead and call the police!”  I rang up the police emergency number but no one answered.  Neither Prakash nor I wanted to push her;  she finally walked out the door on her own and we practically shut it in her face.

  Parkash said, “My head is aching.”  I hoped it was over.  Ajay’s cousin had told us on a visit the next afternoon to always keep the outside metal guard door bolted.  I’m glad we did.

 Next evening the doorbell rang.  Prakash opened the inner door and I heard her voice.  I told him “Shut the door!”   She went wild, repeatedly ringing and ringing the doorbell, banging and shouting.  I told her to “Shut up!”  She shouted back at me, “You shut up!” You hear of “raving mad” and now I knew what it meant.

 Finally Ajay shouted from the couch for her to go home.  They started to speak loud in loud Hindi.  Ajay finally got up and walked to the door and told her again to “Go home!”  She shouted some more but eventually did leave.  I told him that if she came again I’d call the police again.

 There was hope that it would end, but fear that it wouldn’t.  Today she called again and I told her to neither call nor come again.  She asked a few questions then hung up.  Perhaps the phone company will block her number for me so she can’t call here anymore.  The phone near where Ajay is resting has been unplugged.    There’s the scary feeling we’re being stalked.

 

 

 

 

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