Touch

My father was never a touchy-feely kind of a guy. Apparently, he got this trait from his father who frowned upon any expressions of love, either verbal or physical. My paternal grandmother too is very much hands-off. She expressed her love through food, like most textbook grandmothers, cooking incessantly when she was able to and now that she can no longer leave her bed, incessantly asking people about whether they have eaten or not. Any craving for touch would make one a target for gentle mockery on my father's side of the family: "Ayyo, kozhandaikku conjanuma!" ("Oh the baby needs coddling!") my aunts would exclaim.

I recall my father carrying me around on his shoulders till I was almost 7, after which, one fine day he decided he had carried me enough and made me walk everywhere. I still remember the tantrums I threw at that time of forced transition from babyhood.

After this, any touches were either accidental, or very much with a single purpose, such as holding my upper hand to guide me through traffic, or giving me a leg up when I needed to climb a wall to retrieve a shuttlecock. In my early teens, I rebelled against this enforced no-touch policy of my father's and would find ways to hold his hand or plonk my head on his lap while we watched TV and so on. I would hold my breath and only release it if it seemed like he would allow this temporary aberration, always knowing that he would free himself in a few minutes.

As I grew into my late teens and early twenties, I grew closer to my mother. She fulfilled my need for casual touches and caresses. Many times, I used her as a mediator to communicate with my father. It wasn't until I left for the US that I realized my father and I had many things in common, not least the preference to communicate by email rather than by phone or face to face. When I type 'Sreedhar' in my Gmail inbox now, I get tens of thousands of hits over the past two decades. My dad sending me recipes, advice, scoldings, wry observations on life, and pictures- dozens and dozens of pictures of his life. By the time I returned to India, Appa and I had reached a steady state. We would communicate by email, in case anything important had to be said. He immersed himself into the lives of my kids. He played, fought, and laughed with his grand kids every day- the no touch policy didn't apply to them.

During my father's last days, he craved touch. As he gasped for breath, straining to expand his solidified lungs, nothing gave him more comfort than having someone rub his back. As his mouth filled with ulcers from the cancer treatment and oral thrush raged in his throat, he found it immensely soothing to have someone gently move their hand up and down his throat as he coughed and coughed and tried to swallow.

When we decided to move him back from the ICU to the ward so that we could spend his last hours with him, my mother and I had one single thought in our minds: that we needed to touch him, as much for our sakes as for his, so that he would know he was not alone. We wanted to hold his hand, help him with his food, put an arm around him when he coughed, wipe his chin after he had hastily gulped down food before his oxygen saturation dropped.

If there is one regret I have with the way he died, it is this: I was not holding his hand when he breathed his last. He had fallen asleep (or what seemed to be sleep) and I didn't pick up his hand again. And by the time I realized that he wasn't breathing, it was too late. I think this must be a regret for my mother too- that she spent the entire previous night and the next day morning and afternoon with him. And about an hour after I took over from her, he died. "If only I had spent just an hour more with him" is what she expressed to me after she hurried back to the hospital.

What have I learned from this? I'll never stop touching my kids, husband, mother, anybody important to me: caresses, hugs, kisses, massages- they will get it all.
I'll never again discount the power of touch - touch is as essential as life in newborn babies, toddlers and even adults. And the weaker you are, whether by age or by sickness, the more important touch is.