Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Mumbai’s Lotus Healing Center is a zen drop of oasis in the middle of a city, otherwise boiling over with activity.
The walls of the long modular structure are painted canary yellow, as if resolutely determined to stay chirpy even if the sky above wants to be dour.
The color casts a warm kind of glow on everyone who walks through the facility.
I’ve come to visit Dad, but first the clinical psychologist handling his care wants to meet with me alone.
I sit across Dr. Preet Mangat in a light wood-paneled room fitted with rugs depicting a hazy day marked by widely sprouted tropical leafs.
The high-ceiling office has a fan whirring pleasantly above us.
It jostles the gently frizzled gray hair of Dr. Mangat, but not enough for her braided plait to be at risk of being undone.
A sindoor in the middle of her part tells me she is a married woman of Hindu faith.
We’ve already moved past greetings, and now she is telling me what is going to happen next in my dad’s treatment plan.
“He’s ready to be moved from inpatient to outpatient care.”
“Alright…” I say, not knowing what that means.
“This part of the journey outside the center is the first step towards transitioning back to regular life. I want to be honest and share there is a chance of relapse, but if it happens, we’ll be ready for it.
Your father, Gianjot Singh, has been equipped with strategies to help him continue on the path to recovery.
In the outpatient facility, we hope he’ll rediscover past hobbies and pleasant pastimes.
We encourage him to form bonds with the community. ”
“That sounds good.”
She smiles kindly. “It is also cheaper. I recognize you have been helping fund your father’s treatment, so this next step should help alleviate some of that stress.”
I can only think about the savings I’ve been able to grow in my account, and how much longer they’ll be able to stretch for, giving me room to find another job.
Dr. Mangat collects a pamphlet from her desk and passes it to me. It has a list of services provided by the outpatient care written in bullet form.
“At this stage, the focus will shift from alcohol use disorder—that’s the term we prefer—to other important underlying issues, such as low self-esteem, trauma, feelings of guilt or shame, and relationship problems. In relation to that, part of the process of recovery is making amends. Are you open to participating in that?”
When I don’t answer immediately, she reassures, “There is no wrong answer, Rita. I know the damage having this disease can have on a family. You are entitled to your own boundaries and timeline. Please do not feel pressured.”
Easier said than done. To buy myself time, I ask, “What would that entail?”
“Sessions with me, starting weekly, maybe even less, depending on your schedule. Many of them will be with your father present, but a few will be just the two of us. It is our philosophy that healing is a holistic journey, and we like to work with not only the patient, but their support system, if possible.”
“Right.” I square off my shoulders as they are suddenly tight. “If it helps, I suppose I should do it.”
“He’s nervous about it, too, as I see you are. Have you spoken to anyone about it? Your experience? Your trauma?”
I shake my head no. “I’ve tried pushing past it.”
Yes, my repeating I’m Fine mantra at work. It’s been a signature reaction in every part of my life. And what I’m trying to do differently now…
“The meetings alone…” I ask. “How would it go?”
She gestures to the couch to our left, a more comfortable seat than the leather office chair I’m sitting on currently. “We could have a little mini-session right now to understand? Only if you want it.” Again, she reassures in a very calming tone, “There is no wrong answer here, Rita.”
“Since I’m already here—let’s try it.”
She waits until I’m situated on the couch and brings me over a glass of water. There are little fidget objects around me in case I need to occupy myself. I don’t pick any up, but sit straight, hands on my lap.
“This might be a big question, and don’t feel like you need to get into it completely, but how would you describe the relationship you have with your father currently?”
“I…don’t think we have one,” I say honestly, my cheeks heating. Saying a word against your parents to another adult feels disrespectful.
“That’s completely understandable,” says Dr. Mangat.
“Not to say, we’ve never had one. The past—that’s when I have the brightest memories of us together. Him helping me with my homework—and our food stalls.”
“Food stalls?”
“Every two weeks, he would save enough money and take me out to try a different food stall. I think… Well, I think, being able to try different dishes when I was younger is also what led me to knowing I wanted to be a chef.”
My chest constricts mentioning what I really want to do in this life. An ache echoes deep inside me. One I’ve been neglecting the existence of.
“It’s normal for your best memories to be of that time.
” Dr. Mangat sends me a reassuring smile.
“In the beginning of an alcohol use disorder, a person is often able to escape the ill effects of drinking. It’s only as their tolerance builds, do they need to drink more and more, and start presenting withdrawal symptoms between their binges. ”
“I remember. His fingers got a noticeable tremor. He started keeping his hands in his pockets more and more. Looking back, already with his leg hurting from work and how I was always asking about that, I know he didn’t want me to worry about his hands, too.”
“I bet.” Her brown eyes evaluate how I’ve picked up one of those fidget spinners. “Do you want to stop, Rita? We don’t have to go any further than this.”
“No. I’m okay.” The words have already risen from an alcove deep down I’ve kept locked.
I want to get them out. “There was this one night I caught him throwing up in our bathroom. Violently. That’s the first time I said the words.
Told him he has a drinking problem. Not in a nice way.
I’d seen him drink before and been disappointed by it, but this night was the first time, suddenly, I hated him for acting this way. For worrying me.”
“And how did he react to that?”
“He denied it, obviously. Blamed it on bad alcohol. Said it was fine. Not to worry.”
I laugh because the alternative is to be miserable, and despite promising to keep myself emotionally honest, I want a break from that.
Dr. Mangat nods. “It’s normal to be mad. It’s normal to even hate a father who put you in that position.”
I stand up and walk around the office a bit, still talking. “Most of it was heartbreaking, actually. Watching him kill himself slowly and not being able to stop it. And then there’s the guilt.”
“What do you mean?”
I stop and stare at a painting on the wall she has.
It’s two empty white lawn chairs parked in the sand somewhere looking out onto a glorious sunset.
I wish I could close my eyes and transport myself there, but I can’t.
I’m here bringing up what I thought I’d buried.
The guilt I told her about. It’s enlivened as if fed by memories.
“He didn’t yell or hit me,” I say in a carefully neutral voice.
“He didn’t really get sick over drinking either for the longest time, and it seemed to make him happier.
So I never said anything. And after that initial time, I said nothing as it got worse and worse because I didn’t think it was more of a problem than anything else.
Men drink. Punjabi men drink. People in my college drank.
I drink myself. Even when he got irritated when Uncle forgot to buy him more alcohol, I didn’t say much.
I tried to make jokes, to keep our house happy, to watch the same movies together we used to when I was younger.
He drank openly, we laughed, and then I put him to bed. ”
“You think you should have said more in the beginning, earlier, so it wouldn’t have gotten to where it is today.” Dr. Mangat’s analysis is brilliantly accurate. I clutch at my stomach, half-hugging myself.
She continues, allowing me the privacy of keeping my back to her.
“You were a child. He was the adult. He was not, and still is not, yours to parent. I would like you to hear this, Rita. There is nothing you can do until they decide to quit, and often the addiction doesn’t let them.
Even now, any relapses are not on you. If you are having trouble believing that, it’s okay.
If you are willing, I can help you set achievable goals.
That way, you can spend time with your father without feeling personally responsible for his success.
Or you can decide what is healthier for you is distance.
You can choose not to be around him. It’s okay not to trust him.
It’s okay to have your guardrails in place.
His treatment is his responsibility, not yours. ”
“It’s not my responsibility,” I repeat, tasting release in those words. “It’s not my fault. It’s not my responsibility.” I suck in a weak breath. “I’ve struggled to pay for this.”
“That was my worry. We have a financial counselor on site that I will set you up with. We want your father here, but not at a financial or emotional cost you can’t afford.
There’s actually been new funding given to us by the government.
I believe your situation is a great one to qualify for this subsidy. ”
Walking back, I sink into the couch kitchen, unable to stand steadily any longer.
“As a child of Punjabi parents,” says Dr. Mangat, “I know it can feel like you owe them. That your life sacrificed is the return payment for everything they’ve sacrificed for you.
Your dad supported you driving a bus after your mother passed away, and he was a good dad for doing that.
It also doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to put energy and time into finding your own happiness. ”
“The subsidy—thank you. Thank you.” I’m gripping the arm rest.
Dr. Mangat looks at her watch. “I hate to stop here, but I believe that ends our first impromptu session. I hope it was helpful to you. Technically, it’s time for you to meet your dad, but only if you still wish to do that.
No one chooses to become an alcoholic, but you are allowed to have complicated feelings about him, so again, there is no wrong answer here, Rita. ”
“I am,” I say. “Ready, that is. I would like to say hi, at the very least.”
“Alright. Let’s go see him in the courtyard.”
It’s a short walk outside. You can tell a sizable piece of their funding is spent on the courtyard, and for good reason.
The air is perfumed by so many flowers that it tastes sweet and somehow devoid of the heaviness of any city smells, reminding me of an idyllic garden in the middle of some lost mountains.
Residents of the rehab park themselves on cozy, cushioned chairs that recline in various degrees with the push of a handle.
Some sit out here under the sun, bathing in relaxation, and some have joined a class of Hatha yoga.
Dr. Mangat leads me to a man partially lounging in the shade.
Gianjot Singh is in his late fifties, but, to my fresh eyes, he looks impossibly old and thin, shrank smaller by the length of his unpinned beard.
Sitting in his chair with his eyes closed, his eyelashes magnify under the thick lenses of his spectacles.
Despite the heat, a light blanket delicately wraps around his body.
His hands are folded very properly in his lap, as if he is waiting for something to happen. Or for someone to come.
Coming to a distanced stop in front of him, I am suddenly overwhelmed.
I haven’t had a proper relationship with Dad in a really long time.
He’s been a shadow of himself, and to survive that transformation, I’ve numbed myself to it.
There is a realization inside myself, right now under the sun, that all the hardship and determination I’ve put into his rehab isn’t as self-sacrificing as it looks.
I think…I think I was so determined to pay for it as a way to mitigate my absence from his life.
Back then, the formula felt simple. Give money, be a good daughter, and you don’t have to deal with how you don’t actually speak to your father.
His eyes open and catch sight of me. He tries to stand, but Dr. Mangat hurries over and tells him to stay relaxed. She pulls up another chair for me to sit on and signals her colleague to bring us over some tea.
For a while, nothing is said. I don’t know how to start.
My dad’s eyes are shining as if damp, and he is sniffling and clearing his throat.
“How are you doing?” a tiny voice of mine ventures out.
“Thank you for seeing me, puth. There is so much I’m sorry for.”
I brace myself, feeling my legs lock up.
Dr. Mangat softly clucks her tongue. “How about today, we enjoy a nice cup of chai together? And, Gianjot, you can tell Rita how much you love yoga.”
“What are you saying? I hate this yoga. It isn’t natural to bend over into these shapes.
” His voice sounds thin and hesitant, but is pleasing to my ear like an unused door opening after sitting in dust for so long.
“Puth, don’t get me started on the clothes this doctor is trying to get me to wear doing this exercise. ”
I bring my chair closer to him. “Are you saying it’s not helping at all?”
“Well, a bit,” he concedes. “My hips are moving better.”
Dr. Mangat laughs. “You’ve made marvelous improvement. How about you tell Rita what kinds of moves you’ve been able to do? We’ll go from there, bit by bit, and share as much as everyone is able to.”
For the first time today, I properly exhale. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“Yes, I agree.” Dad wipes his eyes a few times with his handkerchief, and I catch him staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking. As if he can’t believe I’m there.
I can’t either, but I’m glad I am.
It’s a start.