I am lying down on a small 5x1 ft black couch in a hospital cabin. I have made a pillow out of a blanket and placed it in a position from where I can see my Bajai. I need to stay alert all night so that I know when she needs something.

As of now, I’ve been running back and forth trying to pile her six pillows in the best position possible so that she can sleep. This has been going on for three hours, we started at eight, it is 11 now. We haven’t been able to figure it out. It’s like a puzzle and this feels like a test of patience.

I won’t lie; I have realized I am not a very patient human being. I am losing it every now and then. But then again it’s Bajai, she needs me.

I remind myself that this is important. Important because, I’m sure I have tried her patience a gazillion times when I was just an infant or a toddler—it’s payback time. Important because, this right here feels more human than I have felt in a long time—I don’t remember the last time I spent so much time with flesh and bones that’s not my own. This is also important because, it feels like I have forgotten how to just be there for someone. “Hospital is a school where you exercise compassion,” I remember Mamu’s words.

If you ask me how old, she is very old—87 years in numbers. Bajai has seen all that she needs to see in her life. A little bit of laziness is probably the only vice she has remaining. Greed, anger, ignorance; these poisons have come and gone, much like for other people her age.

She recently fractured a bone in her thigh, in a stupid and what seemed like a trivial accident. She had to undergo an operation or else she’d be bed ridden for a long time with her leg tractioned in a straight position by three kilograms of salt. It is as bizarre as it sounds.

Bajai can move now, there’s nothing pulling her body down and forcing it to just stay in one position. But then again, there’s the gravity of the whole situation.

I write about this because this is my fourth time granny-sitting her; and every time I find just the two of us inside a hospital cabin, I realise how much I don’t want to grow old and miserable. I don’t want to ever be in that bed dependent on my child or my grandchild. I don’t want sleepless nights where I can’t figure out the perfect position for each of my six pillows so that I can have at least ten minutes of sleep. I don’t want a catheter hanging down from my body, or a saline solution hanging above me. I don’t want to have someone help me shove a pan under my bottom so that I can poop and then have them clean after me again.

I can understand Bajai’s frustration and her constant sense of guilt. Every time someone does something she wishes she could have done on her own, she apologises, “I am sorry, I am putting you through this.” I just plant a kiss on her temple and say, “You would have done the same for me.” A much needed reminder for both of us.

Not so long ago, I was talking to a friend about our fear and realisation about how our parents are getting old too soon. With every birthday I celebrate, I realise that there’s no turning back. There’s no going back in time or stopping time from moving too fast.

This sounds very grim, but I know there are going to be many nights like this one, where I will sit by a loved one wondering what it must be like to be on that bed, in that situation. And where I’ll wonder how much they might have done with their lives and what I am doing with my own.

As I write this, I also realise that it’s not death that I fear—it’s old age, sickness and the dependency that comes with it. And it all seems inevitable.

Of late, I have been pushing things for a tomorrow that never really comes. Life is moving too fast and this suddenly makes me very anxious.

“Milena…milena,” Bajai whines again. I walk to her bed to rearrange the pillows one more time. I come back to the couch and watch her. She’s talking to herself, gesturing with her hands that she’s sick and tired. We’re both tired, we both need some sleep. But, we also know that the test is not going to be over any time soon.