I saw purple moles for the first time as a child, the colour of grapes on dada’s brown skin (colour value #ae9171, I checked), and I have never since then seen or noticed purple moles on anyone else. Constellations of purple on an old man’s skin. It was a thing that was just his. Is. I need to remind myself it’s still is and not was, good god, do I have to prepare myself so bad that I write in the past tense even when he’s alive, being looked after? The hospital staff sometimes go out of their way to do things for him (which explains how he has a friend he can conveniently ‘share’ his food with, and now it’s difficult to keep count of the last solid thing he ate). I sit on the bench outside, a floor below the room I used to wait around when dadi fell ill two years ago (seems like a lifetime now). There are crisscross tiles opposite the benches, shades of blue interrupted by tiny mirrors into which I look when I feel like I am going to break down after listening to what the doctor has to say while sitting on a cold, blue-grey (apt?) bench surrounded by strangers who are also waiting for news. On some days, it seems like all of us want updates and reports and scans, no matter how good or bad it could be. Just some news is okay. As I look into the mirror, I think of crawling on the bed with him, holding his skinnier-than-mine hands, tracing purple moles that have grown in number, which have appeared everywhere now. I want a few minutes which is just ours, no cold, no anger, no outsiders, no hunger or thirst, just us. Lightly smashing our foreheads as a sign of greeting every time I enter his room, arguing over food, comparing who’s more stubborn (it’s three days since he last ate two spoons of real food so I guess he’s winning), talking about bills I need to take care of. I have so many wishes, so many will remain just that and all I can do is take care of and distract myself with is electricity bills and bank slips. I crawl outside Private Ward #2 while a nurse attends to him, poking sharp things onto his loose skin, turning shades of purple now in spots, turning darker than the colour of grapes. I look into the tiny mirrors, meet my own eyes. I look away before I cry over constellations, sitting on a cold bench amidst strangers.
