Page 137 of Cakes for the Grump

They take turns holding onto me, cradling my head, and feeding me: a bowl of masoor dal, a bowl of khichdi, spoons of yellow custard, a sugary soaked gulab jamun, more and more cups of chai.

We sit together for a long time, eating and taking turns helping Uncle, breathing in relief that he is going to be okay. He catches my eye and tells me he is proud of me, but that I don’t ever have to suffer alone again.

And so it dies a robust death.

My fake-cheer persona.

What replaces it is a vast, scary swell of trust and support.

My people—the ones who love and care for me—they’ll help hold me up when I need to break down, and I’m promising to do the same for them.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Mumbai’s Lotus Healing Centeris 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 pasthobbies 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 littlemini-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?”