The Bedpan

The last dying rays of the evening sun gently reflected off the dull enameled surface of the bedpan, as they silently stole away through the open window. In the air, the stale smell of disinfectant hung around. Earlier, in the morning, the bedpan had been vigorously washed with water and Dettol, and placed under the bed. It had not been disturbed since; the thin layer of dust covering the bedpan bore proof to that. It is one of the professional hazards of bedpannery to be splattered with excrement, and to remain dry and untainted through an entire working day, especially when you are the property of an eighty year old man with little control over his legs and even less over his bowels, is no mean achievement. If the bedpan were human, it would have basked contentedly in that dying evening light. If the bedpan were human, it would have also heard the ayah’s shrill voice having its say over the very same state of affairs.


A still from the short film "Bedpan". Cinematography: Paramvir Singh. Script & Direction: Kaevan Umrigar. (c) FTII, 2003-04

“He’s shit in his pajamas again. I can’t go through this any more. I’m quitting.” A tired voice tried its best to pacify her, “Now, now, Kamalabai, these things happen sometimes.” “Nothing doing. I’ve had enough. I’m quitting this instant.” “At least, give me a few days. I need time to find someone else, naa?” But the shrill voice was insistent, “That’s not my problem. Just pay me what’s due. I’m leaving.” A sigh escaped tired lips. A zip got pulled open. Pieces of paper rustled between thumb and forefinger. A door banged shut. Determined footsteps made their way across the room.

Two stout feet in white worn-out heels stopped in front of the bedpan. The hem of a bright blue pleated skirt hovered above at the calves. A large heavy hand, appearing even more so in relation to the dainty silver watch worn at the wrist, swooped down and gripped the bedpan, and thumped it down hard on the bed. Sharp angry spurts of breathing mixed with low grunts of pain and helplessness. Two fiery eyes glared through smudged mascara and large spectacles at the occupant of the bed. In reply, the old man smiled weakly in acknowledgement and apology.

A while later, Gladys Fonseca, personal secretary to the General Manager – Finance at Johnson & Johnson, received a call at her home from her friend and colleague, Mehroo Ghadially. “Oh, hi Mehroo…Sure, I’ll take over for you. How many days will you be away…Oh, that many, huh. What’s the problem, your father again…Ya, I can hear him calling out for you…No, men, I can’t think of any ayahs just like that…Ya, I’ll ask around…You take care, dear. Bye.”

An aluminium tumbler filled with water waited next to the phone. Coloured pills – white, pink, yellow – on a tiny aluminium lid lay atop it. Mehroo put the receiver down and picked the tumbler up. She strode purposefully towards her father’s room, her gait slow and heavy. The floral print nightie she was wearing rose over her knees, but she did not bother to smooth it down. One strap of her sadra slipped out from under the nightie’s small sleeves and fell off from her shoulder. Her rubber chappals clapped loudly against the floor. Her rage at her father, simmering in silence all this while, finally erupted. “Why can’t you ask for the bedpan? Where do I find new-new ayahs for you from, every day?”

The aluminium tumbler came down with a jolt on to the bedside table. Water trickled down from the sides and made a tiny pool around it. The pills teetered precariously at the rim of the lid. On the bed, the old man struggled to sit up. A hand reached out to help him. “Lift your head up. What more excuse do I give at work?” Even before he could lift his head up, the pillows had been yanked from underneath it and plonked against the frame of the bed. His head came down hard on the bed. It didn’t hurt, but he was unused to such rough treatment from his daughter.

“Every two-two days I have to stay at home. Come on, sit up straight.” She caught him by the shoulders and pulled him up against the pillows. This time, it hurt. He whimpered. She had never been so uncaring before. His eyes pleaded with her, “Aastey, Mehroo, aastey. It hurts.” But Mehroo was in no mood to be gentle. She picked up the lid off the tumbler and transferred the pills on to her palm. She forced the tumbler into her father’s hand, “Here, hold this.” The pills danced in her palm as she brought it close to her father’s mouth. “Open your mouth,” she commanded.

Her father turned away from her hard unflinching gaze. His head hung down, looking at nothing in particular. His fingers loosened their grip around the tumbler. A tear broke away from his eye and trickled down his cheek. Mehroo shook him by the shoulder, “Come on, open your mouth. I don’t have all day.”

The tumbler slipped away from her father’s grasp. On its journey to the floor, it wet the old man’s sadra, it wet the Bombay Dyeing bedsheet, it even wet a part of Mehroo’s floral print nightie. It made a small puddle on the floor, bouncing a couple of times before settling down to oscillate around the rim of its base, its side flat against the floor. The old man broke down, his soft sobs punctuated with the krrr-krrr of metal rolling on the floor.

Mehroo put the pills down. Her anger had completely dissipated away. Softness appeared in her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, at other places where it would have been hard to imagine it just a few moments back. Suddenly, she understood why she had done what she did. She sat down on the bed beside her father. She gently lifted his head and brought it to rest on her shoulder. She began to cry softly too. “Pappa, you have me to look after you. But me, who do I…?”

She took his left hand into her hands. Their fingers intertwined together. He gripped her hand tightly in comfort. Her fingers played around with his wedding ring. None adorned hers.