Misery’s GPS: Recalculating Route to Heaven

“Stay positive, David.”

Look at the bright side, David.”

“Make your day prayerful, David.”

The world hurls these lines at me like flower petals at a wedding. Only, this isn’t a wedding. It’s more like being caught in a daily monsoon without an umbrella—and someone keeps yelling, “At least it’s good for the crops!”

People mean well. That’s the most terrifying part.

They say pain is a tunnel and there’s light at the end. But what if it’s a tunnel with a lazy electrician? What if the only illumination is from flickering platitudes and WhatsApp forwards about divine purpose and turmeric milk?

Each morning, I look at Alka, and I pray. Sometimes silently. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes in words that would not make it past the parish priest’s editing pen. But I pray.

Alka, my fierce, graceful, whip-smart partner of decades, now fights a quiet, relentless battle with her body. Her mind? Sharp as ever. Her tongue? Sharper. She speaks fluently, clearly—and with the precision of a poet who also knows how to deliver a good Kaalvan bhaat (fish curry rice) 

Don't try sympathy around her. She’ll slice through it with a look. She doesn’t need sympathy—she needs dignity, occasional strong tea, and for me to stop rearranging the living room like it’s a chessboard.

Let’s be honest—suffering is not Instagrammable. It's not pretty. It doesn’t come with a filter or a soundtrack. It’s socks that don’t match, medicine schedules that sound like a drumbeat of doom, and moments when one of us forgets why we walked into the kitchen.

This life is not a Hallmark movie. It's more like a home production—written on the fly, starring two slightly grumpy legends who’ve seen too much to be impressed by motivational posters.

People say, “Misery, pain, and suffering are the path to heaven.” Lovely. Could someone please send over a GPS update? Maybe with a few rest stops and a roadside dhaba where the chai doesn’t taste like despair?

Alka and I are on that path, apparently. Not always gracefully. Sometimes with a limp. Sometimes with sarcasm. Often with laughter. Because you have to laugh.

The other day she asked if I could make her soup that didn’t taste like boiled carpet. I nodded solemnly. “Yes, dear,” I said. “I’ll aim for lightly steamed rug instead.” She gave me the look. You know the one—half affection, half why did I marry this man? That look is my oxygen.

People check in. They do. And we’re grateful. But sometimes I wonder if they think we’re characters in a sad play they occasionally remember to clap for. We don’t need applause. We need coffee, real conversations, and someone to help fix the damn washing machine.

And no—don’t say, “You’re so strong, David.” I’m not. I’m just doing what love demands. I’m a rusty old engine running on tea, willpower, and sarcasm. Strength has nothing to do with it. Habit, love, and maybe mild insanity—that’s more accurate.

Love, in this phase, is not hearts and roses. It's toothpaste tubes squeezed from the wrong end. It's watching IPL reruns together for the 10th time because that’s the one thing that makes the day feel normal. It's finishing each other's sentences—and arguments.

Some days, Alka says, “Don’t make me your PR project, okay?” And I nod, humbled. Because she’s not. She’s not a patient. She’s not a cause. She’s my wife. My co-conspirator. The woman who still makes me laugh even when we’re both worn out.

Yes, we’re tired. Yes, we have our moments of silence that weigh a ton. But we also have those quiet moments when she says, “Remember that trip to Croatia?” And suddenly we’re there—misty hills, quaint streets, bland hotel food, and two younger versions of us who had no idea what life was going to throw.

But here’s the thing: we’re still here. And we’re still us.

So yes—cheer up, they say. Okay. I’ll cheer up.I’ll cheer up when Alka delivers a perfect one-liner that knocks me off my philosophical perch.

I’ll cheer up when we laugh at the nonsense on TV. I’ll cheer up when I burn the toast and she says, “Even the toaster’s given up on you.”

Because if this winding, broken, blessed path leads to heaven, then I’m glad I’m walking it with her. Even if she insists I’m using the wrong kind of detergent!