I first met Gul when I started work as a care professional. Standing outside her door I wondered what kind of a person she was, or even if she’d like me as her carer. But when Gul opened the door beaming I immediately relaxed. The smell of cinnamon, cumin and other aromatic spices wafted from her kitchen as we walked towards it. Big packets of whole spices were lying on the counter next to an old grinder, and dhal was bubbling in a pot on the hob. Gul told how the grinder was more than fifty years old. She had it since her daughter was young, but it was still chugging on just like her.
Gul spoke about her life in Edinburgh, about her work as a seamstress, the catering service she’d provided for weddings and social gatherings to the Pakistani community. She left Pakistan in 1965, a nineteen-year-old newly wedded bride and came to live with her husband in Edinburgh. There was sadness in her eyes when she talked about her mother who died when Gul was only three months old. Living with family Gul learned to cook from an early age, watching her grandma and aunts cook in big clay pots. Then whilst tidying up I saw Gul shake her head. She’d switched the grinder on without placing the spices in the bowl. When she made the tardka for the dhal she put the cumin and onions but not the garlic. Recently she was forgetting to take her medication. But then Gul turned towards the fridge and took out two Tupperware boxes. She warmed nihari and saffron rice and we sat at the table to eat together.
My visits with Gul were the ones I began to look forward to the most. She loved chatting about Edinburgh. She had just moved to Glasgow to live next to her daughter, but her heart was in the vibrant atmosphere and cobbled streets where she’d stayed most of her life. Every week we’d go to see her husband in the care home. He didn’t recognise Gul, sometimes calling her mum or auntie. She never got frustrated when he clamped his mouth shut, tenderly touching his chin, a Tupperware box filled with her food on her lap, holding a spoon next to his mouth. She always checked his fingernails and made sure he had been showered.
The days we didn’t go out we’d be in the garden. Gul’s passion for growing plants and vegetables was boundless. That summer she grew so much spinach that she not only cooked saag for me, her entire family but froze batches of it to be used later. My relationship with Gul developed beyond a carer-client relationship. I was not only her companion but a friend with whom she could share her life past and present. But as the seasons turned and it was almost springtime Gul felt she didn’t have the same energy as before. One day when I rang Gul’s doorbell, it was a while before she opened the door. She was holding onto a walker and had a few bruises on her hand. Gul’s nephew had found her on the kitchen floor after she had taken a fall.
When I came back from a two-week holiday I saw a key safe next to Gul’s door. I opened it with the code number on my App. Inside Gul was lying on the sofa, a blanket pulled over her. Gul was recovering from Pneumonia. Upon seeing me she laughed saying that she no longer would be bored having to watch TV all day. Gul had reduced mobility now and didn’t want to go out to her favourite parks or to the museums like we’d done previously. We spent time in the garden tending to her plants and growing vegetables. Sitting on her walker she watched and guided me how to cook her favourite dishes. Sometimes after doing a task she’d forget and ask me to do it again even though I’d already done it. She didn’t want to talk about this confusion or her forgetting about things. She said she’d speak to her family in her own time. Then one afternoon as I was planting spinach Gul suddenly reached over and took my hands in hers. Promise you’ll come to see me if I go into a care home, she said. I put the trowel down and told her that she was just like a best friend to me and I’d always want to see her. Gul’s face lit up and the air around us became warm and soft.