But my housewife did not take any advice on the fine arts, and when I tried to make a friendly love speech, she would laugh me off. Just as Indra's Airavata was worn away by the current of the Ganges, so in the face of her smile, great pieces of poetry and good and kind words of affection would disappear in an instant. She had an amazing power of laughter.
Then, about four years ago, I was struck by a fatal disease. I had a cold and fever, and was admitted to the hospital. There was no hope of survival. One day, the doctor gave up. At that time, a relative of mine brought a brahmachari from somewhere; he gave me a root mixed with ghee. Whether it was due to the medicine or by chance, I survived the journey.
During her illness, my wife Aharnishi did not rest for a moment. For those few days, a helpless woman, with a little human strength, fought incessantly with the Yamadutas who gathered at the door with great fervor. With all her love, all her heart, all her care, she embraced my unworthy soul like a baby at her breast. There was no food, no sleep, no regard for anything else in the world.
Yama then threw me out of his grasp like a wounded tiger and left, but as he left, he gave my wife a strong blow.
My wife was pregnant at the time, and shortly after gave birth to a stillborn child. From then on, she began to suffer from various complex illnesses. Then I started serving her. She became embarrassed. She started saying, "Oh, what are you doing? What will people say? Don't go to my house day and night like that."
If I had fanned him at night during his fever, pretending to be fanning him myself, it would have been a serious matter. If ever my regular meal time had passed ten minutes due to my nursing him, he would have become the subject of various pleas, requests, and reproaches. If I had tried to do even a little service, it would have been counterproductive. He would have said, "It is not good for men to be so extravagant."