A short story of my stay with Sujata at Aysha Hospital in Chennai. Photos to be posted tomorrow. Note: the first poem is set OUTSIDE the building!
One
I saw a rat today.
Running with such purpose.
A businessman with a lunch date?
An investor about to take stock of his accounts?
Or maybe a party official, heading to convene a meeting on
food supplies and shortages in the city of Chennai.
Clearly, a fellow on the move.
Two
She thuds to a stop in the late afternoon.
Initially, it seemed she hit the window.
But as the afternoons pass by,
her take offs and landings become
a familiar comfort.
Welcome back, Miss Pigeon!
Our air conditioner is yours for the perching.
Three
Little black bugs appear after dark
scuttling madly across the bathroom tiles.
Destination, a mystery, zigzagging crazy random paths.
Only they know their rhyme and reason.
Four
Across the hall, a new baby meows.
She is the size of a loaf of bread.
Big Brother, heavy with diaper,
increases the volume, crying loudly for
Mother and the sudden loss of center stage.
Five
The canteen behind the hospital
dispenses well being to visitors and staff.
Fresh milk tea, steaming Horlick's and foamy coffee beckon.
Stainless steel flasks, china cups, thermoses, plastic pots and jugs
are plonked down on the high counter.
Jars of one rupee biscuits line the walls, display cases of hard candies
and hanging baskets of juice oranges beguile.
We are the healthy ones,
blessed to be made happy and whole
by a hot drink in the early morning light.
Six
Our young nurses appear in worn, well washed uniforms.
White plastic slip-ons silence their quick steps along the granite halls.
With shy smiles and confident hands, they check blood pressure,
adjust and make beds, administer injections, wash and dress
the convalescing.
We ring the bell and they appear in an instant,
calm and concerned, prepared to serve.
In the still of the night, I find them resting
on a single sheet upon the floor,
lined up like shoes
ready to step into action.
Seven
Aysha, one of Mohammed's wives
is the name of our hospital.
Dedicated, "in the name of Allah, most beneficent and merciful,"
the modest structure resembles a three shelf bookcase,
holding dozens of ageless stories of life and death.
Intensive care tales, especially affairs of the heart,
are written on the first floor.
Second floor houses the giant wards,
bed after bed blanketed by hope and hardship.
Third floor reality shows begin in the Operation Theatre,
tumors removed, babies appear, bones reset.
Most captivating are the daily dramas
scripted by family and friends. Grannies and toddlers,
awkward teenage boys and pig tailed daughters
spill out of stuffy patient rooms.
Slouched in waiting area chairs, leaning against railings,
exercising with walks on the three story ramp,
all waiting for a happy ending.
Eight
Part apothecary, part bakery and general convenience store,
the ground floor pharmacy is the
most trafficked stop at Aysha Hospital.
Daughters, mothers and helpful friends parade down the stairwells,
prescriptions flapping like flags,
looking for one more bottle, vial or tube
designed to restore and revitalize our loved ones.
Young pharmacists climb the unmarked shelves
accurately plucking packets and boxes of pills, pads,
syrups, syringes and solutions.
Among the miracle drugs are tucked the most
common of household goods.
We purchase a bar of soap or chocolate, batteries or lotion,
Relieved we can bring back a bit of normal in our bag.
Nine
Morning was so long ago, I quietly glance at the newspaper,
learning it is still Monday, March 23.
How can a day seem so empty yet full?
We make endless trips in and out of bed,
to the toilet and hallway, snapping the fan and air conditioner and lights
on and off, on and off.
Orange and apple peels fill the dust bin,
cups and spoons washed in the bathroom sink.
I remind myself of old Uncle Suren, able to read the newspaper all day long, gratefully discovering one more entertaining, unread article.
Two cell phones keep us talking,
retelling the tiny victories of the past 12 hours---
tubes inserted or removed, pain fading, appetite and strength returning.
Young parents valiantly amuse squealing children,
marching and playing on the other side of our door.
An errant rubber ball smacks the wall, a hushed reprimand follows.
Everyone is doing the best possible, containing and controlling
energy and expectations,
confining large hopes and fears to small spaces.
Outside, traffic swells and ebbs like the nearby Bay of Bengal.
We know the sounds of evening commuters, a certain tired insistence
in the honk, horn and sweet bell,
heralding the close of another day of healing in Room 306.
Ten
Listening to Sujata breathe, I lie on a low bench beside her bed,
gladdened by her sleep, the sacred time of healing.
Sometimes, she is awake but far away, accompanying her thoughts
on solo journeys, traveling where I cannot attend to her.
Like a mother with a newborn, I note the shift in her soft snoring to near silent exhales. Leaning close, I watch for a reassuring rise or fall.
Satisfied, I doze.
Rustling sheets stir me; will she want a cover added or removed? A cough drop, help to the toilet or to relate a curious dream?
Easy meditation fills the hours.
I am surprised by how quickly I slip into the deep
spaceless, timeless, formlessness.
Peace, passing all understanding.
Eleven
A slowing stream of visitors comes and go.
Soon, we will, too.
Already unused medicines are returned, a bit of packing has begun.
Sweets are purchased for the staff,
to be distributed with gratitude, as we leave.
I'll tip the bellboy more generously than Suja likes,
we'll wrangle on an in-between figure.
Rides are arranged, final prescriptions and directions
given by the doctor.
At last, the hour arrives. We switch off the lights, fan and A/C, finally
obeying the sign above the toilet, "Save water and electricity."
The door is pulled shut.
An elevator ride to the first floor and outdoor light. More goodbyes.
We tenderly, gingerly enter the car and head off.
Thank you, Dr. Suri, all members of Team Sujata and Aysha Hospital.
Your care was most "Beneficent and Merciful."
We go in peace. All is well.
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