Echo

She may have received a call from her daughter. As I look through the glass, I see her sleeping. There is something in her face that has always drawn me to her. Today, the calm she carries over her creased skin matches the pristine white sheets that she is tucked in. Fresh and flawless.

It had been of those regular days at the hospital when I had first met her. I was a dietetic intern at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences. She was an in-house patient, diagnosed with chronic liver disease. She had slipped into a coma. I had accompanied a senior gastroenterologist on the rounds. While he discussed the prognosis with her husband, I could not take my eyes off her.

Fortunately, she revived from the coma within three weeks. I knew she had to be weaned off her tube-feed and introduced to an oral liquid diet gradually. As I made changes in her ‘Diet Requisition Form’, hanging from her bed-stand, she asked me to sit near her for a while. Holding my hand, she looked into my face for some time, and then said, ‘You must wear a bindi on your forehead; it will look good on you.’ At that moment, her words made no sense to me. All I could feel was the warmth of her hands and a tide of emotions swell up inside me. That night, back in the hostel, I was restless.

Two days later that her husband revealed this: I resembled their daughter who was married and was expecting a baby now. She was planning to visit her daughter in the US to assist her during pregnancy when she had to be rushed into emergency.

For the next few weeks, I had a home — the Intensive Care Unit, Floor 8.

how far
will they ride on wind
these leaves
beneath my feet
I fail to listen to their faint rustle