The speaker rings with a name. Twice. Called to Room 120.
The buzz outside diminishes infinitesimally, as a number of ears try to hear the announcement over the din and bustle. And then it starts, rebounding, a notch higher.
He walks in, long confident strides. Uber-cool blue tinged frame, in-vogue glasses. Hair gelled into shape. Neat black shirt. “She’s just coming, Doctor. One second. ”
She walks in. Waddling. Creaky knees. Hair beginning to grow after a ritual tonsure. Sari just about wrapped,pleats almost undone. Collapses clumsily onto the chair.
Imbalanced, not just in gait. A hundred fleeting thoughts. A thousand fleeing emotions. A million flitting words. Outside, just a jumble of words. Inside, they choke her, they control her, they threaten her, they smother her.
He stands behind her chair. The doctor talks about stuff. Progress. Dosage. Admission. Follow up. Investigations. She suddenly gets agitated. Acts absurd. Cannot be reasoned with. Childish.
He chides her with one disapproving mmmmch, and an “Amma!”. And immediately puts his right hand around her, and plants one quick, silent kiss at the back of her head.
In one sudden lucid moment, the haze in her eyes lifts, makes way for a glaze of more distant thought, a real one. Her, in a perfumed mauve silk night gown. Sparkling long hair. Him in red teddy printed coveralls. Fuzzy hair. Jumping on the cot. Throwing a tantrum.One disapproving stern look. And then a kiss on top of his baby powder smelling forehead, as he cradled his head against her cheek. In one sudden lucid moment, she is haunted no more. And wonders with a diamond glint in her eyes, that when exactly did the roles reverse?
Outside, the deafening afternoon silence catches a breath. Sighs. Moves ahead.
– Psychiatry OPD
01.10.2013
Ephemeral Gossamers 