New York City Mornings

Travelling through dark space and light blue skies
Undeterred by the flimsy curtains flirting the floor
Sunlight peeks and shines in your sleepy eyes
You squirm and quibble 'Five minutes more'.

No alarms to wake up to, no pagers to answer
No place to be, except now
On our own leisurely pace, we gather
Our dreams and bid them ciao.

We make our way 'right downstairs'
(Twenty-five floors and six blocks uptown)
To matcha puffs and cream eclairs
And coffee roasted the perfect shade of brown.

Then obviously we have the everything bagel
Drowning in cream cheese, scallions and salmon
Topped with crisped up, right off the griddle-
'That's it? Come on, put more' slices of bacon.

Nevermind the few hundred extra calories
We take a long detour through Central Park
Stroll by Balto amidst the dancing daisies
And steal a kiss under the lonely arc.

Then we stop to adore the Border Collie
Strutting around in a stylish knit
My face the heart eyed emoji 😍
'Way cuter than us', gotta admit.

And now we're tired, we hop on the train
Our lofty touristy plans for the day, we abort
Pushing and shoving, this city's insane
I hang onto you, for more than body support.

Circle of Life

A little less than three years ago, the last person I wrote about in a post dedicated to men was my father. I remember sending him a link to the post over Whatsapp but the only message he ever sent me after that was a killer dad joke. A few days after that, he died. In our family, we take jokes rather seriously. I'll never know if he ever read the blog and read about himself in his daughters' words. I will never know if he knew how much I loved him, cause I never said it. When people die, they take with them some answers and leave with us questions that continue to live.

Losing my father was like the collapse of the central pillar of my life, ever constant, ever encouraging. When I was six years old and my brother twelve, he pinned up a black cut out poster with the words 'Excellence is not a skill, it is an attitude' written boldly in white. For years we grew up reading it multiple times every day, in and out and this was the spirit he inculcated in us. When for a few fleeting childhood days of vigour I wanted to be a commercial pilot, he said become a fighter pilot. Aim for the skies. To every disinterested friend and relative, my father would proudly proclaim that his daughter was a perfectionist. He always said that his biggest achievement in life was raising his two kids. Exceedingly shy, I'd get annoyed with the attention. Today I would trade my life a million times to hear my father say two words about me. Circle of life, and death. 

My decision to pursue medicine at the age of sixteen was carved out of ambiguity. Sure I liked science, but there was no solid reason why I picked up the path of medicine- often too long and testing. He never expressed his opinion so as not to sway my decision, but I knew he was delighted. In his teenage days he had wanted to become a doctor but his father, my grandfather wasn't too keen on the idea. From what I know of both him and medicine, he would've made the finest physician- compassionate beyond reason and forever brimming with curiosity. In second year, I'd brush up my routine clinicals on him, inspecting his vitiligo patched fingers and auscultating his kind heart. He loved to be my pretend patient and he always did it with the widest smile. Today, medicine gives me more joy than anything else. I have grown to love what I do and dream about what I wish to do. To practise a continuously evolving science on the canvas of classical art and make oneself vulnerable to the frailty of human life and emotion. Apart from a little extra sleep, what more could we ask for?

One year after my dad passed away, I was an intern tasked with running around taking out blood draws and putting in all sorts of tubes. On a particularly busy post-emergency day, I met a faint seventy year old retired school teacher suffering from a heme malignancy, the name of which I do not remember.  His disease was catching up with him, taking down his blood counts and along with it, his energy. He was alone and waiting for his brother to come from his village. He needed blood but getting blood without a donor was notoriously difficult. I didn't have to do much, just make a few extra trips and convince the incharge to release a pack of red cells. I placed his IV and started the transfusion. As I was collecting and cleaning all the mess, he gently put his hand on my head and said "Beta, tell your father he should be proud of you". I paused from the hustle, looked at him and wondered what to say. "I will" is all I could. 

There are days when remembering my father is the most painful thing I do and there are days when it is the only feeling I find comfort in. Out of fear of pain, we tend to shut out the memories of the ones we loved and lost. To this day, I struggle with talking about my dad. For a long time after he died, I thought I'd never write again. Cause I couldn't get myself to write about him and there was nothing else I wanted to write about. Only today I realise, I don't write about my father, I write for him.

Closure

"You up for a stroll?", Uday asked Mira, peeking into her room. Before she could reply, he added "I'll be waiting by the pool" and left. Mira rolled her eyes as she peeled off her bootcut jeans and changed into her yoga pants. It had been a long drive from Delhi to Kanor. She'd been sitting in the jitney for the past five hours, gazing through the dusty window, as all signs of civilisation gradually dissipated. It was twilight by the time they had reached Kanor, a small but rather exquisite heritage hotel right in the middle of rural Rajasthan. She checked her watch- 9.45 PM. It wasn't that she didn't like the land of the kings but in this moment, she wished the company had picked Goa for their bi-annual off-site.

She plugged in her phone into the charger, slipped into her sandals and went down the stairs, covered on both sides with flushing bougainvilleas. At the foot of the stairs, she walked past a small unassuming fountain. The upper level consisted of leaves carved in white marble, from the tips of which water dropped onto the petals of the lotus below, making the cosy sound that fountains do.  She spotted Uday standing by the pool, hands in his pockets, looking ahead. Even though he stood facing the other way, she had no trouble recognising his lean silhouette. They had dated for almost two years, a romance that had started off over work emails between the business consultants. They were no longer together but their work as well as shared respect had led them to maintain a civil friendship. The death of a relationship is often trailed by the ghosts of memories past, usually an equal mix of good and bad, depending on mood of the day.

As Mira approached him, Uday turned around and smiled. "It's a beautiful night here, isn't it?", he said. Indeed, the sky was painted in the colours of the galaxy in deft strokes. Dark spotty clouds etched in another dimension. This was the backdrop against which stood the hill-fort. "Big day for you tomorrow- pitch for partner. Presentation ready?" Uday asked. "Don't know about ready, kal dekhte hain. Give me your phone though? Got to shoot myself a reminder to clear all nonsense off my browser feed. Don't want a redo of the Taher Shah fiasco.", said Mira. He handed her his phone and remarked with a grin "Why not! Maybe the boss will meet eye to eye with you on this one." Mira scowled and swatted his hand. "Ouuuuch. Careful woman", said Uday and shook his hand. Her face in immediate apology, she said "That cut still hurts, huh?". 

As they walked through the gardens, the dainty lights bathed the fort in a dewy liquid gold while the stars gleamed on above. "Lucky bloke who used to call this place home", Uday added. Mira breathed in the fresh air brimming with the scent of the raat ki rani and added "The guide said that when the government took over the palace, the entire royal family departed from their stately ways and staged a sit-in protest. In vain- the order had already been passed." Slowing his steps and turning towards her, Uday said "But of course they had to try. No purposeful man shies away from rightfully asking and fighting for what he truly desires."

"Yet you never asked for me", said Mira before she could stop herself. "I know you never think twice before going for something you want. Did that mean you never wanted me? You just disappeared, neither a reason nor a real goodbye. You left me hanging, looking for answers I could only find in my own insecurities" she continued, as she let go of all that had been bottled up. Gaping wounds tend to leak when left to heal on their own. 

Uday looked on, unable to bring to words what he wanted to say. He stood still but his whole body felt like it was shaking. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and not for the soft breeze. They walked the last few metres back in complete silence, except for the occasional comment from the crickets. For a while they stood under the stairs leading to her room, looking at each other wordlessly. Mira handed Uday his phone, kissed him gently on the cheek and walked upstairs without looking back. She turned the key in, collapsed into her soft white bed and glanced at the clock- 11.20 PM. "Uugh, better not be late tomorrow", she thought to herself and reached for her phone that flashed one notification:

'10.15 PM Uday: Reminder- Delete history '

Summer Love

I wait for your return, half-patiently, whole-heartedly
Know that your absence has, and will be irreplaceable.
Memories of hot and sweaty summers, wasted together
Of Sunday afternoons spent over park benches
With you and portions of ice cream, way too generous
Stir up in me a storm, a tempest of urgent desire.
I revel in thoughts of you, your glowing golden skin
Your sweet syrupy fragrance that takes hold over my senses.
I hallucinate,  of the touch of you against my lips
The bite and the nibbles, the tingle on my tongue
The soft lingering kisses, that knew only of indulgence.
You've been gone for three seasons, ten months, a thousand years
But these threads that you weave, have kept me hostage.
Now, finally that Spring is packing, I shall hold you
All at once, with my eager hands, uncover you.
You and me, me and you, down and dirty
Will spare no mess, have no regard for controversy
Nevermind the wreckage, for we'll be together- my mango and me.

Tell Me How

How do you,
Catch up with the hand that has completed the circle. It's steady pace, suddenly racing, bringing in the new hour.

How do you,
Brace your infantile heart for the loss of the familiar comforts of today, for tomorrow refuses to be stopped.

How do you,
Stop trying to fill the blank frames of the future with the smiles of the past. Nostalgia is a hungry whore.

How do you,
Accept this vacuous feeling, wary of all the impending uncertainties. Nothing empty ever felt so heavy.

How do you,
Decide what to pair with the what ifs. When the difference between what is good and what is good for you, is so faint.

How do you,
Place one foot in front of the other, when your feet are like boulders and the inertia too strong.

Tell me how,
How to stop and at the same time keep on moving.

¡Happy!

O Happy you peculiar little word
Illusive, elusive like the golden songbird.
The smug cheerleader of all emotion
Sin you chaos, con mellow commotion.
Not a noun nor verb but rather an adjective
Are you a bug? Cause damn you're infective.
Even though your ending syllable is unpoetically 'pee'
You make your 4-lettered cousin 'love' look like an apology.
There appears to be no math or science to you
But you got serotonin to keep me far from blue.
A warm toothy smile is your guise
Reaching upto the stars in the eyes.
Making home in the notes of laughter
Quite an elegant choir in me you stir.
As precious and brilliant as a diamond's reflection
You really are just unparalleled affection. 

The Circumstance of Time

Raghav was by the counter, half standing half falling over it. Passively he took out his phone from the pocket of his crinkled and unwashed jeans- now smothered with latex glove powder in amusing places. He pressed the home button. It was 9.54 AM already. He’d been awake for almost 29 hours now. Up and in constant motion, much like clockwork. Tall, thin and gliding- akin to the seconds hand.  If not for him, time came to a standstill in Ward- 8B of Baba Saheb Hospital. After all Raghav was the junior resident. The adjectives genius and hardworking shied in front of him. Long hours were the norm rather than the exception, but the previous night in the emergency had been particularly outrageous. 86 admissions in a ward with 40 beds.  With three patients on a single bed, foot in the mouth no longer remained just an idiom.

Raghav did a mental round of the ward. A dozen files to be made, histories to be taken and treatments entered- all that had to be done before the consultants came, which could be anytime, depending on when their kids had to be dropped to school and when the morning news began to bore them. Raghav sighed and shifted to full gear. He was writing down his notes for a patient he faintly remembered from the last afternoon. Diabetic, hypertensive, ST elevation, the works, when a thin thirty something suit clad woman with a dupatta covering most of her face came to him. “Doctor sahib, inki haalat kaisi hai”. Raghav shrugged. He put down his pen and asked “Kaun hai aapke patient”. “Rajesh” she replied. “Kaun Rajesh”. “Bed 22” came the answer. Aah, CLD Rajesh.  This was a 38 year old mechanic who’d drunk enough to rot his liver and then some to let his damaged liver addle his brains. Raghav had already started all the routine treatment for CLD, which he could recite without giving half a thought to it. “Aapke pati ne sharab pee ke sharir kharab kar liya hai, jiske karan yeh gafflat mein hain. Khane ke liye  naak mein tube daalni hogi “. From under the cloth, he saw the expression tighten on her fairly pretty face. Her lips curled which made the scars near the angle of her mouth and on her cheek conspicuous. “Chemist se leke aao jaldi” Raghav ordered her while handling a torn slip of paper with Ryle’s Tube (18 Fr) written on it. A quick glance to the cheap MR gifted wall clock - 10.10 AM. With so much work pending, he however was far from perfection.  

Rounds were a little more cluttered than on other post-em days. The nursing staff had slumbered on and the most basic drugs were out of stock. To get the relatives to comprehend this was a PR nightmare. The consultants were blind and deaf to the chaos of it all. Time had wiped the memories of their junior years.  Their two minutes at a patient translated into twenty for the resident.  Lab tests, imaging, referrals. “This patient is clearly in hepatic enceph. He’ll aspirate. Why does he not have a NG tube? Why has he not been transfused yet? This is irresponsible behavior on your part Dr Raghav” started their tirade at bed 22.  When it came to annihilation, time had proven to be an effective vaccine.

Raghav lugged on. He called for CLD Rajesh’s wife. Finding out about the lack of  progress with the tube, Raghav lost his usual cool. “Tumhe parwah nahi hai apne patient ki? Tube dalni zaroori hai” he ranted. The woman quivered, and began to explain how she alone and clueless she was, how she’d left her two young kids at home. Raghav knew that for CLD Rajesh, the measure of time left was not by the rising and setting of the sun but by the sandglass, sand slipping away. “Mujhe nahi pata. Aap arrange karo.  Har ghanta keemti hai.” He wasn’t unkind but empathy took up too much time and in medicine time was currency.

Two days passed by. Distress calls were made, some rather futile. Patients who’d come solely for respite from the harsh summer sent away.  Samples taken and sent. Vitals noted, corrections done.  By now, the bedlam had subsided. Time took a deep breath. Such was the malleability of it.

Around eight at night, Raghav was asked to attend to a patient who wasn’t moving. Bed 22 CLD Rajesh. Raghav put his stethoscope to his chest. The darned sound. Patient had grossly aspirated. “Brotherji, Em tray.” He knew intubation and chest compressions were merely a formality. His hand on the pulse and eyes looking into the wife’s scarred face, he shook his head- gently but definitively. He knew the patient had died because of the lack of the feeding tube, but what was the point of saying it now. Why burden someone with the guilt of having aided in their own husband’s death. He walked back to the counter without a word, signed the death certificate and went on. When you’re in the wards long enough, life comes to resemble a circus, packing up and moving away.

The Earth went on rotating, the days passed. Raghav was attending to a newly transferred-in patient when he spotted CLD Rajesh’s wife. For some unknown reason, he remembered her face of the hundreds he saw everyday. “Kya hua?” he asked.  She told him how the death certificate had been signed for the wrong date, a day after the day of death. Raghav knew how much of an inconvenience that must’ve been to the woman and was immediately apologetic. She stopped him midway and said “Aapki galti ki wajah se mujhe apne pati ke sath ek aur din mila, jo meri shaadi ka sabse acha din tha”.  Glancing at her face one last time, Raghav paused at her scars.