In the waiting room.
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Sitting tucked away in a corner of a sunny, bright waiting room. I try to be unobtrusive because I don’t have a visitor’s pass. I have my embroidery in hand but my thoughts are elsewhere. The hospital overlooks the sullen bay, and the railway tracks. The local trains pass underneath every few minutes. The sound is muffled up here on the seventh floor. The reception desk is around the corner. I can hear voices but the people they belong to remain a mystery.
The man behind the desk has a kind voice. He appears fluent in about six languages and effortlessly switches from Urdu to Marathi to Arabic. I have noticed him earlier. He is young, perhaps in his mid thirties, with a heavy build and a neatly trimmed beard.
A young male voice. Trembling faintly. I recognise the extreme mental exhaustion of a caretaker. The English is accented with a middle eastern flavour. He pleads for help. His mother has been a patient in this ward for over ten days, he says. She does not like the food. He requests that special food be prepared. She is on heavy medication and he worries that without nourishing food, she is becoming weaker every day. Approaching steps. Then a new voice. Female, abrupt, somewhat rude. The dietician tells him that no special food can be provided and his mother will just have to manage. The trembling in his voice is laced with anger now. He has paid four hundred thousand rupees already, he protests. (Definitely not Indian, then.) Surely, that entitles his mother to palatable food. The high heels walk away. Then silence. The man at the desk murmurs something and the young man falls silent.
An elderly lady this time. Querulous, confused and belligerent. Her husband needs a bed pan. Please hurry, she says. The young nurses laugh behind her back and deliberately delay. Soothing noises from the receptionist. We are short staffed, he says. A bell rings. I’m sending a ward boy right away. The woman’s voice continues to protest about other imagined or real wrongs. She has found a sympathetic ear and is unwilling to end this human contact.
The fragrance of coffee wafts by. It is the afternoon tea break. A voice, jaunty and upbeat, teases the receptionist. Did she come up to our floor today, it asks? You know she likes you. The receptionist protests half heartedly. No no I know her brother, that’s why she says hello. The jaunty voice suddenly loses its smile. Brother, he says, this city is very lonely. Come to work, go home, sleep. No friends, no fun. Then it cheers up again. But you, it laughs, you at least have found a sweetheart. The receptionist hushes the voice and the laughter recedes. The receptionist hums an old Hindi film song very softly. Mere sapnon ki rani…the queen of my dreams.
There is a flurry of activity. A senior doctor is making his rounds, it appears. The voices of young residents, nervous nurses and anxious relatives rise in a babble only to be shushed by the deep baritone of the doctor. He asks the receptionist for some information and I imagine this kind gentle man on his feet, paying due homage to the visiting Deity.
The group moves away and I hear the man sigh. One more deeper sigh and then silence. A short respite. In a few minutes, his desk will be inundated with people asking for directions and help and guidance. It is visiting hour at the hospital overlooking the Bay. I pack up my things and leave. The young receptionist murmurs Good afternoon as I walk past.