The Scribbled Stories of an Infirmary

By Dr Ankita Chakrabarti

I have walked through the corridors
That have seen life begin and end,
That have seen us mortals laugh and cry,
Soaking in relief and writhing in pain,
And they say I haven’t seen the world.

I have heard the screeching cry of a mother,
Perspiration drops on her temple,
That sudden gush of blood in her veins,
As a life comes into this world—
The downy little creature, the epitome of exhilarating beauty.

I have seen the son retreat into a corner,
To conceal a tear on the verge of his eyes,
As his mother weeps in anguish
At his father’s demise.
I have seen that clingy little boy, coaxed to school every winter morning,
Grow into the strong, resilient son.

I have seen that fragile old man
Sitting hand in hand with his wife at death’s door—
The memories of that spring afternoon
Still fresh,
When they had kissed under the mistletoe
And chanted their vows,
Their hands not yet decrepit with wrinkles,
As they walked down the aisle, hand in hand.

I have seen the daughter,
Torn between her heart and mind
In the last hours of her mother after the ultimatum,
As she sits watching each labored breath fog the tube,
Ashamed to let her go—
Reminiscent of her first venture into the swimming pool,
How bottomless she had felt in those shallow waters,
Her skinny legs unanchored in the tumultuous water on that summer evening,
Till her mother had held her tight, refusing to let go.

I have seen hope being rekindled—
A single twitch of a finger,
A heartthrob,
A tiny flicker of toes,
Or an imperceptible tremor of the eyes—
Each an elixir to the enervated souls, awake in anticipation.

I have seen the battle of life and death,
Been the cliff between peace and agony.
I am the walls of the infirmary—
The paint chipped off me, tarnished with dust and wind,
But I am alive, breathing with the scribbled stories of life, death, and beyond.