From the waiting room

This holiday season, I was in a waiting room- waiting.
My father was in the ICU for a heart condition that had taken a turn for the worse. In between harried trips to the pharmacy, bursting into impromptu tears, and discovering the human noses' infinite and frankly impressive ability to produce snot- I waited.

The waiting dorm, was a modest room with 10 beds and an ironic infestation of mosquitoes. I kept myself entertained with the thought that by the time dad got fine, I would probably be back in here for malaria. I spent hours staring at the lights of the elaborate nativity display outside the ICU, or reading the reassuring quotes from the Bible framed on various walls of the hospital.

On the third day, a woman who I had noticed before came upto me:
"ICU main aapka kaun hai?"
"Humare dad"
"Theek ho jayege," she said almost automatically, handing me a Marie biscuit which I ate without thinking.
Her daughter was in hospital- just a day after giving birth Zainab contracted dengue and a septic infection that left her in coma for 21 days. Zainab's mother introduced to me to Mrs. DasGupta who's husband loved to sing but a clot had brought him to the ICU. We were all waiting and in the meantime, we chatted- about Zainab, about her baby, about Mr. Dasgupta's favorite songs. We sneaked chai into the dorms for each other and we complained in whispers about strict nurses and guards who wouldn't let us meet the patients in the ICU except for 20 mins during visiting hours. In a span of 3 days, I knew everyone and the status of their loved ones inside.

Every floor of the hospital had a statue of Jesus and Mary with a few benches in front for anyone people to pray. It was like having a drop box system for God. On the 1st day, every time I passed by I shot off a quick prayer for my father's strength, but when there was news of him getting better, I avoided going near those benches. I suddenly and conveniently remembered I was not religious amd only sat on those benches when the dorms got crowded during visiting hours.

On the 4th day, during waiting hours, a patient was brought into the ICU, with a wailing mother behind him. He had had a motorcycle accident and doctors were losing hope. She was held back by the orderlies and unable to find a seat in the crowded waiting dorms, they made her sit on the benches outside. While she heaved and sobbed, she looked expectantly at the statue of Mother Mary and pulled out her Kalimah and began to read out loud. And as if in a moment, one of the most crowded ICU waiting rooms in Mumbai, went quiet. I am not ashamed to say I wept under the watchful eye of Jesus and Mother Mary while the Kalimah was read and 200 people felt her grief wash over them in various ways. Her son didn't make it through the night.

6 days later, I watched with unabashed excitement as Zainab was wheeled out and confused about why me, a perfect stranger was so happy to see her well. Mr. Dasgupta, was moved to the general ward and utterly puzzled when I quoted some lines of his favorite ghazal to him. My father has a slew of people, who he does not even know, inquiring about his health even today.

I want to tie this column up with some sort of sentimental ending about love and togetherness and grief and happiness, but when you are so close to something- it is difficult to look at it objectively. All I seem to remember most clearly is that we were all in the waiting room- waiting.