Life, or something close to it.

A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist. -Stewart Alsop

The open door offered Amrit an invitation he couldn’t refuse. But as soon as he had seen what was inside his parents’ bedroom he wished he hadn’t. The room was dark, the curtains were drawn, his mother was sitting on an unmade bed and his father was talking on the phone. It was untidy, it was unkempt, it was not the way it should be. By this time in the day, the curtains were supposed to be drawn, the bed was supposed to be made, his mother was supposed to be in the kitchen preparing break-fast, his father was supposed to be getting ready to put on a nice suit. But nothing was like the way it was ever since that night two weeks ago when the blazing lights of the ambulance of lit up the whole neighborhood and took his grandmother away. Since then everything had changed. The cheer that seemed infectious once, had almost completely disappeared. Now it was dull, the air seemed leaden with sorrow, the musty rooms were desolate and his home which was once alive with colours now seemed to be a house painted in black and white. Even his misdemeanors seemed unimportant. The previous night he had stayed up almost an hour past his bed time. An act which would have provoked a very harsh rebuke a few weeks back, now only managed a disgruntled murmur of ‘shouldn’t you be in bed by now?’. His father never seemed to take any interest in any of the games they played together. Everything was different and everything was worse. He couldn’t understand why it was so? His every question was was brushed aside with an involuntary smile. He felt alone. He wished things would go back to the way they were, even if it meant getting a scolding now and then. He couldn’t help blaming his grandmother for all that had happened.
His father was talking to his mother about taking him to see grandma. His mother was not sure if that was a good idea. They were on the verge of an argument when his mother noticed him in the door. She told him to come in.
‘Would you like to go visit grandma?’ she asked.
He wasn’t sure what the right answer was. Truth was he didn’t really miss her. She didn’t form a big part of his life. She used to sit all day in the chair in the garden looking at some flowers and when she did talk it was always a sermon about studies and respect. It was boring. He kept hearing his friends talk about their grandmothers with great fondness. But all she did was take up his play time with her lectures on God and religion. He wantd to say no but he felt he didn’t really have a choice, he knew both of them were expecting him to say yes. So, he nodded.
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The hospital had an awful smell. Everyone seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere. There were people crying, people laughing, people bleeding, people bandaged, doctors walking with an entourage of students, doctors alone talking to a patient, nurses attending to a disgruntled guardian, nurses huddled in a corner occupied in a conversation, workers sweeping, workers wiping the floor. It was chaotic and yet everyone seemed to know their role in the chaos. There were no clashes, no obstructions and everything somehow progressed smoothly. His grandmother was in big room with lots of beds. None of the beds were occupied except hers. There was big board that said ‘Nephrology Ward’ on the door.
When he was brought in he was unsure of what to expect. The last time he had seen his grandmother she was stout, her eyes were hidden beneath her big glasses and she was ready to shout at anyone who disturbed her whole day of idly sitting and doing nothing. She was lazy but strong. Now she seemed helpless, weak and tired. She lay in her bed, taking deep breaths from a mask attached to a tube supplied by a big black cylinder. She looked fragile and sick. Very sick. Even just to open her eyes and gesture him to come closer seemed extremely difficult.
Amrit was afraid. He didn’t want to go near. But his father pushed him towards the bed and told him to greet grandma. He went by her side and kept quite. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure if she could talk through the mask in between her deep breaths. She tried.
‘Amrit…… how are you doing son?........ how is school?....’
It was horrible. He didn’t want to be here. Why wasn’t someone doing anything about this? There was a doctor on the far corner of the room, surrounded by students. He was pointing towards his grandma and saying something. The students were paying close attention but he couldn’t detect a trace of sympathy in any of their faces. And suddenly all of them broke into laughter. What could possibly be funny? His mother completely unaware of this improper outburst broke into tears. His father held her and started consoling her. Amrit couldn’t quite understand what was going on. Grandma started breathing more heavily. He wished he’d never come.
‘Um, I’m fine grandma. School is going well. How are you?’
‘…I’m fine… just a little…sick. The doctors …… here say…’ and then she couldn’t speak any more. Her breaths became deeper and louder. The doctor teaching the callous students rushed towards us and asked a nurse to make us step out. Grandma’s breath kept breathing louder. It seemed to Amrit he couldn’t hear anything except those deep sounds of pain and suffering. He wished he could do something to help her. Just like she had done a few months back.
He had broken his mother’s vase. The whole day he had waited in his room waiting his for his mother to call him so she could shout at him for being so careless. But the call never came. He went to the living room and overheard his grandmother telling his mother she had broken the vase by accident. He wasn’t sure why she had done it. He hadn’t even thanked her for it. But now seeing her in so much pain, made him wish he could do something. He wanted to help her. To do something, anything, except all he could was sit in this suffocating hallway waiting for what he did not know. He felt helpless. He felt powerless. The sound of grandma’s deep breath kept ringing his ears. The same sound over and over again mocking him, challenging him to do something alleviate the pain, reminding him there was nothing he could do to help the helpless old woman and making him realize that she will suffer more and more with every passing day. It was suffocating, the small hallway, the unholy sounds, his mother’s tears, the doctors’ white coats, the nurses’ white dress, the pungent smell of medicine, the sterile environment. It was all a bit too much. He asked his parents if they could go home.
He cried at the funeral. He thanked her and bid her good bye.