Hospitals are not places that one likes to visit, however hospitable they may appear to be. But this time, I saw no way to avoid one, what with my dad needing surgery. He’s a tough old bird, but with all the ailments he had accumulated over the years, the doctors warned that it was not going to be easy, though the surgery itself was routine. So there I was by his side and as the hospital staff readied him for the surgery, I spoke of funny and memorable things of the past, so as to leave him in good cheer.
The patient’s family were asked to wait in a hall, and listen to instructions from the hospital staff. Seeing the pensive faces of the family, I was reminded of parents waiting outside while their children struggled through an exam. In popped a face that seemed familiar and then I remembered him as the person I had spoken to the previous night, when we had compared notes about the surgery. After a two-hour wait, the doctor summoned us to his room and declared that the surgery had been a success. The good doctor then proceeded to draw an outline of the patient’s anatomy that he had operated upon, while his smiling countenance melted away our anxious looks.
The nurse produced the evidence of what the operation had achieved and we looked at it with curious glee, willing it to be confined in that glass jar for posterity. Dad seemed well on his way to recovery with the glorious Sahyadris reflected outside the window in all its green splendour, providing a soothing backdrop for both patient and carer alike. The nursing staff was cheerful and diligent, though sometimes many requests got caught between Mama (Marathi for uncle) and Maushi (Marathi for aunt)—as the serving angels hollered for the latter.
The diet planned for the patient was light, nutritious and tasty, making me revise my opinion of hospital food. The only misstep on my part was when I casually told dad that he should raise his threshold for pain and he looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Dad cheered up greatly when visitors dropped in to wish him a speedy recovery. As I had nothing else to do and as I rather enjoy the activity, I began singing softly, to which an attending nurse asked me whether I liked singing. I told her I did and that I deemed it a rightful gesture as I was on the premises of the Deenanath Mangeshkar Hospital, a project that took shape with full blessings of India’s nightingale—Lata Mangeshkar.
Sunita Raghu
Email: sunitarag@gmail.com