Dreams are renewable. No matter what our age or condition, there are still untapped possibilities within us and new beauty waiting to be born.

-Dale Turner-

Friday 11 December 2009

emergency room

The wail of a baby plucked for veins, the scent of surgical spirit, the nagging beeps of central monitors, punctual piercings for vital stats. A doc nods familiarly before he goes back to his book as all children in emergency decide to cry at once. tender veins are found for IVs and fluids gush down them.

I describe our neighbours to grandmum, hoping her eyes stay would alert for a few seconds more. But the drugs take over immediately. A young man with a fractured limb gallantly gives his bed to a delirious 6-month-old. Dengue mosquitoes in the city have been baying for babies.

Few nurses, fewer beds, the doc, sacred ash on forehead, resolutely thumbs his book. Tempers fray, sparks fly, mothers weep, and grandmum coughs up phlegm. the reports finally arrive. Doc surfaces from book. He speaks to grandmum, attempts telugu humour at twilight. Is it always like this, I ask. Only worse, he grins.

Making demigods of docs doesn't seem unfair anymore.

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