"Three months
I give him three months",
Said the doctor
Cold, Impersonal, Dry,
Uninvolved.
As if it were just another matter,
Of statistics.
Just another case
That could be put down
As medical History
As if a human Life did not
Mean anything to him.
It was so easy for him to say
So easy for me to hear
But so difficult to understand
So impossible to comprehend.
Mechanically I listened
Dry eyed and shocked
Acutely conscious
That it was very warm
That my clothes clung to my back
That a child’s irritating wail
Was making itself heard
Over the din of hospital noises.
That a fan whirred overhead
That a dusty wind blew outside
I could feel
Everything
Except what I’d just been told.
"Doctors aren’t always right"
A small voice argued
"They can’t be so sure
He looks so fit and fine
Besides they do not know
Where the problem really lies."
Yet a part of me was sure
That I was hoping
In vain
That these people were experienced
That they knew
That they…
Were right.
My father
My own father
My friend, teacher and guide
No, it was not true at all
No, I was in some hideous nightmare
No, no, no!
How could it be?
Lying there on his back
In the impersonal white room
With tubes running through him
Being gnawed at
Cell by cell
Tissue by living tissue
By his own cells gone berserk
Surely a human deserved
A better fate
Than being vanquished
By an enemy
He could not even see.
Than being forced to submit
To fate’s decree
Than being forced to lose
The battle
Even without being given a
Fair chance to fight.
Cancer
The dreaded scourge
That advanced
Slowly
Silently
Yet surely
And steadily
Ate away living flesh
Leaving behind
The putrefying
Remains of
What once was
Life.
No, no, no!
This sort of a situation
Occurred only in books
Or in the T. V.
Or to other people
Not to me
No, not to my family
No, it just was not true.
Perhaps it was only a mistake
Perhaps some-one else’s
Report had got mixed up with his.
"Three Months"
The doctor had said
But of course, it could not be
Why no, certainly no.
We would prove them wrong.
Slowly he would regain his strength
And nursed carefully
Would begin
The slow
But sure
Road to recuperation
Because he was
Alive
And they were talking of
Death.
Because he was going to live
For a long time
Didn’t he have long ear lobes?
"From today
From now"
I decided
"It is going to be the present
That shall be important
Not the past
Nor the anticipation
Of Future Sorrow."
"Three months "
The doctor had spelt out
And I was crying over that?
Upset because I knew
How long he was going to live?
Unhappy to face a prophecy
That could very well be false
And even if it weren’t
At least they were sure
Of his life span.
Which was more than
They could say for us-
Me and my mother
For we were also living under
A constant uncertainty
Of that unsure
Gamble
Called Life.
And even we knew full well
That we would die
Still we lived
Because no one had spelt out
To us with Finality
The length of our span.
Yet the building might fall
The car overturn
Or we may stop breathing
All the worse
Because it would be so sudden
But here at least we had time to
Prepare us.
"Three months"
The doctor had said
And he had meant
Three months of Life
Not of a waiting
For the inevitable Death.
Life that flows on
Surmounting
The obstacles in its path
Life that means
Planning and hoping
For a better
Future.
Life that consists
Of Routine
Of the monotonous
Regularity of waking up early
And going through
The ritual of the day.
Life that meant
Read-out-aloud P.G. Wodehouse
And even Lung-Cancer jokes and puns.
And little smiles
And tears and sobs
When the heart was overcome
Life that consisted of
Making apple juice
In the morning
And presenting
A beautifully served tray
And of humouring him
To eat.
Serving the endless visitors
With Tea or Coffee
And describing to them
Everything
That had occurred
Grateful for the diversion
They provided
Him
And Us
And glad that so many
Loved us.
Life that had become
Awfully simple
It only meant
Drawing the days out
One by one
And being so glad and grateful
"Today nothing happened"
"Three months"
The Doctor had stressed
It was Three months of Hope
However False
However Unsure
Hope that shone brightly
Through the clouds
Of Despair and Dejection
Hope that meant
Reading about and trying out
Alternative medicine
Even while knowing
It was of No use
Making wheat-grass juice
Crushing basil with yogurt
Because it just might work
Because Science does not have
All the answers
Hope that made
Him insist
On not taking "Proxywon"
Because it was habit forming
Hope that made us-
My mother and I
Smile brightly before him
And before the world
Insisting
"He’s better than yesterday"
Daring to believe it
Even while knowing
That there was no use hoping
."Three months"
The doctor had prophesied
And he prophesied true.
"Get you papers in order"
He said
But how could we do it?
Granted everyone was prepared
For the end
In fact every
Legality had been done
But how
Just how could
One begin to end the
Chapter
For a Living Human Person?
Though he knew
And we knew
And he knew we knew
And we knew he did know
It was bestial to even
Think about it
And to even mention
The scourge that was laying
Him low.
And to plan
With him
For when
He would not be there.
"Three Months"
The doctor had told
Three months
That were drawing to an end.
With the inevitable
Signs of weakness
Of Exhaustion
Of his Life’s end.
The laboured breaths he drew
The fatigue each exertion gave him
(Was this the man who
Could walk miles without rest
And who never even
Caught cold?)
Every sign was there
Yet I kept on hoping
That it was a temporary phase
That perhaps
This tablet
Or Cough syrup
Or Steam inhalation
Would relieve his conjestion
Knowing yet not knowing
And worse of all
Being unable to
Do anything for him at all.
"Three Months "
The Doctor had told us
And now they were over
The house full of relatives
And friends
And mourners
That I did not even feel
What I’d lost
Flesh and bone
Muscle and sinew
To ash, to dust, to nothingness
A void, a vacuum, a vast emptiness
Was there
But I did not even know
It existed
Or the magnitude
Of what’d happened.
Rituals
And the customary mourning
No spice in the food
Sleeping on the floor
Crying.
But where were my tears?
How could I cry?
And lose control
In the midst of all this confusion.
"No I’m all right
I’ll manage"
A glass of tea
Being thrust at me
Again I knew
I was aware
Yet a part of me
Was locked up forever
Cold and frozen
Shut up from the rest of the world
The bier
Swathed in red and white
And covered in flowers
Heavens, why was he lying there
So cold, so stiff and so still?
What had happened to our world?
Just the three of us
And now only two…
They discussed
Who would do the last rites?
As if it mattered
As if death in all its
Awfulness
Was not solemn enough
To be above these
Petty human Considerations.
"So much for the fire"
The priest intoned
As if the fire was not sated enough.
"Three months"
The doctor had announced
Sand now they are long over.
"You’ve been brave"
I’m told
"For what" I ask
"For living and adapting to my circumstances
For doing naturally
What came as it did?"
Miss him
Yes I do
But I cannot
Talk about it
Because no one else knows what
The two of us shared.
Those impossible puns
And those rambles
Up the hill
Picnics with water and perhaps an orange.
Watching "Top Cat"
And discussing the World Cup.
Yes I miss him
But I do not feel
That he’s not there
Because somehow he is
Even though he’s no more.
He is the tree in the garden
The cactus in the big pot.
He’s my love for poetry
And I came to feel
This way
When someone
Stopped me and said
"You are Professor Pande’s Daughter
Aren’t you?
You look just like him"
So a part of him will forever
Live in me
Even though he may fully not
I give him three months",
Said the doctor
Cold, Impersonal, Dry,
Uninvolved.
As if it were just another matter,
Of statistics.
Just another case
That could be put down
As medical History
As if a human Life did not
Mean anything to him.
It was so easy for him to say
So easy for me to hear
But so difficult to understand
So impossible to comprehend.
Mechanically I listened
Dry eyed and shocked
Acutely conscious
That it was very warm
That my clothes clung to my back
That a child’s irritating wail
Was making itself heard
Over the din of hospital noises.
That a fan whirred overhead
That a dusty wind blew outside
I could feel
Everything
Except what I’d just been told.
"Doctors aren’t always right"
A small voice argued
"They can’t be so sure
He looks so fit and fine
Besides they do not know
Where the problem really lies."
Yet a part of me was sure
That I was hoping
In vain
That these people were experienced
That they knew
That they…
Were right.
My father
My own father
My friend, teacher and guide
No, it was not true at all
No, I was in some hideous nightmare
No, no, no!
How could it be?
Lying there on his back
In the impersonal white room
With tubes running through him
Being gnawed at
Cell by cell
Tissue by living tissue
By his own cells gone berserk
Surely a human deserved
A better fate
Than being vanquished
By an enemy
He could not even see.
Than being forced to submit
To fate’s decree
Than being forced to lose
The battle
Even without being given a
Fair chance to fight.
Cancer
The dreaded scourge
That advanced
Slowly
Silently
Yet surely
And steadily
Ate away living flesh
Leaving behind
The putrefying
Remains of
What once was
Life.
No, no, no!
This sort of a situation
Occurred only in books
Or in the T. V.
Or to other people
Not to me
No, not to my family
No, it just was not true.
Perhaps it was only a mistake
Perhaps some-one else’s
Report had got mixed up with his.
"Three Months"
The doctor had said
But of course, it could not be
Why no, certainly no.
We would prove them wrong.
Slowly he would regain his strength
And nursed carefully
Would begin
The slow
But sure
Road to recuperation
Because he was
Alive
And they were talking of
Death.
Because he was going to live
For a long time
Didn’t he have long ear lobes?
"From today
From now"
I decided
"It is going to be the present
That shall be important
Not the past
Nor the anticipation
Of Future Sorrow."
"Three months "
The doctor had spelt out
And I was crying over that?
Upset because I knew
How long he was going to live?
Unhappy to face a prophecy
That could very well be false
And even if it weren’t
At least they were sure
Of his life span.
Which was more than
They could say for us-
Me and my mother
For we were also living under
A constant uncertainty
Of that unsure
Gamble
Called Life.
And even we knew full well
That we would die
Still we lived
Because no one had spelt out
To us with Finality
The length of our span.
Yet the building might fall
The car overturn
Or we may stop breathing
All the worse
Because it would be so sudden
But here at least we had time to
Prepare us.
"Three months"
The doctor had said
And he had meant
Three months of Life
Not of a waiting
For the inevitable Death.
Life that flows on
Surmounting
The obstacles in its path
Life that means
Planning and hoping
For a better
Future.
Life that consists
Of Routine
Of the monotonous
Regularity of waking up early
And going through
The ritual of the day.
Life that meant
Read-out-aloud P.G. Wodehouse
And even Lung-Cancer jokes and puns.
And little smiles
And tears and sobs
When the heart was overcome
Life that consisted of
Making apple juice
In the morning
And presenting
A beautifully served tray
And of humouring him
To eat.
Serving the endless visitors
With Tea or Coffee
And describing to them
Everything
That had occurred
Grateful for the diversion
They provided
Him
And Us
And glad that so many
Loved us.
Life that had become
Awfully simple
It only meant
Drawing the days out
One by one
And being so glad and grateful
"Today nothing happened"
"Three months"
The Doctor had stressed
It was Three months of Hope
However False
However Unsure
Hope that shone brightly
Through the clouds
Of Despair and Dejection
Hope that meant
Reading about and trying out
Alternative medicine
Even while knowing
It was of No use
Making wheat-grass juice
Crushing basil with yogurt
Because it just might work
Because Science does not have
All the answers
Hope that made
Him insist
On not taking "Proxywon"
Because it was habit forming
Hope that made us-
My mother and I
Smile brightly before him
And before the world
Insisting
"He’s better than yesterday"
Daring to believe it
Even while knowing
That there was no use hoping
."Three months"
The doctor had prophesied
And he prophesied true.
"Get you papers in order"
He said
But how could we do it?
Granted everyone was prepared
For the end
In fact every
Legality had been done
But how
Just how could
One begin to end the
Chapter
For a Living Human Person?
Though he knew
And we knew
And he knew we knew
And we knew he did know
It was bestial to even
Think about it
And to even mention
The scourge that was laying
Him low.
And to plan
With him
For when
He would not be there.
"Three Months"
The doctor had told
Three months
That were drawing to an end.
With the inevitable
Signs of weakness
Of Exhaustion
Of his Life’s end.
The laboured breaths he drew
The fatigue each exertion gave him
(Was this the man who
Could walk miles without rest
And who never even
Caught cold?)
Every sign was there
Yet I kept on hoping
That it was a temporary phase
That perhaps
This tablet
Or Cough syrup
Or Steam inhalation
Would relieve his conjestion
Knowing yet not knowing
And worse of all
Being unable to
Do anything for him at all.
"Three Months "
The Doctor had told us
And now they were over
The house full of relatives
And friends
And mourners
That I did not even feel
What I’d lost
Flesh and bone
Muscle and sinew
To ash, to dust, to nothingness
A void, a vacuum, a vast emptiness
Was there
But I did not even know
It existed
Or the magnitude
Of what’d happened.
Rituals
And the customary mourning
No spice in the food
Sleeping on the floor
Crying.
But where were my tears?
How could I cry?
And lose control
In the midst of all this confusion.
"No I’m all right
I’ll manage"
A glass of tea
Being thrust at me
Again I knew
I was aware
Yet a part of me
Was locked up forever
Cold and frozen
Shut up from the rest of the world
The bier
Swathed in red and white
And covered in flowers
Heavens, why was he lying there
So cold, so stiff and so still?
What had happened to our world?
Just the three of us
And now only two…
They discussed
Who would do the last rites?
As if it mattered
As if death in all its
Awfulness
Was not solemn enough
To be above these
Petty human Considerations.
"So much for the fire"
The priest intoned
As if the fire was not sated enough.
"Three months"
The doctor had announced
Sand now they are long over.
"You’ve been brave"
I’m told
"For what" I ask
"For living and adapting to my circumstances
For doing naturally
What came as it did?"
Miss him
Yes I do
But I cannot
Talk about it
Because no one else knows what
The two of us shared.
Those impossible puns
And those rambles
Up the hill
Picnics with water and perhaps an orange.
Watching "Top Cat"
And discussing the World Cup.
Yes I miss him
But I do not feel
That he’s not there
Because somehow he is
Even though he’s no more.
He is the tree in the garden
The cactus in the big pot.
He’s my love for poetry
And I came to feel
This way
When someone
Stopped me and said
"You are Professor Pande’s Daughter
Aren’t you?
You look just like him"
So a part of him will forever
Live in me
Even though he may fully not
3 comments:
Three months: It was lovely ally, moving and lovely....
:).
Beautifully expressed.
I am in tears, Ally! Regretfully, we both share this same pain of loosing a parent...I still feel like it's a nightmare and I will one day wake up from it...The difference is that you witnessed your dad's suffer and departure and I did not my mom's...which in one way is easier because I do not have the haunting images of her suffer but on the other hand, I also have nothing recent to remember...It's either way tough...Thank you so much for your friendship and support thru my sorrow. Love ya~
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