Bringing Sunshine (1148 words)

As I entered the room, I saw a frail old man on the bed with a week's unshaven stubble, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The bed seemed very large for his tiny frame. He was looking vacantly at the ceiling. I had walked in softly, and yet, to my surprise, he turned his eyes towards me, showing his alertness. He peered at me through his glassy eyes as if questioning my intrusion in his private space

The nurse, Omana, as seen on the name tag, warned me that his left side was paralysed and that his speech was affected. As if these were not sufficient, he had a very weak heart and impaired kidneys. He was brought from a senior home when he developed difficulty breathing. Several tubes were protruding from his body, and he was on oxygen. I could gather from the nurse that his condition was very critical and that doctors were just making him comfortable, with no scope for treatment

" I feel sorry for him, as he has no relatives or friends to visit him except occasionally the staff of the home. I think he is a rich man and can afford the best treatment if only his condition permitted. Sadly, it is not so, and I cannot say when the end will come, maybe, in a day or a week or a month,” Omana continued.

“I am very sorry to hear about his condition. He looks almost like my grandpa in his last days. Incidentally, I am Sweta, studying in Class 12 in ARM High School,” I replied

“I am happy you will be coming to the hospital as part of your extracurricular programme. While you may be going to many wards, please do make an effort to spend a few minutes at least with this patient. It pains me to see him lonely in what seem to be his last days,” she suggested.

“To be frank, I do not like visiting hospitals. It is not that I am afraid of catching infections that is spread all over there. But what repels me is the smell of chloroform mixed with pungent phenyl, the gloomy ambience with death stalking every ward, the sad and concerned faces and the groans of patients in pain. I could not refuse when my principal suggested that I do some social work in a hospital to add credit to my CV."

I made it a point to spend about ten minutes with him three or four days a week. After a couple of days, I could see a sign of recognition, with his eyes widening and a pucker breaking on his crooked lips. I always drew the chair by his side, held his right hand so I could move or caress his arm or adjust the bedsheet. He would just look at me through his distant eyes or press my hand to express his warmth.

I didn’t know what to talk to him about or what interested him. On the second day, I told him. “I am Sweta in class 12, thatha (grandpa). I visit the hospital as part of my curriculum. As you look very much like my thatha, I wish to spend a few minutes every time I come here. Every morning when I pray, I pray for you too.”

He tightened his grip on my hand, and I saw tears trickling from his eyes. I rushed to wipe them, telling him, “Do not cry, thatha. I like you and would be with you often”

He signalled with his right hand that he wanted water. As I was filling the cup, Omana entered and snatched the cup from my hand.” He cannot take fluids more than half a litre daily. Do not give without checking with me,” she admonished. I felt she was harsh, unaware that she was professional in her duty. When he saw my sad face, he pressed my hand as if to say it is okay.

These days, I went almost daily only to meet him. His head would be turned towards the door from 4 pm, when I usually visited him. I would talk to him about my friends, teachers, parents, my interest in studies and my good rank.

One day, when I spoke about my desire to do engineering and the bleak chances, he raised his eyebrows to ask why.

” My dad cannot afford the fees. I must be content to do a simple graduation. It is fine with me,” I said with a wry smile.

He became silent thereafter and closed his eyes. I felt I had made a mistake in mentioning my problem to a sick man. I lingered for a few minutes, and seeing his eyes closed, I left silently.

Three days later, I brought a bunch of flowers. As I entered his room, I greeted “Thatha, look at these beautiful flowers. I am keeping them on the table for you to see. It is my birthday today”. I saw a flicker of happiness in his eyes before they became expressionless.

Just then, Omana entered his room and whispered, “Shhhhh, he is not well. Please wait outside.” She then administered an injection and increased the speed of oxygen.

I felt like crying when she came out after a few minutes and put her hands on me. “Do not feel bad. His condition has deteriorated, and we will be shifting him to the ICU presently and putting him on life support. From what I learn, his end is very near,” she said.

When I could not control sobbing loudly, she said, “You have been a sunshine at the end of his life. I could see a change in him after you started visiting him. If only he could speak freely, he would have told you what difference you made to him. Incidentally, he asked about you and your details about a week back. I wrote the details from our records and gave them to him”

“Can I go inside and sit with him without talking for two minutes?” I asked

His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. His legs were swollen. He looked very sick. I left immediately as nurses and a stretcher on wheels came in.

The next day, when I entered the ward with all sorts of fears, Omana stopped me and said, “Your thatha, Selvadurai, is no more. He breathed his last at midnight.” As I stifled the cry breaking out, she said, “I am equally sad.”

I stopped visiting the hospital and tried to get over the grief

A fortnight later, I overheard my dad talking to someone on the phone, “Yes, Sweta is my daughter and a student of ARM school. Did you say you are the lawyers for one Selvadurai? ….Yes Sir. We will both come this evening as desired.”

Tears inexplicably swelled in my eyes.

Kindness like a boomerang always returns.