Time drops in decay
Like a candle burnt out,
And the mountain and woods
Have their day, have their day,
But, kindly old rout,
Of the fire-born moods,
You pass not away
— WB Yeats
Perhaps the most painful thing is to watch the life-breath slip away from a loved one, nano second by nano second.
Battling the Grim Reaper is a surrealistic endgame where winning or losing is the difference between giving up or reclaiming your life .
The Almighty can in one swift and decisive blow snuff out the wavering light at the end of the candle. At least then one can think of making peace with the inky darkness. This twilight zone that stonewalls hope, can be either dusk or dawn. What should one expect for when the battle is a long, drawn out, torturous one?
As my very genial, humble father-in-law struggles to fight for his life, a complete impotency and powerlessness grips my solar plexus, as the cold, clammy smell of death begins to pervade my being.
It is difficult to fathom how the life-breath of someone who could write a library full of travelogues, poems, critiques, laugh, recite poems, cajole, scold and command with his magnetic presence — could just stealthily ebb away one laborious breath after another.
To the doctors, he is an 86-year-old man who is expected to cross over. How does one explain to the world that the shrunk battle-weary person lying on the bed is actually the most indefatigable giant in the Hindi literary world, capable of spinning gossamer dreams enriched with language and beauty, waiting to be read by millions.
Perhaps Death is compelled to play this cat-and-mouse game with him, as it does not have the gumption to take him away simply.
The hospital’s aseptic waiting-room seems like the last stop on the journey to eternity where bleak, medically-fatigued people hang on to every word broadcast by the men and women in white.
The muffled sobs of people undergoing the same surreal journey as we, the loved ones of someone lying hopeless on an ICU bed — feels like an inevitable foreboding flooding our trembling hearts.
Last vestiges
Death, when it strikes suddenly, is swift and ruthless. But this endgame of stealth and conspiracy is fearful and life-sapping.
My mind refuses to give up on optimism, trying to clutch at some of the last vestiges of hope the doctor gives us — some medicine, some miracle might breathe life back into his frail, febrile body.
Standing outside the Submarine glass of ICU, I can see your vulnerable body rise and ebb with the force of the breathing apparatus.
Papa, your name is Ajit — one who cannot be conquered! It is said courage means being scared of death but saddling up anyway! You maybe an ordinary mortal, but you possess that pluck Papa.
In this battle with the insidious micro-organisms invading your body, muster all your strength and strike the enemy, vanquish it with a decisive stroke.
Conquer your fear and confront that black-hooded guy with the sceptre. Let the other guy blink. You can do it. We await your triumphant return from that deep, dark tunnel.
