The elusive patient

The elusive patient
Shefali Nautiyal

She was one patient I had become fond of. Though I met her for a purely professional reason, it was the very first sight of Jyotsana Gandhi that froze me. What remained of a mother of two, who had been extricated from the debris of her house after 120 hours, was just the torso. The first thing that came to my mind was, she looks just like any other middle-aged mother. She looks like my mother. The signs of wrinkles, those roughened hands that all mothers have after years of household chores and the tiny earrings they all wear everyday.

A mother she was. Of a grown-up son who lay dead next to her while she fought for life. When his body began decomposing she lost her will to live. She was the mother of a daughter who could not meet her after she was extricated. She was a wife too. Probably the typical wife who does the household work and finds her happiness in that. Jyotsana's condition was critical. Her legs had decayed and so had her left wrist. The doctors immediately amputated the limbs and connected her to complicated tubes and bottles. She had lost her memory. All she remembered was she had been dressed and reaching out for the door knob, with her son and husband just behind... and then the hospital. She wasn't keen on filling in the gaps. She didn't want to, probably. Probably.

Her relatives didn't know whether to cry with happiness or laugh at the obscene joke tragedy played. An old mausi of Jyotsana kept chanting some religious scriptures while the other aunt just stood next to her. As for Jyotsana, she kept mumbling. Talking of going home. She insisted she was fit and fine. While speaking, her face would suddenly twist and tears would flow. With the same suddenness, she would chantòf40ó ``hey bhagwan, hey bhagwan''.

I could never speak to her. But I have stood by her bedside for minutes, even hours, listening to whatever she said. Her relatives narrated the entire story to me, which was subsequently printed. My work finished there and then. But still, I would visit her once a day. For the same reason I haven't been able to explain. Reason didn't really matter. I was not answerable to anybody. Not even myself. That I liked her was sufficient.

Things gradually became normal over the following days. People returned to their lives. For a week I could not go to the hospital and meet Jyotsana. I presumed she was improving. But what bothered me was how she would react once she left the cocooned hospital ward. The harsh, bitter, ugly fact that she had lost virtually everything would then hit her. I thought she would lurch towards hysteria, but would eventually calm down. I made up my mind to keep in touch with Jyotsana even after she was discharged. I wanted to be her friend. Or daughter.

I went to meet her today. Never expecting that she would have died during this time. But she had. Jyotsana's kidneys had failed and her condition worsened. Her bed was occupied by another old ailing man. I was not interested in him. The nurse said flatly that she had died a week back. Pause. Like a fool I smiled at the nurse, who smiled back again like another fool. While walking out of the ward and the hospital, I remembered the face and the inscrutable pain it reflected.

Wish I could convey to her somehow that I had grown very fond of her. For no reasons at all. That I would have loved to share a cup of tea with her, some evening. I don't think she knew.

Jyotsana must be happier up there. With her husband and son. Somewhere in the dark space we don't know. Hope she looks at me and smiles. I wish her a lot of joy.