Hospitality

Waiting rooms smell pretty good - if you don't mind the body odours of fellow waiters. Or waitresses. Of course, it becomes a different smell when you're in a hospital waiting room. That's when you wrinkle your nose and look at the people around you.

Everyone looks tense. Arms folded, legs crossed, lips pursed. They're unobtrusively observing everyone else observing them unobtrusively. Some are talking amongst themselves. Some are gazing vacantly into the distance, faces expressionless. Some are there waiting just to peddle some new wonder drug to the doctor. These are the people who are juggling notes hoping to make that all important sales pitch as if their life depends on it. For the others who are in the waiting room - someone else's life depends...


So, what am I doing in the waiting room?

My Dad's been admitted to the hospital. Nothing much, just a few routine tests. The usual ECGs and X-Rays and CT Scans and blood tests. And this little thing called a "Lymphoma". What's a lymphoma? It's a cancer of the lymph nodes. What are lymph nodes? They are filters or traps for foreign particles and contain white blood cells. What are foreign bodies and white blood cells? Read up on 5th grade biology.

It's visiting hour. People are queuing up outside the lift. There are the usual shoves and pushes that are a part of lift travel. No one's aggressive here though. No annoyed mutterings, no angry glares. Everyone wants to get off at their respective floors and visit the whitewashed room that cages their loved one. The whitewashed room on the sixth floor where my father is.

He's doing fine. He was groggy from the general anaesthesia yesterday when the doctors performed the biopsy. And in his own words, he was talking too much. People do that when they're traumatized. Some go silent, most talk. Some mumble gratitude, most rave. It's the state of the innermost feelings of the mind when the drug exposes the mind's web to the doctor's gentle questions. It's a dissociative anaesthesia that makes the patient walk away from human existence for as long as it's required for the whitecoats to slice off whatever tissue they need for their tests.

The tests which show that Dad has Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

This is a statement of mixed relief. The cancer is non-lethal, but it's aggressive. Chemotherapy will start and change our lives. There will be upheavals - physical, emotional and many other als. He's taking it remarkably well. He knows exactly what's wrong with him and how bad it may be. I'm supposed to be prepared for every eventuality. This is one of those moments in which you become suddenly interested in the view outside the window. Dad's room overlooks a noiseless thoroughfare. This is Calcutta - there's no such thing as a noiseless thoroughfare. The 70foot elevation takes care of whatever stray sounds. The only noise is the rush of blood from thumping hearts in that room. And my father is extremely composed. He knows that he will be cured even at the stage he's in. He knows that there's no eventuality that needs to be prepared for other than the impending treatment. But he's thought everything ahead. Dad's name translates into "sober". It's that sobriety personified right now. There are no hushed voices. He's sick and he's telling us to take care of ourselves!!

Visiting hour is over. The ward boys knock. Dad's coming home tomorrow.

Dinner. Dad's having continental cuisine at the hospital. It's funny when you read the number of good words that begin with C: continental, cuisine, courage, character, calm, confidence, curable. And then comes the Big C. Throws things a bit out of gear. But things will be fine. It will be rocky, but obviously curable. I'm looking at Dad's seat at the dinner table.

It's not a place I'll fit into.