HE RANG the temple bell, applied a saffron mark to his forehead, folded his hands and bowed his head to offer one last prayer to Hanuman, the deity he would often turn to for succour, and fainted.
Darkness descended on him as if daylight had been switched off. His eyelids fluttered. He felt light-headed, as if in a trance. His mountainous worries melted away, then his brain stopped battling what felt like a faraway need to stay awake.
When he opened his eyes, he saw an old, motionless ceiling fan above him, its white blades grimy black with cobwebs and layers of dirt. It had not been cleaned in ages. Disoriented, his vision blurry, he took a while to regain consciousness. He was lying on a bed with a worn-out mattress and a dirty bed-sheet. A saline bottle hung from a rusty iron stand, transporting fluids and injections into his veins, drip by every drip. The ecg monitor mounted on a shelf behind the bed blipped, making haphazard lines in quick succession and a rhythmic tic-tic-tic sound. The digital screen displayed his blood pressure and pulse rate. He quietly studied the large, high-ceilinged room. He found himself relaxing. But at the same time his anxiety started coming back. He felt strained, his heart constricted.
Alongside him were eight or ten people in the room, a couple of them writhing in pain, fidgeting in their beds. Some others lay listless, almost dead. Two short, stout women in their fifties, clad in white, went in and out of the room, recording temperatures of the ailing men on the beds, administering medicine and yelling at the gathered crowds to wait outside.
For him, the surroundings were unnerving. It was not until he saw both his married daughters and a few familiar faces by his side that he felt reassured. It was a hospital and not the afterlife.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der November 16, 2021-Ausgabe von Down To Earth.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der November 16, 2021-Ausgabe von Down To Earth.
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