The ivory, nine by eleven feet wall would have been bland had it not been for the bright, yellow smiles scattered across a chart taped in the center. It was a scheduling chart, but the words were hard to read. Above it, the trembling arm of a clockface kept time, though it felt like it was always eleven o’clock; either the morning was stagnant, or the night lingered. The wall to the right of the chart was brightly lit by dusty light that streamed in from behind a curtain where it had been left slightly drawn. It was a starched, white curtain that hung like a ghost from a cold, metal rod. The wall to the left of the chart was a canvas for shadows that appeared and disappeared as figures moved purposefully past the oversized door.
This is all uncle Zee could see from the hospital bed where he lay motionless, half paralyzed from a stroke. He had been propped up to receive visitors, who now looked at him with a mix of pity and curiosity. Although he stared back at us, it didn’t seem like he really saw us. Sometimes he would blink, a finger would move on his left hand, or his left leg would shift slightly under the sterile sheets. But then his head would drop to one side and his eyes close, while the steady beep of the monitors continued to announce a heartbeat. His seventy-five year old form looked so frail, it could trickle through our fingers if we held it up.
Less than a month ago, when he could still speak, uncle Zee had reminisced about his life at thirty, then forty. He fondly recalled lifting his first born up for a kiss, stimulating conversations with colleagues, and the adventures he shared with friends, one of whom now stood by his bedside, helplessly watching him wither. Uncle Zee had stopped taking his pills. His life at thirty and forty was often all he could remember. He picked fights with his doctor when admonished, and defied his wife by keeping no semblance of a healthy diet. It seemed he was on a mission to die.
Now he lay caged inside a limp body, dead but still alive. The sound of animated voices drifted in from behind the curtain where his roommate was watching a tv show. Uncle Zee had nothing to watch. He had no strength to read, and conversations were rare. When he did have visitors, the sheer effort of explaining himself through slurred speech was tiring, so he chose to stay mute. There was nothing here to kill time, so time killed him instead. He watched the clock tick seconds, and daylight turning fluorescent. The constant beeping in the background had become offensive, and he had an irrational urge to scream at the machines, the nurses and the doctors that had saved his life. But he couldn’t scream. All he could do was feebly move half a body, an inch here and an inch there. So instead, he cried – not the kind of crying that sets you free with tears as they stream down your face. His was a hollow wail that echoed back from the blank walls and got trapped again inside his body.
An orderly walked in with a tray of food and set it down in front of him with a calm, unhurried efficiency. The unattached IV pole was moved aside and we fumbled to help him eat, but were quickly admonished – he was to eat on his own. So we watched him chasing peas. When our chests started to heave heavier, we distracted ourselves by reading labels off the plastic cups on his tray. Thickened lemon water – we wondered how that would help. At this, uncle Zee abruptly put down his fork and pushed away the tray. It helps so they don’t have to change diapers as often, he explained in garbled words, his face complacent, at war with overwhelming grief.
Across the hall, another paralysed man was being helped up in bed. The simple, resigned look on his face now appeared characteristic of this place, where everyone waited in solitude – either for death to arrive or an opening in the rehabilitation ward. When it was time for us to leave, we dimmed the lights and adjusted the pillows. As we turned to look back at him one more time, the tincture of bleach in the air suddenly became more prominent. Trapped inside a macabre painting, his eyes peered back at us – benign, yet barren.
Arjumand Ateeq 