There's something about the atmosphere I'm in. It's cold, silent, with a long-known smell all around it. There are busy people turning up again and again with some important work. There is half-hourly visit of people who are trained to smile under all circumstances (do they compensate for this when they go home or have they grown a habit of smiling even amidst all adversities?), with eyes fixed on the bed in front and the infusion bottles above, vocal cords maintaining a monotone, mouths uttering words they know we know. There's a person lying down in front of me, eyes closed, occasionally frowning in pain, snoring sometimes and sometimes waking up, looking all but helpless.
There has been another closed environment I've been in, a month back. It was cold, silent, with the smell of artificial flowers in it, with busy people turning up and asking about convenience and inconvenience with that trained smile of assurance. The visit was very occasional, on asking maybe, or sometimes once a day as a routine. This same person was there, talking to me, listening to my babbling, smiling at everything I said, hiding all symptoms of his distress, and assuring more than anyone as always.
For years, I've been with this person who believed and hoped that I will grow up some day and be sober, all the while making me cope with every environmental change. I would mess up, and he would warn. I would further mess up, and he would scold. I would be on the edge, and he would manage things to help me survive. I have never seen such a person again, who would have so much of patience in dealing with anything in life (I'm one of the biggest troubles). Now I'm looking at him, lying down, in front of me.
People are coming in the afternoon, three, four, five, six... all saying the same thing and doing the same. Concerns are overpowered by sympathy, without the person really needing them. They will come, talk and go, making way for another group to come and do the same, making me sit or stand at a corner shrinking. I don't want to run away from this place, because I have the longest lasting companion of mine to take care of. Yet I want to vanish in the air, so that nobody including myself can see me. I have always been on a losing side... loss of all I had, all I wanted to hold on to. There is a loneliness everywhere. I remember all the nightmares I've been having since 15-20 days. I know I cannot stay back to see him recover, walk merrily and hug me saying "everything is going to be fine, I'm there. Even if it concerns me, I'm there". Yes I still believe in cure as more than '5 year-survival'. When he moves his legs and frowns with the twitching of the abdominal stitch, when he asks me to hand him over some water, when he closes his eyes to cover up every distress and pain he has, I want to stretch my hands and say "everything is going to be fine, I'm there". But I'm not there. I won't be. I can't be. I'd go back to the exile, making four times daily calls to ask about his health (my mother would clear up her throat every moment, I would be silent and then recompose myself and talk, and the hero would say "huh, I'm fine"). Enough for someone to do, isn't it? After the calls would be over, I would sit in the balcony and look at the sky clouded by light, tears dropping down, all restlessness smoked out for that moment, with complete avolition, and forced closure of thinking capabilities(though not being angry with anything because I've learned its futility the harder way). I'd go on believing life is fair and everything is going to be good, and will again be hit by another truth of a different kind. There's no end. And I'll remember how I sat with my back against the wall, looking at my best friend, my father, with the hope that he would look at me with the smirk in his eyes and say, "dhur boka, swopno dekhe eto bhoy pele chole?"
There has been another closed environment I've been in, a month back. It was cold, silent, with the smell of artificial flowers in it, with busy people turning up and asking about convenience and inconvenience with that trained smile of assurance. The visit was very occasional, on asking maybe, or sometimes once a day as a routine. This same person was there, talking to me, listening to my babbling, smiling at everything I said, hiding all symptoms of his distress, and assuring more than anyone as always.
For years, I've been with this person who believed and hoped that I will grow up some day and be sober, all the while making me cope with every environmental change. I would mess up, and he would warn. I would further mess up, and he would scold. I would be on the edge, and he would manage things to help me survive. I have never seen such a person again, who would have so much of patience in dealing with anything in life (I'm one of the biggest troubles). Now I'm looking at him, lying down, in front of me.
People are coming in the afternoon, three, four, five, six... all saying the same thing and doing the same. Concerns are overpowered by sympathy, without the person really needing them. They will come, talk and go, making way for another group to come and do the same, making me sit or stand at a corner shrinking. I don't want to run away from this place, because I have the longest lasting companion of mine to take care of. Yet I want to vanish in the air, so that nobody including myself can see me. I have always been on a losing side... loss of all I had, all I wanted to hold on to. There is a loneliness everywhere. I remember all the nightmares I've been having since 15-20 days. I know I cannot stay back to see him recover, walk merrily and hug me saying "everything is going to be fine, I'm there. Even if it concerns me, I'm there". Yes I still believe in cure as more than '5 year-survival'. When he moves his legs and frowns with the twitching of the abdominal stitch, when he asks me to hand him over some water, when he closes his eyes to cover up every distress and pain he has, I want to stretch my hands and say "everything is going to be fine, I'm there". But I'm not there. I won't be. I can't be. I'd go back to the exile, making four times daily calls to ask about his health (my mother would clear up her throat every moment, I would be silent and then recompose myself and talk, and the hero would say "huh, I'm fine"). Enough for someone to do, isn't it? After the calls would be over, I would sit in the balcony and look at the sky clouded by light, tears dropping down, all restlessness smoked out for that moment, with complete avolition, and forced closure of thinking capabilities(though not being angry with anything because I've learned its futility the harder way). I'd go on believing life is fair and everything is going to be good, and will again be hit by another truth of a different kind. There's no end. And I'll remember how I sat with my back against the wall, looking at my best friend, my father, with the hope that he would look at me with the smirk in his eyes and say, "dhur boka, swopno dekhe eto bhoy pele chole?"
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