My brother was suffering from Jaundice and very critical and hospitalised. And here I was, to visit him in a rainy New Delhi with my husband and two daughters aged four and two years respectively. We were put up at a dharmshala across the road from the hospital. The canteen within the premises was exemplary, with staff boys who were always smiling despite occasional tiffs from some impatient attendant or some recuperating patient herself. Clearly, service was their only motto. The proprietor of the canteen had put up a white board on which he penned positive reflections on life before every meal, which I began looking forward to.
The canteen itself felt eerie once in a while; death loomed so close. A jovial man, with his head cocooned in bandage, talked incessantly to probably eclipse reality or ease the pain, for he was terminally ill. A middle aged lady diagnosed with cancer, undergoing chemotherapy, had hair just sprouting out of her scalp. Children can ask taboo questions very casually, my elder daughter asked, “Why has Aunty got such short hair?” To which she quipped smilingly, “I had no hair, it started growing only recently”. There was a small girl with bandage on her head, perhaps a major surgery. And all of them so matter-of-fact all this while, comfortable sharing tables and conversations with strangers, dignified despite illness and so respectful of illness!
My girls being the age they are, were usually up to some dancing, singing or talking which would attract the attention of diners in the small room, compelling some to smile and some to approach and talk to them. It felt good to see these extensions of my being spreading some cheer to the otherwise solemn atmosphere. A staff boy walked up to us and handed a packet of ‘Mata’s suhag pitari’ to my younger daughter. Our spontaneous reaction was “This is not ours!” and then came the realisation. They saw the Divine in my toddler. This is faith; a faith and goodwill that the canteen and its people had established and were everyday passing on to all who partook bread there, some of it was surely percolating through my soul.
Once my brother started responding to treatment, he was allowed to travel back. We too packed our bags and headed home wards. En-route I lost my mobile phone. I was very disturbed as to how could I lose it being the careful person I am! Words from the Geeta Saar that I had read at the canteen the same morning echoed through my consciousness – “What did you bring here that you have lost!” It was surprisingly easy for me to let go of the thought of the loss. Another thought however replaced it. That which I lost was just my mobile phone, maybe precious to me for the contact numbers lost with the handset memory and the part of my identity that I shared with the phone, now in the hands of a total stranger. What about the loss of a loved one or a family member or a dear friend? After all, we were so perilously close to such a situation. What about me dying? Will it be so easy to let go? No. However, what is it that I would do in such a circumstance? I don’t know. Is there anything that I can do about it today? Maybe yes. Be a positive person, value my family and friends for what they are, forgive and forget conflicts, ignore the trivia and focus on the bigger picture of life so that when these precious people are no more in this world or I have to move on, the one feeling of remorse for a relationship unfulfilled would not be there. That is all I can do for that dreaded tomorrow. And once I have done this, perhaps I would not dread that tomorrow as much!
Divya Jalan
September 29, 2010
