Habits

 

November 4,2018
As my stethoscope clings to my neck like a fine piece of jewellery... I marvel at how my life’s seemingly long winter tale is unravelling, like it is the work of an estranged and free poet on the petal pages of a turning bud. A poet who flew past the doorkeepers of fear, anger and guilt. Now all he is searching for is love.
On the contrary, somedays, it feels like the work of a drunk writer who pours his heart out about a love that has fatally wounded him and something he loathes himself for.
Nevertheless I believe someone somewhere wishes the very best for me.
So every day, I sit at the edge of my bed and wait for what fate has in store for me. I can’t complain about the cards I’ve been dealt with. God has been kind but I haven’t been spared of the human tendency of wanting more. I feel contended every time the over head lights of the operation theatre bathe me in an unhealthy pallor. My henna coloured gloves remind me about the responsibility and faith that is vested in me owing to the gruesome degree of a doctor. Frankly medicine is turning out to be much more than I had ever anticipated. Inspiration from my fathers’ compassion for serving the mankind and a couple of Grey’s Anatomy episodes shoved me into this noble profession.  Draped in blue, I know I am exactly where I ought to be. I go through my careful routine and make sure to expose myself to minimum vulnerability but then I glance at the chest x ray and wonder how detrimental it would to be kissed by someone till his lungs gave out but that’s what love is all about... being crazy and passionate.  Isn’t it ? This might sound like an  exquisite medical jargon per se. Although it’s just the hopeless romantic in me who seeks divine intervention. I try to concentrate, but my thoughts keep drifting away, and I try to find answers to what has happened. Baffled, I decide to pen my feelings down. It helps to keep my mind off things that cloud my mind with smitten insecurities and swooning expectations.

October 12, 2018
Maybe we were just victims of the night. The light has faded, and there is only silence of the wet darkness. I leave my house for the hospital at around 9 pm, only to find no cars on the windswept street. I look at my phone helplessly as the call from the hospital, reporting the hit and run accident and implores me to reach the hospital in time.
To my amazement, within minutes, the dark street suddenly lights up with bright lights of a huge jeep. A tall, quiet looking man with an air of confidence about him, jumps out of it. He regards me for a second with his intelligent dark eyes and asks me to trust him to drop me to my destination. My desperation to save time and probably save lives overcomes my fear of being raped or mugged by this stranger. He introduces himself as a Captain of the Indian Army. He turns on the radio, which to my utter disappointment announces that all the public transportation has been withheld until further notice. He senses my tension and offers to pick me up from the hospital whenever I’m done. He sounds cute with his innocent face and pleading eyes while he swears to drive me home safely that night. In that situation of adrenaline surge, the idea of getting back home was on the back burner.  The dismaying news on the radio is followed by the delightful song “Reason”  by Hoobastank. He knows all the the words and sings in a made up huskier voice. I curve my lips into a wry smile and he sighs. I make a mental note to listen to that song as soon as I get time. During the thirty minute drive to the hospital, I learn that he belongs to Bhopal. He loves dogs. He’s 6’1 and likes to call himself a poet. He describes me as a doll of a woman; small, beautiful and exquisitely made. He apologises if his  feminine description of me sounded creepy. I shake my head nervously. I find him adorable. He drops me at the hospital and I rush into the Operation Theatre.
By the time I wind up at the hospital it is three am and I am exhausted. I drag myself out of the hospital only to find him waiting for me at the exit. I look at him unbelievingly. His athletic figure walks towards me and gracefully opens the door. My eyes are swollen and gritty from the lack of sleep and he offers to grab a cup of coffee from the canteen. We settle at a respectable table. He brings coffee and cajoles me to eat something.
And we talk. All night long. It was the strangest night that I have ever spent. His voice is deep and magnetic. He keeps leaping from one subject to another, exploring, testing me. Every time I think I have figured out what he is really after, he switches to another subject. He is tough but honest. We talk about things I have never heard of, and about subjects in which I considered myself an expert. During the course of the night we talk about Coldplay, Valentino Rossi, Zojila pass, heartbreaks, dreams and everything under the sun. At around seven am, he hesitates and says he needs to get back to work. Five minutes later we thoughtfully get into his car. He leaves me at my doorstep and drives away.

Days afterwards I lie awake and wonder, trying to recall the word, the idea, the magic that has wracked something inside me. Then the realisation finally dawns upon me.
What he did was simple. He had talked to me. Really talked to me. No one had ever done that before. He treated me like an equal, whose opinions and feelings he cared about.  His smile was warm and I couldn’t help these feelings melting through. I tried to get my head straight when my phone beeped with his text. I phoned him as my pulse shot up, failing to contain my excitement. The calls never ceased since that day. People fall into habit patterns. Perhaps for each other we’ll become the people who stay.