This was the first time, however, I stepped into a health facility with the prospect of people recoiling, and not coming forward, to help a blind man yet to acclimatize with the new environment. This was also, perhaps, for the first time, that someone would hold the opposite end of my white stick, and not my hand, making me feel dangerously untouchable in an unfamiliar environment.
For a blind man who thrived on touch to convey a rainbow of emotions, right from assurance to the depth of ones love, the prospect of having to communicate with people from a distance was heartbreaking.
The reasoning side of me reminded that Coronavirus is dangerously contagious and people must keep a distance, but the irrationally churning emotional side kept wondering why people should be indifferent to me?
I sat in the bumping autorickshaw, sucking in the cool early morning air, wondering how I’d make peace with the idea that I’d get no comfort of physical proximity, something that I always got before and after my blindness. Beyond untouchability, distancing felt like some kind of depravation.
If I thought I had overcome the fear of being worthless in an able-bodied world, the so-called “new normal” scraped open the old wounds. Getting into the hospital, my challenge flashed clearly in front of my mental screen: I’d have to succeed reassuring myself that everything would be alright the moment I was clear of the infection. I wasn’t a bit underestimating the challenge. Keeping my emotions together and emerging from this isolation as the positive thinker would require all the spiritual strength I had.
Dependency wasn’t the only worry, of course.
My scan showed I had 40% of coronavirus infection in the lung, a precarious condition that might lead to sudden drop in blood oxygen levels, breathlessness, oxygenation, incubation and even far worse.
I spent the first hour crying off my tears and gradually adjusting to the reality of isolation. The irony of the situation brought a tiny flicker of smile to my face: I, who always enjoyed solitude and spoke quite frequently about the need for someone to have ones own space and time, am not in a position to enjoy the solitude forced on me by the pandemic.
Then I got up from the bed, took my first few uncertain steps towards the entrance and back to the bed again. I tried to look outside the open window, marveling at the woosh of rumbling engines and thought how the place looked “normal” just a few days after the government began relaxing the lockdown norms.
The early morning hours were quiet, except for the ‘aaya’ who served coffee to the patients on a paper cup. Mine came when I was sniffling away the tears and trying to mentally adjust to the room. From somewhere below came the strong scent of frying dosa and boiling sambar. The ‘cling-clang’ of pots and pans just below the window indicated the presence of a roadside eatery doing brisk business.
I remained sprawled on the bed for nearly an hour, overcome by the urge for self-pity, the rage on the free world outside and the genuine fear of dying in the hospital without the presence of my dear mother, daughter, brother, sister-in-law, sister and her husband.
I tried to blink away the mental picture of local health officials covered in protective gears gripping the edges of the heavy body bag and throwing it into the open mass grave. I wasn’t sure if they had covered the pit completely and had no way of asking anyone.
Unable to control my shaking hands, I picked up the mobile phone lying next to the pillow and played the Thiruvaimozhi from Divya Prabandham. “Oh mind, meditate on Nammazhvar’s lotus feet. He’s the one who wrought the difficult meanings of rare Vedic hymns…”
The chorus of familiar voices calmed my nerves, producing fresh tears, this time of joy and gratitude. How the scriptures speak to the core of your being, to the depth of your soul? The more I listened, the greater was my feeling of positive self-reliance.
A sense of awareness about my surrounding replaced fear. I thanked the almighty for my blindness because there won’t be any lasting image of this dreadful place lodging itself in my brain cells. It also kept my sense of smell and sound pretty strong. I noticed the screeching rubber wheels of a rolling cart the nurses took along while checking the patient’s vitals.
Blindness also meant that the hospital staff would only have voices and no other human qualities. My brain would usually assign a face to the voice I hear, but on this occasion, it stubbornly refused to create faces and characteristics for the people.
The scent of food that filled the room lost its charm in a few minutes. The boiling onions and garlic cloves were discomfortingly strong. I focused on the voices singing the hymns from the Divya Prabandham, trying to absorb its positive energy, feeling strong by the minute.
“Excuse me,” the voice interrupting my reverie was that of the duty doctor. He asked me how I felt, if I had any discomforts in breathing and if I had diabetes, hypertension or heart disease.
The line of questioning alarmed me. “Yes, I take medicines for diabetes, but my sugar levels are close to normal,” I hastened to add. “And yes, I had two blocks in the minor arteries discovered in 2018. No angioplasty, just medicines. I take blood thinners,” I blurted, unable to control the desperation. I wanted this doctor to see me as the healthy human being whose internal organs remain unmolested by the coronavirus.
Just as the doctor’s inquiry was going on, someone -I assume it’s the same ‘aaya’ who gave me coffee—entered the room and kept a box of iddlies and a sachet of sambar on a paper plate. As the doctor’s footsteps retreated, I picked up the packet and realized it would be tricky to untie the sambar sachet. I’m usually clumsy with untying the grandma knots and my hands felt especially unsteady with the growling stomach.
I almost cried out for help, thinking my sister-in-law or my daughter would untie the sachet for me. The momentary feeling of home brought back the heartache with the realization that I was right now in total isolation. Even if I spill the sambar over the pure-white dhoti I wore, there wouldn’t be anybody to understand my challenges, though somebody might clean up the mess, albeit grudgingly.
The possibility of letting the sambar spill only brought more shakes to my fingers. I stopped the process, took a series of deep breaths and told myself that I was doing ok. I need to just pull the string on one side to untie it and open the sachet. I reminded myself to do it slowly to avoid the spill and smiled in relief when the knot came lose.
I wasn’t sure what to do with the empty paper tray and sachets that appeared deflated without the liquid contents. The nurse who wheeled in the mobile stand with blood pressure monitor, thermometer, glucometer, oximeter and other instruments saved further anxieties by taking it from my hand and dumping it in the container outside the room.
“It’s diagonally across from the room,” she informed me, “Just in case you need to throw something, that’s where it is.”