Waiting one’s turn

In the air conditioned room we sat Facing each other, though not really Facing each other. If chanced to catch the other’s eyes We glanced swiftly away – and then Would covertly watch each other.

We waited our turn – though having arrived later I guessed he would go in first. It was awkward, our faces said, to sit In nothing but a gown that reached just below our knees And flaps held together by bits of Velcro. Sometimes, I saw him demurely pulling down The gown; the inside of his thighs could be seen.

To the head-capped, green-gowned who passed by now and then We would have seemed like specimens in the biology lab Waiting To be dissected To be disemboweled And sewn up back.

It looked lewd The tubes stuck to our hands That ended up in sachets hung from stands. My forearm, shaven, felt embarrassingly nude.

Our hearts were hung in question marks As catheters would wriggle up our veins Probe the innards of our hearts, if need be Balloon, stent or bypass – new words in my vocabulary.

Caught unawares, our glances meet – he smiles; I smile back. He could be in his seventies, I in my fifties. We exchange pleasantries, Strangely comforted by each other Like comrades in despair.

Whenever the swing door opened I could see my wife, friends standing outside A glimpse of a face, a smile, a wave of the hand. Calm, I waited, wondering with regret How my dogs would miss me Not knowing what befell me What prevented me From coming home.

Then I realized that if I were to die It would be this old man’s face That I would carry to my grave.

I was comforted, in a strange way That even in my dogs’ memories I am unlikely to find a permanent place.