The old man's story...
I saw him gazing out of the ancient window. Were his rheumy eyes fixed at the distant church, partly hidden in the sudden mist that enveloped the surroundings? Every day, I found him looking out. As if the people around him did not matter. Their existence was a mere formality for George. Georgie, as we all lovingly called him, was rapidly entering the twilight of his life.
How old was he? His case sheet said he was sixty-six. But I personally felt that he could not have been less than seventy five. Georgie, who was not known to have any close relative, was almost as old as the hospital itself, the high-ceilinged, tin-roofed majestic structure built more than half a century ago by the British, where I have been serving for the last couple of years.
Initially, he irritated me, this old man Georgie. I remember my first encounter with George on that humid summer day. I was the new doctor in the block, energetic and confident, with just a dash of arrogance, and was hence taking my own sweet time to examine each patient carefully and get acquainted with them. A seemingly robust man was occupying Bed Number 13, the bed with the best location as it was adjacent to the huge French window of the particular room. With his file in my hand, I approached him with a smile, “So Mr. George, it seems we are doing fine. I guess you can be discharged tomorrow.” He looked at me squarely in the eyes and replied placidly, “Doc, YOU are doing fine, not me. Look at this”, he remarked, pointing to a small scratch on his left shin, “Do you see what I had last night? It’s a life threatening allergy, I tell you. I remember having this in my childhood when my mother gave me avocados to eat. I almost died that day. Last night, the hospital served avocado-pudding ; I am sure I am developing the same allergy again.”
I sighed. I had neither the time nor the energy to indulge in petty quarrel with a tiring old man. After instructng the sister-in-charge to continue with whatever medicines George was on, I almost forgot about him.
It was a couple of weeks or so later, when I met him again. He was on a leisurely stroll in the vast verandah of the magnificent hospital, chatting with the wardboys and flirting with the young nurses. Even the senior doctors seemed unable to complete their rounds without greeting George. And everybody seemed happy to see the fellow! I found the anger rising inside me. How could this place keep sheltering a healthy man for no apparent reason, when I was compelled to turn away genuinely needy patients for the lack of a bed in this hospital? I decided to do something about it.
I hurried to meet the Chief Accounts Officer. He looked up at me strangely when I asked to see George’s file. I hoped to find a heapful of unpaid bills; this will help me to convince the management to politely send George away. But to my utter dismay I found that all his bills were paid, and in fact, a handsome amount was deposited in advance too!
I decided to meet George, one to one, and have a candid discussion. As the raindrops beat against the tin roof of the hospital, I found George in his most preferred position atop his precious bed, with his back reclining against two pillows. Two pillows! I made a mental note to point this out to the housekeeping staff tomorrow. Even the single bed in the doctor’s duty room has just one soiled pillow!
A look of joie de vivre played on his face. I was in no mood to exchange pleasantries. I asked him almost sarcastically, “Old man, why exactly you are here when you have loads of money to live a good life at home?”
He remained silent for sometime. I was becoming restless and irritated. He slowly removed his spectacles, looked up at me with a vague look, and replied, “Young man, do you know what loneliness is?”
Whatever I expected, I did not expect this question from the seemingly cheerful man. George went on, “ I do not want to live long Doc..But what do I do? Stella, my wife, was killed in a hit-and-run accident five years back; the Director of this hospital was driving the steel gray SUV that took away Stella from me forever. We were childless; I owned a departmental store near the main square of this town. But with Stella, I also lost my will to live. I had no one else. Most of my relatives are busy with their own lives; my friends drifted apart. The day Stella was buried in the graveyard near the church which you can see from this window, the Director approached me. He was full of apologies, full of remorse. My heart went out to the man, who, in a bout of inebriated driving, took away the only person I had in my life. I decided not to sue him. Instead, I made an offer. I asked him to allot me a bed in his hospital till my last breath, with a view of the church. The poor man agreed of course. I gave away all my money to the hospital, except for the amount required to meet my minimal needs.”
A single tear dropped down his left eye. I stood still. He smiled and continued, “When Stella asked me to quit smoking, I used to tell her that what is the point of living a long life. And now, with she gone forever, I wonder if I should have smoked some more so that I too could have gone away with her. I think of her Doc, every day, every moment. And when I am ready to be permanently discharged from this world, I want to be near her. So you cannot throw me away now. My time has not come yet.”
And from that day onwards, I start my day with a little conversation with Georgie. I see his misty eyes searching for his Stella in the distant horizon. Does he really see her, as he claims, in the tidy stairs of the church, sitting cross-legged with a smile of contentment in her face? At times, his attachment with loneliness scares me. But I guess he has found the purpose to live in this tin-roofed hospital.
As I sat on behind the steering wheel in order to hit the familiar route that takes me home every day, I reminded myself to gift the long-promised dangler earrings to my wife, and also give a new wrist watch to my mother who has been wearing the repeatedly-repaired antique piece for the last many years.
“Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.”
(CHRISTINA ROSSETTI)
How old was he? His case sheet said he was sixty-six. But I personally felt that he could not have been less than seventy five. Georgie, who was not known to have any close relative, was almost as old as the hospital itself, the high-ceilinged, tin-roofed majestic structure built more than half a century ago by the British, where I have been serving for the last couple of years.
Initially, he irritated me, this old man Georgie. I remember my first encounter with George on that humid summer day. I was the new doctor in the block, energetic and confident, with just a dash of arrogance, and was hence taking my own sweet time to examine each patient carefully and get acquainted with them. A seemingly robust man was occupying Bed Number 13, the bed with the best location as it was adjacent to the huge French window of the particular room. With his file in my hand, I approached him with a smile, “So Mr. George, it seems we are doing fine. I guess you can be discharged tomorrow.” He looked at me squarely in the eyes and replied placidly, “Doc, YOU are doing fine, not me. Look at this”, he remarked, pointing to a small scratch on his left shin, “Do you see what I had last night? It’s a life threatening allergy, I tell you. I remember having this in my childhood when my mother gave me avocados to eat. I almost died that day. Last night, the hospital served avocado-pudding ; I am sure I am developing the same allergy again.”
I sighed. I had neither the time nor the energy to indulge in petty quarrel with a tiring old man. After instructng the sister-in-charge to continue with whatever medicines George was on, I almost forgot about him.
It was a couple of weeks or so later, when I met him again. He was on a leisurely stroll in the vast verandah of the magnificent hospital, chatting with the wardboys and flirting with the young nurses. Even the senior doctors seemed unable to complete their rounds without greeting George. And everybody seemed happy to see the fellow! I found the anger rising inside me. How could this place keep sheltering a healthy man for no apparent reason, when I was compelled to turn away genuinely needy patients for the lack of a bed in this hospital? I decided to do something about it.
I hurried to meet the Chief Accounts Officer. He looked up at me strangely when I asked to see George’s file. I hoped to find a heapful of unpaid bills; this will help me to convince the management to politely send George away. But to my utter dismay I found that all his bills were paid, and in fact, a handsome amount was deposited in advance too!
I decided to meet George, one to one, and have a candid discussion. As the raindrops beat against the tin roof of the hospital, I found George in his most preferred position atop his precious bed, with his back reclining against two pillows. Two pillows! I made a mental note to point this out to the housekeeping staff tomorrow. Even the single bed in the doctor’s duty room has just one soiled pillow!
A look of joie de vivre played on his face. I was in no mood to exchange pleasantries. I asked him almost sarcastically, “Old man, why exactly you are here when you have loads of money to live a good life at home?”
He remained silent for sometime. I was becoming restless and irritated. He slowly removed his spectacles, looked up at me with a vague look, and replied, “Young man, do you know what loneliness is?”
Whatever I expected, I did not expect this question from the seemingly cheerful man. George went on, “ I do not want to live long Doc..But what do I do? Stella, my wife, was killed in a hit-and-run accident five years back; the Director of this hospital was driving the steel gray SUV that took away Stella from me forever. We were childless; I owned a departmental store near the main square of this town. But with Stella, I also lost my will to live. I had no one else. Most of my relatives are busy with their own lives; my friends drifted apart. The day Stella was buried in the graveyard near the church which you can see from this window, the Director approached me. He was full of apologies, full of remorse. My heart went out to the man, who, in a bout of inebriated driving, took away the only person I had in my life. I decided not to sue him. Instead, I made an offer. I asked him to allot me a bed in his hospital till my last breath, with a view of the church. The poor man agreed of course. I gave away all my money to the hospital, except for the amount required to meet my minimal needs.”
A single tear dropped down his left eye. I stood still. He smiled and continued, “When Stella asked me to quit smoking, I used to tell her that what is the point of living a long life. And now, with she gone forever, I wonder if I should have smoked some more so that I too could have gone away with her. I think of her Doc, every day, every moment. And when I am ready to be permanently discharged from this world, I want to be near her. So you cannot throw me away now. My time has not come yet.”
And from that day onwards, I start my day with a little conversation with Georgie. I see his misty eyes searching for his Stella in the distant horizon. Does he really see her, as he claims, in the tidy stairs of the church, sitting cross-legged with a smile of contentment in her face? At times, his attachment with loneliness scares me. But I guess he has found the purpose to live in this tin-roofed hospital.
As I sat on behind the steering wheel in order to hit the familiar route that takes me home every day, I reminded myself to gift the long-promised dangler earrings to my wife, and also give a new wrist watch to my mother who has been wearing the repeatedly-repaired antique piece for the last many years.
“Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.”
(CHRISTINA ROSSETTI)
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