It is an old house painted white. On the outside is written; RAHAT KADA in English and in Urdu. And below that is a sentence, which made goose pimples on my arm. It means a nursing home for terminally ill cancer patients. The word is “La Illaj”
Only yesterday I was thinking “Life is so wonderful. Just perfect. The weather is gorgeous, the views from my present home lovely, ever family member is in good health, and life is just fun”. And gratefulness swept in to my heart. “How can I thank my God? I though to myself. And the answer was clear. Volunteer work of course. Then the ‘Shaitani’ questions arose in my mind (there are all delaying and denying tactics) when? Where? How? Can I afford it? God! The petrol prices have gone up again. The food too!! (It will, it will!) These thoughts were swept off. I have dishes to wash, and food to plan. And my book to think of ….”At this pace it will never be done!” and the resolution passed “No more articles on any other topic!”
Dinnertime is full of chatter and exchange of views and what not. Yesterday was no exception. The phone rang (just as I was beginning to boil, hating interruption of food for phones….) I saw my husband walking off to get it. “It is for you!” said my husband, handing it to me. I raised band, handing it to me. I raised my eyebrows and mouthed “Who?” to him. He looked blank. I put on my false smile and said my most pleasant “Hello!”.
“Shireen, the plan is finalized, would you like to go to the cancer institute tomorrow?” it was my friend Uzma, who is a doctor and who had mentioned volunteer work. “Why not? Okay, I’ll be ready!” well, well this is just what I was thinking of. A casual conversation at a party, has ended up by becoming an answer to a prayer.
I look a deep breath. I had done volunteer work for handicapped children earlier. I knew what it means. The toughest part is one’s won self. To have to grip one’s reactions. To behave normally and try to help the persons in a manner which is or help to them. They must not feel that I am taking pity on them. Which is true. I am there in the hope of helping them in any way that I can. Actually, surprising, in such cases, you find out, that they help you more than you can ever help them. They open your eyes, your brain, and bring you to your own senses. Something very important.
So, we went today. Along with Uzma were there other women too. One had taken 10 kilos of meat for teammates, and the other was taking fruit, juices, mil, porridge, and chickens. I looked guiltily at Uzma. “Why didn’t you tell me, I could have taken something along?”
“I purposely didn’t. she said, “It is better for one of us to take something at every visit. Like this every time we go, we will be doing something”.
“Sounds logical,” I thought. “It’s house, like any other, off Tariq road, on Haali Road. It is an old house painted white. On the outside is written; RAHATKADA in English and in Urdu. And below that is a sentence, which made goose pimples on my arm. It means a nursing home for terminally ill cancer patients. The word used is “La Illaj”.
“How does it feel to walk in here as a patient?” I wondered. Perhaps I would be able to answer my question when I would be leaving the place a little while later. My steps took me inside the white painted spic-and-span house. The members of the staff are all smiling. Opening the door we walked inside. The first room had four beds. The one on the right has a young girl. (As old as may eldest daughter), No. I must not cry. These tears which blind my eyes as I write must not be allowed to stop me from writing something that has to be said. You, as my reader are entitled to the truth. The truth of what I saw just a few hours ago.
Yes, I am better now. So I was saying there is this girl of about 15 years of age lying in bed. I can see that her hair in thinned. Her expression is normal. As I looked I realized that she had one leg, the wooden end of an artificial leg could be seen from the end of the other shalwar. My expression was normal too. (I made sure of that!). I smiled at her and she smiled back. The girl sitting nest to her, probably a relative, looked depressed.
The other women were talking to an elderly lady on the other bed. She had pink lipstick on and looked well. She was smiling and saying “I knew you would come. So I have been up, ready and waiting for you, since this morning!” everyone was smiling and chatting. “she has been a teacher for 35 years”. My friend told me.
We walked on. There were daughters sitting with mothers. Some feeding them with spoonfuls of soup. And some were tending to the open wounds. One daughter had a smile plastered on her face. As if she is forcing herself to smile “I could just hear her thoughts reflected on her face. Young girls. None of them more than 18 years or so, sitting here tending to their dying mothers. Trying to heal wounds they know can never be healed. Doing everything with a smile, and much bravery.
I didn’t see anyone cry. No tears, No expressions of agony. I heard no cries of pain. Northing just a silence. Just an expression of silent acceptance of an inevitable and glaring wound. A wound beyond healing. A pain beyond end. I shall spare you the description of one more patient there. I know I will never forget the sight for as long as live.
The two ladies, who had plans to read the Quran for some of the patients, went ahead with their task. I decided “this is enough for the first time”. I plan to be stronger next time”. I have heard that most families find it hard to take care of them while going about their own jobs, the cost of living being so high.
So, these inmates here are all alone. But for this institution. And how there is you and me along with those other silent people making donations with which this place is running. I plan to visit patients here every week. With my ignorance, my presence, and my keenness to help |
