by Shikhandin
Shikhandin writes an ode to the selfless (and endless) work of doctors and nurses in hospitals.
The clock has struck a quiet hour,
too early now, even for the bird.
The dog on the road, with
his solitary bark, stands guard. Within
these walls they keep
vigil. As one organic machine.
The names on the boards, in the ledgers,
are those of restless, often heaving,
bodies. The uniformed ones know
the drill. Somewhere in the still
corridor, the click-clack of shoes,
now pause to check, listen to a heart
beat before moving on.
Day brings noise, brings chaos. A group
of Hippocrates’s disciples, and another
from Nightingale’s tribe recede
into the wells of their own private lives.
They are seamlessly replaced
by identical teams. Rank upon rank.
The hubbub, the jostle and bustle. The
meandering, looping queues. Long
pockets of ruminating silences where
surgeons wield scalpels. Then the grating
of wheels. Aura of lights that recede. The ready-
to-be-healed reach their allotted rooms…
All of this is routine. Day through day,
night into night, they battle
misery’s myriad shapes. They run
their endless, interloping schedules. They
live and yield. Are equally fragile. Breaking
and healing their own bodies, hearts and minds.
Shikhandin is the nom de plume of an Indian writer who writes for adults and children. Her published books, as Shikhandin, include “Immoderate Men” (Speaking Tiger), and “Vibhuti Cat” (Duckbill Books). Shikhandin’s recent accolades include pushcart nominee by Aeolian Harp (USA) 2019, winner 2017 Children First Contest curated by Duckbill in association with Parag an initiative of Tata Trust, and first prize Brilliant Flash Fiction Contest 2019 (USA). Read more about her on facebook.com/AuthorShikhandin/
