From the bedside of the sick

From the bedside of the sick

Between the catheter,

And the steel bed,

Lies a continent of

Despair and hope,

The person frail,

Strapped to the

Drip hanging from

A bald pole,

Beyond your reach,

Responding to your

Calls but feebly,

Eyes fluttering a bit,

Reviving hopes in your

Constricted chest,

On a bitter winter morn,

When fog has eaten up

All the new blocks of

Hospital and other

Famous New Delhi landmarks,

And a highway that snakes around and never sleeps,

You see the face that was once a delight,

Now creased and shrunk,

A gentle hand that was held

On occasions so many,

In the Central Park,

Crossing the Times Square,

---And you had looked back so longingly

At the receding Broadway and the

Seventh Avenue, like a child; the thunder of the

Applause still ringing in our ears; we were so happy,

Lazarus and I, the one who rose from the dead, I remember you

Saying, eyes bright, smile playing on those full lips, the pout, so dear

To my pining heart---

In the Trafalgar Square, we had fed the pigeons before it was banned,

Because, somebody higher up thought, the feral pigeons were a health hazard;

And we had crossed the Parisian streets in the night,

L’Avenue des Champs Elysees and the Montmartre fascinated you the most;

And, in Delhi, we shopped in Connaught Place…

…And we read Dr. Faustus, while you slept in the Roman ruins,

And, in the Colosseum, we heard the screams from the 80 AD,

The screams of butchered animals and gladiators from that place,

You had shivered badly and said, I see ghosts that need to be buried;

The rains had caught us surprised in Auschwitz,

And in the plains left by the Khmer Rouge,

I was holding your hands,

I still do,

In this hospital room,

Thinking of you,

Your lovely voice,

Your concerns,

While it rains,

And I hope to take you home,

One of these days,

Where others wait,

And Homer still stares from the wall,

Eyes glassy but all-seeing,

As you had correctly said…