Letter to Hospital

It is fascinating to conclude that even though you are often life-saving, you are never dear. So, now that I have visited three hospitals over the last four-five days, I had to write a letter to you. Hospital. I used to wonder what was the difference between a hospital and a nursing home when I had to be admitted in one. Having learnt it, I observed no one cared much, so I address you both as one entity. And the first thing which comes to my mind is your smell. No, not the smell of disease, or cleanliness, or of white silences, but more likely a smell of sadness. You most certainly know that smell, don't you? If you could travel and visit a cinema-hall, you would know the difference. That place smells of joy. While you smell exactly the opposite.

Your smell brings back memories. Memories which are often unhappy. Memories of suffering over victory. Tons of people infest you, I know, and I feel for you. We have this tendency to dislike you, yet alone you stand, strong enough to hold each of our hands, and lead us in, with promises to let us go at your earliest. But that stay is so deranged in nature that it overthrows your concern. As I was walking in and out of you last night, and all of today, I was reminded of how the patients believe in you, and how like a maze they feel trapped, and yet they have no choice but you.

Through floors you house sickness, and offer promises. And once in a lifetime a fire breaks and all hell sets loose. Is it in you to arouse such thoughts? Intensely negative thoughts? Am I complaining too much, where I should actually be grateful? Yes, I am. I am sorry. For, I am really thankful for the way you undertake the responsibility of cure and care of my loved ones and provide a sense of belief, however distant, that even if monetarily drained, health will be regained. I like the way you stand strong, and white. And this time not the white of silence, but the white of faith. I like it that you are there, for me, to hold someone's hand when I am too weak to hold or face it.

On many occasions I have felt like screaming at you because of the gap you starkly present between the moneyed and the not, but then, even religious institutions do, as do educational ones. At least you save the life of the privileged, while the others waste it with a paint of vanity all over their soul. Yes, you are not a dear, but you are revered. I write to you today out of a simple compulsion I feel to thank you. At this given moment my aunt (aged 70 plus) and my friend (aged 6 and half) are in residence with you. Two different you, yet two very same you -- with that sad smell, your hopeful hand holding.

 I feel like giving you a hug, a lasting one. Will you take it?

K.