Namrata Pandit. Everything about her was awe-inspiring. The correct, smart, attractive woman who led a desirous, single life, brought to mind one word, automatically -- though she was polite, and mostly a healer -- 'fearless.' She was the envy of her neighbours and the pride of her relatives. She was popular among friends and loved by fellow doctors. So, what could possibly be missing in her life tonight, you think? Oh, and she was a General Physician by the way.
I will tell you, reader. Namrata Pandit was an achiever, a go-getter, a tigress on prowl by the day. Whilst, once the day declared curtains, like a flower, the courage petals in her went for a shut down. Invisible little monsters haunted her through the late evening into the night. It often took her mild medicated pills -- one of the many these 'med reps' left her to prescribe -- to sooth her nerves. A doctor's life, dear reader, I must once again highlight, has no family time. One of the reasons, Namrata decided to remain single. Our doctor, though, on havoc nights kept looking at the neon of the bedside alarm, to see its digits change shape and leave a semi digit of sameness behind. She would pray to be called in for an Emergency at the Nursing Home with which she was attached. The rest of the night then, she used to think, would pass of actively and alarmingly without a second thought.
Nights on which she did fall asleep were another site. Yes reader, site, not sight. It was a site on which dreams could be developed, such was the peace painted on her face. It felt like a conspiracy between God and Peace to gift Namrata a night. The bedside neon did not scream in its noiseless tick. And suddenly she would be awake -- boom -- a nightmare. The explosion on Peace by the Enemies of conspiracy. Her heart beating faster than time could keep a count and her surroundings trying to make logical sense to her, Dr Namrata Pandit then often takes hours to go back to sleep. These were the nights she hated the most. She feared the most.
She often wondered if someone were sleeping next to her, would she cling on to the person, and like a contagious disease, if the fear would be transmitted. Or, it would be soaked in to evaporate and give back a strong, warm, knowing embrace. Who knows, reader! I can only tell one thing about her -- she certainly does not sound like me.
The letterhead shone by the overhead car light. A red Volkswagon Polo did not look red in the dark. It read -- Dr Namrata Pandit, MD. Consultant Psychiatrist, St Teresa's Nursing Home.
I will tell you, reader. Namrata Pandit was an achiever, a go-getter, a tigress on prowl by the day. Whilst, once the day declared curtains, like a flower, the courage petals in her went for a shut down. Invisible little monsters haunted her through the late evening into the night. It often took her mild medicated pills -- one of the many these 'med reps' left her to prescribe -- to sooth her nerves. A doctor's life, dear reader, I must once again highlight, has no family time. One of the reasons, Namrata decided to remain single. Our doctor, though, on havoc nights kept looking at the neon of the bedside alarm, to see its digits change shape and leave a semi digit of sameness behind. She would pray to be called in for an Emergency at the Nursing Home with which she was attached. The rest of the night then, she used to think, would pass of actively and alarmingly without a second thought.
Nights on which she did fall asleep were another site. Yes reader, site, not sight. It was a site on which dreams could be developed, such was the peace painted on her face. It felt like a conspiracy between God and Peace to gift Namrata a night. The bedside neon did not scream in its noiseless tick. And suddenly she would be awake -- boom -- a nightmare. The explosion on Peace by the Enemies of conspiracy. Her heart beating faster than time could keep a count and her surroundings trying to make logical sense to her, Dr Namrata Pandit then often takes hours to go back to sleep. These were the nights she hated the most. She feared the most.
She often wondered if someone were sleeping next to her, would she cling on to the person, and like a contagious disease, if the fear would be transmitted. Or, it would be soaked in to evaporate and give back a strong, warm, knowing embrace. Who knows, reader! I can only tell one thing about her -- she certainly does not sound like me.
The letterhead shone by the overhead car light. A red Volkswagon Polo did not look red in the dark. It read -- Dr Namrata Pandit, MD. Consultant Psychiatrist, St Teresa's Nursing Home.
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