I See You

Since a remote time that I cannot remember, they have been calling me a winner. It is strange, not to feel happiness even though they report that I am a timeless survivor. How could I? Through tireless time, adamant sense and holy smoke, all I have been able to see are the changing faces beside me -- fragile, attended, neglected -- bored of competing. They say, we all have fighting spirits. Spirit, that's all I smell, all the time. Tied to tubes and fed on chemicals, I have been winning. Winning, yes, in spite of myself. I fail to recognize whose they speak of -- theirs, or mine?

A week back, I had come to open my eyes to a young girl opposite me -- broken to bits. I thought of when I was that tiny, playing with my plaits following me on my back like a friend; and I looked at her, neat plaits on her shoulder, lying as limp as her. Her poor parents come in routinely, touch her, and shed routine tears. They ask the same questions to those in white, medicated coats. I am sorry, I don't know if that was a week back. Before (or, after?), there was a really haggard looking man, complete with frail hair, and incessant coughing.. I saw him suffer, while all around, everyone clapped as more stories about him unfolded through graph charts. 

They keep us as protected objects and stitch us with their disinfected instruments. And then other faces who claim us to be their own, hanker with each other whether I should continue the race, or not. Who are they? Who am I? I am no more the me I last remember of myself. Actually, as I began, I do not remember anything. My life is this bed, and its overdone whiteness. My life is the constant beep over me which disturbs me. My life are the people who clean me and call me Amma, Aunty, Aai, and sometimes 245, my bed number. 

Sometimes, faintly, I hear them whisper to each other that I had a bad accident, and a massive cerebral attack. They do not know I can hear them. They think I am as deaf as blind. Yes, I have heard them call me blind. I am inside this place they call ICU, and they call me a survivor. Who do I call ignorant? Them? Me?

If only I were not mute enough to say, "I see you."