The by-pass starts with a good ascent. Whenever we do doubles, the scooter struggles a bit to climb it. Halfway through, it picks up the momentum. Along the left side lies the mortuary. The road was primarily intended for its use but after the super speciality and multi speciality blocks came up, the road was extended. These blocks house a large number of patients during their OP hours.

Having studied in Trivandrum for the four years of my college life, I never had a reason to come here. Some of them who were regular blood donors, come here from time to time. They were a bit familiar with the surroundings. I had no clue as to how it was. It was after I began seeing her that I came to see the premises. It is huge. There are a couple of other hospitals inside the campus. The playground is huge. It is on the way to the UG campus, which is in one corner along with the various hostels for UG and PG students. Old buildings somehow seem to coexist with new ones.

After our marriage, I was able to get inside her department. I don’t like going to hospitals. It makes me uneasy. I get affected by seeing people lying in beds suffering. I know I should be grateful for the good health that I have. Still, it makes me uneasy. I try to avoid it as much as I can. She knows this. She doesn't force me to come inside the hospital.

I am uncomfortable when it comes to the matter of death. It affects me. Any news of death spoils my mood. I go into an off state. Being a doctor she has a totally different view of it. We have had many discussions about it. I was astonished to hear her take on it. Initially, it was a bit difficult for me to comprehend. Later on, as we spent time together, I got to understand a bit of it. I will not be able to see it in the way she sees it. It is a part of her profession. This has made me be a bit more comfortable with it, which is a good improvement.

Yesterday night I came to see her in her department. She couldn’t make it for lunch. She was caught up with work. We had already decided that I would come and meet her in the evening from where we would go out and have dinner. Since there was not much workload we were able to go out and grab a burger. Otherwise, we would have gone to the Indian Coffee House and had dosa. As we were having the burger she felt a craving for masala dosa and vada. I told her I was full and that if she wanted we could go and grab one. She dismissed it and shifted the plan for breakfast.

The main entry to her department was closed. She came out and took me in through an alternative entry. We passed through the casualty. I saw the ward filled with patients. Every bed had an IV hung to it. A bystander would be beside them. Because of Covid, only one bystander is allowed. Otherwise, there would have been a small group of people surrounding the patient. I feel uneasy seeing it. She senses this and holds my hand and starts talking about how her day went by.

Sickness is something that comes to all. It is the only thing that can extract the little empathy we have and make it visible. It also makes us humble. It shows us our mortality. It comes in various forms, each one unique. In cancer, we have the emperor of all maladies. In dementia, we have the supreme mage of illusion. In the various pandemics, we have the titan of fragility. Everything exposes our weaknesses and pressure points. We do put up a fight and make a comeback, but I guess the whole idea of it is to make us realise what we are. We take it to ourselves to be the dominating species, having made this planet ours and moving on to challenging frontiers. It surely puts us amongst the pioneering species of this universe. We get carried away by that.

During the second wave that hit us last May, she had to take a week-long Covid duty in one of the ICUs. After that hectic week, she was drained and a feeling of sorrow hung on her face. On enquiring, she said she had witnessed the deaths of young people due to corona. They were in the age group of thirty to thirty-five. They had so much of life left in them and yet they succumbed to it. I know she has dealt with cancer patients in this same age group. She was normal at that time. This clearly had affected her. Over a hot cup of coffee, she opened up to me and said she was afraid for us. I tried to feign bravery but I couldn’t. I said I was afraid too. I was afraid for her. She was directly in the firing line. She already underwent a bout of Covid last year. Initially, it was bad but then she recovered quickly. She says her lung capacity has reduced. She came to this hypothesis after our walk following the coffee. I dismiss it and say it is because of a lack of exercise. Still, she raises her concerns. She says she might not survive another one. I raise my voice to dismiss this. She looks at me in concern. I take this moment to give her a big bear hug and drive home the fact that nothing is going to happen to her. She is a strong woman and nothing is going to break her. A smile cracks her sullen face.

I have nearly reached her department. There is a roundabout in front of it. It has the statue of a mother and a child in her arms. Just behind it is SAT hospital. It is the mother and child hospital. A car has crashed onto its foundation. A couple of bricks have fallen off. The car is empty as expected. I go inside the small parking area in front of her department. I see that the entrance gates are not open. They open around this time, before eight. The one time when I came to pick her up after her duty, she came walking through it. The other times I would pick her up somewhere along the route. She would start off walking after giving me the call to come and pick her up. I mostly picked her up from the main road.

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I look around for security. There is no one in sight. There are a few cars parked in the parking area along with some two-wheelers on the other end. The psychiatry department also shares this parking area.

I have entered the premises of a medical college. This is one place that never sleeps. The sick can be seen at every hour of the day. What I witnessed has stupefied me. It is completely deserted. There is no trace of anyone anywhere. I must say no trace of any human being. Cats and dogs can be found. This is getting even more mysterious.

I back peddle my scooter from the entry to the parking lot and look up. Her department is on the first floor. The windows are open. I can see light inside. I take out my phone. My primary network is down. I open WhatsApp. There is no improvement in the state it was a few minutes ago. I try calling her. The call doesn't connect at all. There is no sound coming in. I feel all the more frustrated and angry. I look around. An eerie stillness engulfs the premises. I try calling her once again. No use. For a change, I try giving her a WhatsApp call. The call gets dropped immediately stating the unavailability of the internet. The next chat on the list is the group chat of our boys. I open it and call out to them. The message doesn't go through. I knew this but I had to try. I am running out of options, which is a state I don’t like. I am someone who is comfortable in knowing that there are options up the sleeve. In case one fails, one can go with the next. There have been situations where I didn’t have this privilege. I somehow managed to wade through them. Recently I feel I have become the person who needs options. Not much though. Maybe a single backup will do.

A thought comes into my mind. I instantly try to weigh in on the options I have. I don’t have much. I will have to do it. But I am shy and not someone who would do it. In my previous workplace, I used this a lot - calling out my peers at the top of my voice to let them know that they are needed. There it was a necessity. It was also my workplace, where I could do whatever I wanted to do. Anything that would ease your work and lets you go ahead with it was appreciated and promoted. I am in a hospital complex and this is not the scenario that promotes it. I look around once again, this time as a reflex action. I am being mindful of my surroundings and checking out the impact my action would create. Since it is empty, I decided to go ahead with it. I scream out my wife's name with full might.

‘ANNNAAAAAAAAAAA.’

The call fades away as soon as it leaves my mouth. It produces no response from her or from anyone. As I called out I was hoping someone might hear it and respond back. For a moment I wished someone would respond. I am feeling scared and anxious. I wait for a while. Silence. I call out her name once again at the top of my throat. Nothing happens.

I kick the side stand and park my scooter where it was. I jump out and walk towards the closed gate. It is locked. I try pulling at it but in vain. I can see that the lights are on along the staircase. I try to get a response by calling out to anyone who was in and around the vicinity.

‘HELLOOO. IS ANYONE IN HERE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? HELLLOOOOO. HELLLLLLOOOOOO. OOOOIIIIII. ANYONE?’

My eyes have welled up. I am becoming emotional. I suddenly feel an immense burden on my shoulders. It is weighing me down. I have no idea what to do. I slump down, holding onto the gate. I shake it violently. It doesn't budge. I soak my face into my hands and try to figure out what is happening. A look at my wristband tells me it is eight forty. By now she must have finished her duty. There is no news from her. I feel a slight panic creeping inside me. I don’t know what to make of it. I finally resign and sit down on the floor. I take out my mobile and look at it. Same state. I look at her DP on WhatsApp. She has put up the pic we had clicked on our wedding anniversary dinner date. She converted it into a black and white image. It looks lovely that way. Monochrome images have an unexplainable charm to them. It applies to both portraits and landscapes. It floods you with nostalgia.

I have seen it whenever my parents have shown me their photos from their childhood. When I am at our grandparents' place a small picture might drop out from the Bible or from some old book. Mostly they are passport-size photographs. In them, they look so young and lively. They pop out of the paper. I have seen my parent's pictures. Father looked really handsome in his thick moustache and wide-framed glasses. Mother looked really pretty with her long braided hair and slim figure. She has smooth skin that has remained unchanged through the years. Her face is devoid of any pimples or scars. It looks radiant in pictures.

Nowadays we don’t see these features at all. When cameras went digital and became highly advanced it seems they lost the ability to be charming and alluring when compared to their predecessors. We can try to emulate them in Photoshop or any of the apps we have. But none would ever be able to recreate them faithfully. The magic of film photography has died. It lies preserved in these old photographs that are a testament to their times.

We are smiling in the photo. It is one of our usual poses. I am holding onto her and taking the selfie. She is holding onto me and smiling at the camera. We look great.

I miss her.

I shrug off whatever was weighing me down and get up. I need to get inside the other way. I start walking to the casualty.