Monday, March 16, 2015

B.V. Hospital, Thane

They come on a trolley, the Gods,
pushed on each floor of the hospital
till all the patients & their relatives make
their own blends of medicine and faith,
as they fold (without thinking?) hands;
I was told: "Next 48 hrs. are critical."

I weigh it in my mouth, again, 'critical,'
the word now sounds like prayer for Gods,
and holding prescriptions & bills, my hands
learn each wall, each bench the hospital
has, the next thing the doctor said, "Faith,
have faith," & I didn't know what to make

of Gods so out of place, or what to make
of doctors, who when dealing with "critical
patients" must at some point turn to faith,
their oath still an old "call to all the gods
and goddesses to witness" here (B.V. Hospital)
all the "power and judgment" of their hands;

or is it like when I first felt her hands
after three days of not-knowing, of "make
or break," she breathed on her own, this hospital
then was full of idols, "No longer critical?"
I asked, and when they nodded, the Gods
wherever, whoever they be, I gifted faith

so readily, like threads around trees, faith
spun in reams and reams of red hand-
-made cloth that cradles those Gods,
who made (without thinking?) small make-
-shift things for us, and (this is critical)
called it living, and sometimes, in hospitals

when we try to keep their word, the hospitals
become sanctums, and once flappable, faith,
pig-headed, remains, & even in those critical
hours, when the blood refuses and hands
over the heart for little countdowns to make
the claim, at that point between us and Gods,

hospitals are little games, where the Gods
play over our faith, between skies, till they make
us fold (was it critical?), tremulously, our hands.

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