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November 28, 2008
flashback
Does it seem as though this will become a habit? That every time a distant memory earlier hidden in the deep crevices of that part of my mind marked "India" lurks back into my consciousness, sleep or daydream, I instinctively revert to its decoding via the magic of the tapping keys -- the morse of my mind's lazy eye when it opens yet again? Most likely. It's too bad the temptation to do so has rendered the pastime of secret diary inscriptions all but obsolete.
When I saw the front page of the LA Times today -- a vivid color night-shot of a building in the background, bodybags and smeared blood in the fore -- I thought back to the multiple terrorist attacks that occurred while I was there. A shrilling cry ran down my spine. And then I thought, what can be done? "Nothing," was the quick response. The only thing to feel, then, was impotence.
It reminded me how I wrote about terrorist attacks in my blog. But the way in which I remembered writing it struck me most: abstract, theoretical, distanced -- emotional, yes, but without real aim. Where the hell were the first-hand stories? Sure, there were a couple, but lacking, definitely lacking. I had completely neglected this very personal one...maybe because it was almost surreal.
I was working on the computer. Vikas, by boss, came rushing in. "David--David--come--come...come with me now please." He made a frantic motion with his hand, ready on his toes. Even though I didn't particularly trust the guy, I sensed that something serious was up. So I quickly left my work and stepped out the door. He said, "quick, come to the hospital," and began to run. I began to run with him, but he was pretty slow, so I sped up and soon arrived at the hospital.
As I walked up the steps, the maids directed me through the kitchen, down the main hallway, pointing to one of the rooms. I turned a quick right and a scene of confusion unfolded before my eyes. Doctors were rushing around yelling; nurses were coming and going; there was a woman, lying motionless, facing away from me, her feet at the opposite wall; she wore a patterned hospital gown, an IV in her wrist.
They told me to turn the knob on the oxygen tank. I tried, but it wouldn't turn. I was typically good at opening bottles, but this knob was, for all intents and purposes, glued shut. This was a test. I must not fail. I told them to give me something. They handed me a small metal bar -- maybe a wrench. But be careful: don't hit the glass ball -- if you hit it, the tank breaks, and this is the last one. I remembered all of those heavy silver tanks sitting in the kitchen. Why were there so many recently? I had never seen any before. I took careful aim at the knob, moving back and forth slowly as one must do before accurately hitting a cue ball, or, as I had been instructed to do the night when the maids and Rashishek needed to break into the floating bungalow, to smash the lock -- only this time the purpose was clear, I had to save, not break -- if I broke, the woman, leaning her head back to look up at me with her half-open, half-dead eyes, would die. I could not fail.
At this moment, I went into instinctive mode: my cognition was crystal-clear, objective, pre-programmed; there was no questioning the moment, only to perform my function, my duty. I felt at ease, confident. I swung at the knob. No give. Twice! No give. Thrice! I knocked off the glass bulb that time. Some air escaped, but it was quickly replaced. The knob was glued shut. I tried to not think of what the woman must have been thinking at the moment, staring at me constantly: "Hurry up, you foreigner! You white man, whoever you are -- Pull the trigger! Be a man! Perform your fucking duty! Save me, or kill me! Hurry up. Now! Now!"
I remembered that Manjare and I were messing around yesterday seeing who could throw this spear-like thing farther (we were pretty much even). I rushed to the kitchen, went into an adjacent room where the maids clean bloody clothes and cloths, pushed the door out of the way and found the spear-thing resting behind it against the corner. I grabbed the spear-thing and went back to the patient's room. Rashishek, with his ghastly thin, tall frame, delivered blow after precise blow with the wrench; each time, I could feel him getting weaker, and each time, I could feel the woman, who had surely lost too much blood, receding into unconsciousness, giving in to an imminent death.
They seemed a bit concerned about the spear, but at this point, what had they to lose? Of course, I did not hit it so hard at first. I simply lifted up the spear, now facing toward the door, away from the woman, heaving the spear to the roof, dropping the blunt end softly on the knob on one of the bumps at about 2:00 -- just enough to make it turn, yet safe enough not to slip and smash the life-bulb. Determined, precise, driven, I picked away for a minute or so, still without success. The consequences of my failure ceased to enter my mind. I simply revved on like a motor, trying not to think of the story Rashishek told me, where he tried to turn off the generator the bad way -- by interjecting the rotary belt and axle with a wooden plank -- and slipped and badly burned his right hand, to which he failed to tend for a few days, after which pus began to spew. Thinking back now, I can only imagine how many concerns, anxieties must have -- should have? -- been running through my head -- but no, I remained in instinctive mode throughout -- that is the only thing I noted at the time.
Then they told me to stop. There were no oxygen tanks to be found in the area, and this one clearly wasn't working. I had failed. I had been expected to meet the challenge of the unexpected and I had failed, miserably. What would happen to this woman, her eyes fading into the distance, perhaps reminiscing on the events of her short life? I had failed.
Then someone began to replace her IV pouch -- can they deliver oxygen through that? -- and the pandemonium quickly came to a close. Though I can hardly recall this part, mired in confusion, I suppose -- could it have all ended so easily, so uneventfully? -- it was then okay to leave. I remember casually walking back through the hospital hall, the walls lined with people, her family and friends, I supposed. I suppose they were able to take care of her. Though I suppose that, had they not -- had she died -- I wouldn't have heard the news, anyhow. It reminded me of the time when I stood by Madnee Maushi, looking blankly at the prematurely born baby in the incubator, her eyelids sealed shut beneath the blinding light as she tried to make it in this world, rivers of tears running down Maudnee Maushi's weathered, silent cheeks. I never did find out what happened to that tiny baby, either.
Posted by dmbenn at 05:58 AM | Comments (1)