There’s a certain smell that hits you the second you walk past the doors of a hospital. A sterilized odor rushes up your nose, initiating a feeling of well-known trepidation at what awaits you. I’m sitting in the waiting room of the Maruthi Clinic, which, to put it politely, is a little more than a hole in the wall.
Leaning back against the leather benches that face each other, I do a little scan of all the other ailing in the room. There’s an old lady in a dull yellow skirt, who has managed to drag her reluctant grandson to the clinic with her. The twenty-something, with both ears pierced in several places, looks down at his jet-black Nikes, while his grandmother gives her loud opinions on a particular family dispute.
Right opposite me is a man with a prayer cap on, doubled up in what seems to be either terrible pain, or deep thought. His wife, between the large sleeves of her customary black robes, clicks away on a concealed mobile phone.
My gaze shifts above them to the colorful health charts on the wall behind them. A flaming orange chart on tips for diabetics catches my eye—it’s the color of the syrupy jalebis being sold at the Komala sweet shop next door.
“Paul Dhara…a…m…a…raj?”
The receptionist struggles with my name, and flashes me an apologetic smile.
“Go in, the doctor will see you now.”
My wandering eyes close for a second with anticipatory dread and slowly, I get up.
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