The general cabin of a government hospital. The smell of antiseptic everywhere. Ahh! How dear that smell was to me. All around, people of all kinds who came here with all kinds of illnesses. Along with the clamor of their relatives. I, of course, never liked so much commotion. How people spend so much energy on unnecessary talk and still feel ‘refreshed’ — who knows! The bed I had been lying on these past few days has a new guest now. Truly, everyone at the hospital is a guest. Diseases don’t follow any calendar or occasion. The doctor came to the bedside. He called the patient’s family member and said, “Sudden heart failure. This can’t be treated here at the government hospital. Come to my chamber. Excellent testing facilities. Test kits from Germany, ultrasound machines from Sweden, testing facilities from England! Wonderful!” The patient’s relative, under so much mental pressure, couldn’t even register which technology was from which country. The doctor’s business pitch went in vain. The relative asked, “Sir, how much could it cost?” “At least a lakh. Keep three lakh taka in your budget.” “But sir, if it could be a little less… We’re financially…” “Do you have insurance?” “Yes, sir. I remembered to bring the card. Please check if it’ll work, sir.” “This won’t cover such a large expense. You’ll have to bear the full cost yourself.” “But sir…” “I must go now. Urgent work.” I noticed the doctor spoke in an overwhelmingly monotone voice the entire time. It’s natural — after telling hundreds of helpless people this kind of information every month, one day the emotion simply stops working in their words. The doctor had by now reached the operation theater. Another patient was in critical condition. Since the lead doctor of the medical team hadn’t arrived, the operation couldn’t begin until now. It was starting now. The beep-beep sound of the operation theater. Terrifying. My head was going numb. The doctor was leading the surgery, while also explaining the details of the operation theater to a new intern. The operation was completed unsuccessfully. The patient couldn’t be saved. The doctor informed the patient’s family in a grave tone, “Sorry. He is no more.” I could sense the gravity was artificial. The relatives were wailing. So many memories people had of the dead person! So many hopes! Even emotionless me felt my heart grow heavy watching their lament. Meanwhile, the medical team was resting in the break room. Not a trace of sorrow on anyone’s face. Some were scrolling TikTok, others were playing the song-lyric game in groups. You wouldn’t think a person had just died before their eyes moments ago. Only the new intern was hurting. The doctor, sensing this, said, “Look Sayma, this is our profession! There’s no room for emotion here. If you break down over one failed operation, how will you successfully perform the rest of the day’s operations?” Suddenly, I heard my name nearby. There — a nurse was saying, “Who is Mr. Turjo’s family member?” My brother said, “Me. His older brother.” Nurse: Will you take the body home today? Brother: Give us a little time. Let me discuss with everyone and get back to you. Nurse: Alright, I’ll be at the reception.
I had almost forgotten — my body had been given several new names. Corpse, dead body, remains, and who knows what else! No one was calling me Turjo anymore. Not even my brother. Let me go — a decision is being made about my body over there. Let me go listen. Father: If we take the dead body home this late, it’ll decompose overnight. It’ll start smelling. Uncle: Then let’s keep the body in the morgue tonight? It’ll stay on ice, stay fresh. What do you say? Sister: But… without Turjo… I can’t think of anything. Brother: Alright, Father. I’ll tell them to keep the body in the morgue then. And I’ll also let Mother know at home. Father: We’ll need to hire a truck for tomorrow morning. The dead body has to be taken from Dhaka to Bogra. How much could it cost? Uncle: I know a truck broker. Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle this side.
My body is being taken to the morgue. But they don’t know — my heart is still frozen. Yet, to the morgue I go…
(I had sat down to write this story while my mother was in the operation theater. I was in class eight — I don’t know how well I managed to write, but this is one of my most cherished literary works.)