A middle aged South Indian couple, woman being the patient, fill in the space in front of me,. Conversations struggle between them as they attempt to eat dosa with sambhar/ chutney. Two women on my either side - one constantly peeling fruits while the other one deeply engrossed into an old issue of Readers' Digest (reading an article on '13 ways to lose weight').
With even more free time in hand, I wonder if hospitals have any color, I can see almost all colors but the tone is overwhelmingly neutral. Even the South Indian aunty eating dosa looks muted in her red-yellow-golden ensemble. 'Too fast to live, Too young to die', reads one of the black T-shirt running around. T-shirts are uncommon though, pant-shirt win over the jeans-tees outside.
Dosa finally over, the aunty lies down on uncle's lap and starts crying (pain/ physical/ emotional/ fear/ something else), while uncle plays with her cheeks, the way do with toddlers; curiously this puts her to sleep soon. I look at them and wonder if they are in love. How many of us actually grow old with the one we love? All relationships I see around are broken, most are simple compromises while a few lucky ones survive with mutual affection.
Its time now to stop taking notes, my young partner for today's investigations is walking towards me with a bright smile. Smiles will have to wait, hospital waits for us.