I spend a lot of my free time at my mother’s hospital while waiting for her to finish surgeries and consultations. I have witnessed almost everything: from the miracle of birth to the mystery of death. I have seen parents lose their children and children lose their parents. I have seen friends lose friends and lovers part ways. I have also seen people who have no one there for them.
Each and every person who sets foot in the hospital has their own share of burdens and they come here to find respite from pain. At times, I sit next with patients and ask them their story. In the beginning, I was mostly ignored, they probably wondered who this crazy girl was. But some would be happy to have the comfort of words shared with a stranger. Many patients get discharged soon, and some would stay for long stretches – depending on what card fate dealt them.
This is normally how things used to be before COVID-19, but things are a bit different now. I still interact with patients, but I now do it in a very uncomfortable PPE kit, or while wearing a mask, gloves and other protective gear. Sometimes, the stories they share can be very overwhelming and over time I’ve learnt to keep my emotional distance in order to not get hurt again and again.
But then 20 days ago, Ramesh arrived. About 25 years old, Ramesh was tall and dusky, and wore an old shirt with jeans. With a mask strapped on his face, he walked into my mother’s chamber coughing. One look at him and I wanted to know more about him. Later, he tested positive for COVID-19 and was put on oxygen and a drip.
The next day, with excitement, I took my old diary to his room and stood outside the door until my mother finished her daily rounds. Soon, I was sitting on the bed opposite his – with a mask and gloves on – and I smiled at him. He smiled. I introduced myself and told him I wanted to know more about him.
“There is nothing interesting about my life. I am just a normal ambulance driver. But sure, ask away,” he said.
I asked him how he thought he may have contracted the virus. He told me about how a few days ago, he had been standing in front of his ambulance and waiting for the next call when a poor woman approached him. She begged him to help her admit her COVID-19 positive son to the nearby hospital as he wasn’t doing so well, and said that no one was willing to help her. Though Ramesh was initially hesitant, he decided to help the woman and asked for no payment in return.
I was touched to hear about what he had done. Before leaving his room, I asked him if he had any regrets.
He said, “No, it was destined for things to go like this.”
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For the next two weeks, we talked about movies, songs, stars, politics, the universe and the pandemic. We made fun of the secret romance stories of the nurses and bonded over apple cake. I told him about how my grandmother baked the best apple cake in the world and he said he would love to try it.
Ramesh’s condition was improving day by day. In order to celebrate this halfway recovery, I decided to bake the apple cake.
I went to our old dusty store room in search of my grandmother’s recipe book. After an hour of sneezing, I emerged victorious. Then I took a big glass bowl, added all the ingredients, mixed it and made sure there were no bubbles. I tasted the batter, and it was delicious. I then I pre-heated the oven, poured the batter into the mould, and placed it in the oven.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the oven – I was staring at it like a kid stares at a candy. Finally the oven bell went off. I took it out and it looked perfect. All I could think of how happy Ramesh would be.
Just as I picked up the knife and cut a piece, I heard the sound of women crying coming from outside the hospital. My mother called me and told me that Ramesh had had a sudden asthma attack and that she couldn’t save him.
I stood there with the knife in my hand; I did not know how to react. Everything became a blur for a few moments and I could not hear anything. I just left the cake and knife over there, removed my apron and rushed to his room. I could see his mother and sisters crying loudly and I just stood there staring at his face. He was still smiling, even in death.
After his body was taken away, I came back home. The apple cake was still lying in the kitchen. I stared at it.
I had gotten used to death in my life, but Ramesh’s was an exception. I had no idea how to deal with it – he was like a brother I never had. I learnt simplicity, empathy and other true human values from him.
Today, as I write this, I have one question on my mind: What if Ramesh had not helped that poor woman? He may have never come in contact with the virus and he would still be there and be enjoying an apple cake with someone.
But Ramesh was a humanitarian. He took responsibility when no one else did. In my eyes, he was a true warrior. His death did not go in vain because he saved a life.
I will always cherish the conversations I had with him. Now I am going to bake that apple cake again and have it in the memory of a true Covid warrior.
Aadya Gowda is a second-year law student at Christ (Deemed to be) University, Bangalore.
Featured image credit: Photo Mix/Pixabay