ZAI-JIAN

By Ankita Mishra

So, this was during the summer of 2017, when I was admitted in the Oncology Ward of Army Hospital in New Delhi. I was battling Throat Cancer at that young age of 22, and how!

I was posted in Manipur at that time. It had all started with very common symptoms, that were best left ignored. I used to have this constant urge to clear my throat, that eventually became so annoying to those around me, that they started reciprocating with lame ‘Vicks’ jokes. I would often feel thirsty, leaving my throat perpetually sore. But back then, I thought it to be a seasonal flu. However, I soon realized that the tenor of my voice was changing, making it husky and deep. However, unlike the balance of my generation, I somehow did not Google the symptoms to self-diagnose, and guess that is where I went wrong.

So, in a couple of weeks, when I additionally developed excruciating pain in my ears, and a certain dry cough, I thought of paying a visit to the nearby Military Hospital, assuming I had respiratory tract infection! However, when I casually told the doctor about my symptoms, she did not seem as relaxed. She ran some tests in the next few days and there came the news that I had least expected- a possibility of having throat cancer. Clueless at the mention of ‘cancer’, I started giggling, only to realize shortly, that doctors do not have a sense of humour. Boring as they are, they have no novel ways of breaking difficult news to their patients. So, I immediately cut my smile short, lest they assumed that I had gone into a state of shock. She referred me to the next higher hospital for Laryngoscopy to ascertain her diagnosis.

While on my way back to office, I had suddenly turned a sombre Rajesh Khanna from ‘Anand’, as I imagined myself walking down the beach, intermittently releasing balloons in the air! Yeah, I am kind of funny like that; so much so, that when my unit Commanding Officer (a boss in non-military parlance) asked me about my health, I tried to ‘Babu Moshaye’ him away! Anyway, the mere mention of ‘Cancer’ had made everyone in my unit very sympathetic towards me. Now, of the several restrictions that the doctor had imposed upon me, one of them was to not speak much, which actually physically hurt me. I like to speak, rather, I love to speak. I can talk to the most reticent ones and the gregarious ones alike. And here I was, with this invisible tape over my mouth.

The following day, I left for the higher hospital in Kolkata and later tested positive for presence of cell-abnormalities, through a painful biopsy. They then tested me for the stage of cancer through MRI to determine the treatment ahead. Funnily, (yeah funnily amidst all this) I had kept this news from my family so far, as I did not want to scare them. So now, I was also making simultaneous mental notes on how to break the news to them. Being a stage-II cancer, I had now been referred for surgery to Army Hospital in Delhi, which is like the Supreme Court of all military hospitals. So, this is how I had landed where I did. My parents too, had flown down from Indore to be by my side during the surgery. Interestingly, amidst this tragedy, my mother was under the impression that I had got cancer from my surreptitious drinking and smoking habits! Anyway, I thought of tackling one issue at a time.

I was supposed to undergo Laryngectomy, during which, a portion of my affected voice box was to be removed, and after a brief period of forced silence and medication, I would recuperate. However, at that stage, my only fear was what if I lost my voice forever? How would I ever be able to speak with people, ask them lovely and interesting stories of their lives? So, despite repeated assurance from the doctor, I somehow remained apprehensive.

Finally, the dreaded day came and I went under the knife. When I opened my eyes, post-surgery, I was relieved to find my parents by my side, my mother swollen-eyed though. Now, I am so averse to displaying my emotions in public, that even in that anaesthetic state, I remember frowning at her for crying like that. I was told that the surgery had gone well and that I would be allowed to start speaking in about a fortnight’s time. Thank God for that! A day later, I was shifted to a ward, that had two more patients- a male about 65-70 years of age and a female of similar age, who were unrelated to each other.

The following evening, I drowsily greeted my fellow patients with a sedated smile and a polite nod. While the old Aunty was too frail to respond, old Uncle was all smiles. He had one of those really pleasant smiles that makes you shed your inhibitions. In a very low-pitched voice, he whispered, “How are you, Beta?” I gestured at my throat being brutally butchered and thus the consequent inability to speak for some time. However, it appeared more like an enactment of an IS guy, beheading someone with a pen-knife. That was the first time I saw old Uncle laugh. Thankfully, my parents told him about my throat cancer and surgery. He gestured a ‘thumbs-up’ and mouthed ‘strong girl’ at me. I smiled back.

In a day or so, when I started to feel better, I convinced my parents to fall back to Indore and be back when it was time for me to get discharged and proceed on leave for convalescence. So, now, it was just the three of us in that ward. The old Aunty had a visitor, who was probably a grumpy son, a serving Colonel, who would come up and check up on her once in 2-3 days. As for our old Uncle, he looked to me more like a Lone Wolf. I never saw anyone visiting him.

My morning routine in the hospital would start with a humble bow to both the elders, in the absence of any audible good morning wishes. However, I realized that I used to look like a Chinese, doing ‘Ni-Hao’ (hello in Chinese). So, funny as I was and to add a little humour to our collective, vapid lives there, I started pulling the corners of my eyes wide and taking a bow, while silently mouthing ‘Ni-Hao’! Surprisingly, old Uncle found this lame, racist gesture of mine as funny. While the old Aunty couldn’t care less, it made me infer how the son had inherited the grumpiness. Things became really funny when one day, her son saw me doing ‘Ni-Hao’ to them, while I was totally oblivious to his presence. I would never forget the disgruntled expression on his ‘i-don’t-know-why-i-am-angry’ face, giving me ‘the looks’ for jesting around at such a serious place. He had perhaps assumed that I was an officer’s ward and not an officer myself. He once even asked my identity, at which I did a lame gesture of ‘I have no voice-box in my throat’ to avoid the embarrassment of being judged by him. Almost simultaneously though, I had snuck a look at old Uncle, who could barely hold his laughter. However, since old Uncle used to love my enactments, I would never stop doing them for him.

My bond with old Uncle strengthened in no time. So much so, that I would play ‘dumb-charades’ with him and he would guess the movies like a pro. Occasionally, I would also have this urge to speak with him, ask him who he was, why would nobody visit him, and most important, how would he still manage to remain so cheerful? But I also realized, that such questions would warrant that we both talk. Who knows, maybe after listening to his story, I might have wanted to comfort him with words, which I temporarily didn’t have. So, like a child saves her dessert for the end, I also saved these questions for later. Nevertheless, we would continue our greetings through ‘Ni-Hao’ and would even secretly mimic ‘Angry Old Man’ expressions of old Aunty’s grumpy son, whenever she was not noticing.

It was during these escapades, that I realized that old Uncle had a certain child-like excitement behind those brown eyes, but sadly, no one to share it with. So, while our ‘not-so-dumb charades’ would go on, I couldn’t wait for the time when I would be allowed to start speaking, though as whispers, and I would talk freely to my partner in crime. Frankly, old Uncle was quite a company. So, each morning, after my routine activities, I would drag my chair to his bedside and start off my contrived buffoonery and he would start laughing uncontrollably. I could sense the bond that I had developed with him. I loved to make him laugh. I would daily repeatedly gesture to him that I had loads to speak with him, once I was allowed to speak, and he would always say, “Yes kid, we have so much to talk about.” At these times, I would also notice how thoughtful he was, that he never used to speak much and would mostly communicate with me in gestures, lest I strain myself.

The following evening, we both were watching TV, when I saw my favourite movie- ‘Scent of a Woman’ airing. So, I started to do this vigorous ‘monkey-dance’ in front of him, to make him realize how special this movie was to me. He once again broke into a burst of laughter, never heard before. I then gestured to him that I was also going to enact my most favourite scene from the movie, one where Al Pacino aka Lieutenant Colonel Frank Slade defends Charlie Simms in one of the most iconic scenes of Hollywood ever. I threw in all my angry, sarcastic and funny emotions at my Oscar-winning performance. Such deep was the impact of my japery, that old Uncle couldn’t stop laughing for minutes and minutes. For a moment, I even got scared that this excessive laughter should not choke him or something; but old Uncle was a warrior of his own kind. Finally, my ‘Golden Lady’ performance was interrupted by the visit of our nurse, who literally smiled and hushed old Uncle up. Though we still kept giggling for long.

That night, when I lied down to sleep, I felt a certain stress in my throat; but then the melodious sound of old Uncle’s laughs also echoed in my ears and I felt that this throat pain was too miniscule a price to pay for a thing as grandiose as his laughter. Though that night, I once again had this urge to be able to talk to him and know him better and certainly ask him where was his family?

I felt a little sore in my throat the morning after. But I was also excited that in three days’ time, I was to start speaking. I rushed out to the nurse’s office and borrowed a pen and an A4 sized sheet. I wrote ‘DLTOG-3’ on it and waved it at old Uncle. He immediately asked what did the ‘O’ stand for, and I wrote- ‘Days Left to Open Gob-3’. Needless to say, another flood of smiles spread in the ward. But almost instantaneously, it struck my mind that ‘DLTGH’ i.e., ‘Days Left to Go Home’ was a commonly used acronym amongst us- soldiers. So, was old Uncle actually a retired soldier? As I couldn’t wait to ask him after three days, I again wrote- ‘Are you a retired officer?’ He smiled. I scribbled- ‘How long ago did you retire?’ ‘17’ he wrote in the air. My eyes were about to pop out as my body-language automatically changed to a crisp ‘Saavdhaan’. His laughter echoed the ward again, though it had no company this time. So, he finally spoke.

He had retired in the year 2000, post winning laurels and glory during Kargil operations. He had ably commanded a Brigade in Poonch during those turbulent times and had peacefully retired at the end of it. I was stunned at his humility and simplicity. Suddenly, the joker in me tried slipping away. Right then, he sorts of implored- ‘I haven’t laughed like this in a very long time. But thanks to you for bringing a smile on my face. I would feel genuinely happy if you can forget who I was a few years ago and rather treat me the way, as I am right now. And that’s an earnest request.’ And since ‘Funny’ was my middle name, I almost instantaneously, gestured ‘Your wish is my command, Sir’, aka Hitler and we both went roaring. At that moment, I also withdrew my pen, that wanted to ask a difficult question- ‘where was his family at this time?’ Nonetheless, I saved this question for post-DLTOG days.

That night again, we played marathon rounds of dumb-charades. Like always, it was fun to make him laugh, so I would often not mind acting like a clown for him. Actually, I think I had started thinking that it was my pious responsibility to look after his happiness, especially amidst the mysterious absence of his family. Finally, shortly after dinner, I gestured to him about my parents’ arrival the next day and most important that DLTOG was finally at ‘1’ now! Pleased, satisfied and eager to talk to him soon, I retired to sleep.

However, next morning, I rather woke up to an ominous hustle-bustle and screeching of stretcher wheels. Alarmed and flabbergasted, I looked out for old Uncle. Oh God, his bed was empty. I guess I had caught a glimpse of him being wheeled out on that stretcher but I did not want to believe that. Barefoot, I followed them. I gestured to our nurse, asking her to explain what had just happened there. She told that probably during the wee hours of that morning, old Uncle had a heart attack, which was due to his ‘present condition’ and he was not responding now. Dejected, I sank into an adjoining steel chair. I felt so sick all of a sudden. I wanted to go whisper in his ear- ‘Today is DLTOG-0. We can finally talk. Please don’t go like this. We have incomplete conversations. I have so much more to share with you.’ Blurry-eyed, I saw my parents walking inside my ward. I quickly wiped my tears, reached behind them and walked straight to my mom. I hugged her and broke down. I was whispering to her- ‘I was supposed to talk to him today. But he is gone, Ma.’ I choked, despite no cancer this time. My mom was surprised to see me cry like this, given my aversion to public display of emotions, however, she understood how much it all had meant to me, as I used to narrate to her daily during our WhatsApp chats, about the bond that I had made with old Uncle. Still sobbing, my mother hugged me tight to her chest, and we both didn’t say a word. A part of me wanted to go out and ask the nurse about old Uncle, but another part of me shuddered to hear something I was just not prepared to hear.

By evening, when he didn’t return, I knew; I just knew. I had lost my appetite and my guts were churning. His laughter was echoing in my head and the faded visuals of the two of us together were floating in front of my eyes. I could not speak with him, couldn’t even ask him about his family either. He left; just like that, without any early warning. Which good Commander would ever do that to his own troops? I constantly kept checking the door. For once, I even thought that I was having a bad dream; but no. The emotions in our dreams do not rip our chest apart. This had to be reality, because wasn’t it so harsh? Distraught, I lied down on my bed, just when I heard a frail ‘Thank you’. “You are back?” I exclaimed at hearing old Uncle’s familiar voice! “Yes. I just wanted to thank you for the wonderful time together. I really do not remember the last time I had laughed so much. The last few days took my mind off everything. I was at peace, I felt calm and relaxed. My only regret is that I couldn’t hear you speak,” he whispered. “But look, I can speak now,” I fumbled.

My mother ran her fingers lovingly through the scattered hair on my forehead. That was when I realized that I had probably dozed off; or may be not. May be old Uncle did come and speak with me, for one last time. Thank God I spoke, because that conversation changed the very perspective of my grief. Did it alleviate my grief? No, that grief still remained in the hollow cavity of my chest, but I did feel a certain sense of satisfaction- that of bringing a smile on someone’s face, making someone’s last few days- less painful, less tragic, less complicated.

At that very moment, I caught this tiny tear marching down my cheek and wiped my eyes dry. I walked up to old uncle's empty bed and very mechanically started to smooth out the crease on his bedsheet and straighten his pillow. That’s when I saw a piece of paper, folded neatly right adjacent to the pillow, which I instantly recognised; it was my DLTOG placard. But this time, it was folded inside out and had a message- "For you Kid". My eyes began to well up once again as my heart started thumping heavily. Slowly, with trembling hands, I opened the page. There, bold and bright it was- "ZAI-JIAN" (Good Bye in Chinese). So, not only he had thought of me, but had also said good bye to me when he knew that it was time for him to go. I sat there for a very long time, holding his last words to me in my hand. Tears were flowing down my face, but there was also this smile of contentment.

We had finally spoken. And to this date, it remains the most beautiful conversation of my life- one that was made without uttering a single word!

By Ankita Mishra