Clockwork

The inside of an ambulance is scary. There is a sense of urgency, rightfully, but the environment lacks a certain confidence. There are IV tubes hanging around, which as they move reflect light rather playfully. It is kind of like a discotheque, absurdly. I think I am on opioids, for pain not pleasure. In the faint light I can see dried blood stains - each carrying a memory of a prior trip, a prior life. There is a light on the top of the ambulance roof outside, blaring an ominous signal, that to me seems to be pointing to the imminent end.

There is utter havoc inside, the nurses frantically engrossed in keeping everything together, the medics working in a hustle. The driver is in a hurry, of course, cursing the traffic jam, as every second is precious, precious to a life, my life. There is a single flickering bulb on the ceiling. I try to look away from it. It stares at me straight in the eye. I flinch, closed my eyes. I could hear the driver’s harsh hoarse voice at the signal.

“Payncho. Gaadi chala raha hai ya desh ! ( Sister fucker, Are you running a car or the country )”

I try to laugh, but it hurts. In an ambulance, you miss a lot of things. Like a wall clock on the wall. I mean, when time is of essence, life and death essence, you need to have a clock, ticking away ever so slowly. When I was a child, I loved looking at the clock, as the hands moved past each other at the stroke of midnight, leaving behind a trail of misery to meet again, at the same time, same place – quite like a daily TV soap. A wall clock symbolizes everything - the Sisyphean myth of life. The clock in the ambulance transports me to a different time, aptly, again and again. The clock is a portal in time, takes you forward but can also take you back equally easily. Almost like clockwork, I get pulled into the past.

I am in class three participating in a general knowledge quiz. The quiz contest is literally ringing in my ears. It was the final round and my heartbeat was rising. The drop of sweat trickled down Tanmay’s forehead. It was his dream. Everything was his dream, I never could relate to his perennial eagerness. It was annoying, but you don’t choose your friends, do you? You do? The teacher proceeded with the question paying no heed to the nervous shaking of his leg, his quivering lips and my restless mind.

“Why is ambulance written in reverse on the ambulance van?”

Buzz. I hit the buzzer in a split second. It was the first time I heard of even the word ambulance, but I had complete confidence in Tanmay.

Tanmay, though, struggled to form a sentence.

“Mirror, rearview, front car, read”

I wondered what could be made out of these incomprehensible words. But the teacher understood.

“So that the car in front can read in the rearview mirror and give way, correct!” We won the contest. I was ecstatic, but still did not know what it meant, and how Tanmay knew it? The wall clock in the quiz room is staring back at me. It pulls me in to the present.

I am back in the ambulance with a thud. Why do I feel a chill? The sort when you feel life is going bleak, dreary or maybe the AC regulator is not working. We are at a traffic signal. The nurse besides me has opened the window. A shock of breeze comes in, ironically the chill of fresh city air. I tried to twitch my lips in a smile as she looks at me, it hurt. The paint on wall across my side is peeling slowly, inching towards me. As the signal turned green, the ambulance starts with a hiccup, like a rickety old man suddenly awake from his slumber. The paint peel nearly falls in my wound. I try to move but cannot.

“Cover the wounds, nurse.” the doctor screeches, who till now had been chewing on his stethoscope.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” Barked back the nurse. She must’ve been around thirty-five years old, her face was a picture of grit and serenity, the sort that comes with an un-fazed self confidence of hardships. And she cursed under her breath, “payncho (sister fucker)”, ever so slightly. I have always had a knack of picking up abuses. I tried to read her name, without staring at her breasts.

Ananya Rajan.

Meanwhile, the doctor embarrassingly got up and put a cloth sheet on my stomach to cover.

Saumik Rajan, read his flat chest. And it struck me then. I flinched. They are husband and wife in the middle of a quarrel and Saumik is crying.

I feel the pull of time. The clock’s minute hand moves again and I am transported back. “Shut up you sissy! Can’t you stop crying for once..” dad shouted at me as I stood red-faced after a scuttle with Shruti at school. I always liked strong women. They get me. And I also liked accepting my fault. It also gets me, gets me into trouble. So, I accepted having stolen her pencil, and she hit me. And that was why, I was the sissy, again. I vowed never to cry, even in the most desperate, agonizing pain, ever ever again. The clock moves again. There is a pull on the insides of my stomach as I get pulled back.

I am back in the ambulance. But that was 20 years ago, 20 years is almost forever. I say to myself. So, I flinch and the single tear drop escapes my eye, almost but not quite. I ready myself for another one of those scars from my father - wounds build character - he used to say. I want to build character. I want it bad. But, now there is no one there for me. I miss home.

I try to look outside the window, into the hearts of our beloved city. On the hoarding I can see the advertisement of a push-up bra. I wonder what dad would have said to such an ad, that is if he would have said anything at all. Anyhow, what I am coming to is, is that Life – is like a strangled bra strap, you turn it right on the front and it twists and marks your skin on the back. My life was like that. Everything was topsy-turvy, a lovely phrase indeed, intertwined and messed up.

That was one of the many revelations of that swinging ordeal between life and death - the journey in that ambulance. Another one was this.

They were husband and wife. Ananya and Saumik Rajan. And I was the patient in the ambulance. And I was on laudanum, for sure, because I could see the blood, but not feel the pain. The clock hands move again. No, not now. I wish.

A sixteenth century chemist, german-swiss, a something-ius, discovered that opium alkaloids were more soluble in alcohol than in water. And since that day, the world thanks him, over and over again. Its easy, you take a quarter of ethanol – procured from the chemistry lab earlier, and the defunct chemist shop now – and mix some opium latex – or powder, whichever is cheaper in your access – and bang ! 10% opium and 1% morphine, the most potent soporific, analgesic beyond belief, self curing prescription. Laudanum. I was climbing stairs to a light, a heavenly abode of calming soothe. The music was awe-inspiring, nerve-wreckingly serene. It was quiet and light. The air was silent, pure and energising. I was uncomfortable, until I saw a used condom on the stairs. This can’t be heaven. They don’t have sex in heaven. It was contradictory, really. No sex in heaven. So, this is not heaven, is this hell.

I try to open my eyes again. The makeshift stitches in my left eye hurt. I feel inexorably in pain and helpless about it, similar to the bat wound on my ass, that I could not access, I got in 1994. It was a painful year. With my right eye and half of my left eye, I can see the ambulance’s intestines again, stenchful rectum of a withering system of hospice and care. The clock on the ambulance all has stopped working.

Dead on Arrival - they write.

“But Samarth, what did he die of?” Saumik and Ananya are sitting with the resident doctor in the executive cafeteria, a coffee in front of them both, a layer of cream forming on top as it gets cold.

“It’s the usual, virtual reality overdose. In his drugged state, he was probably hallucinating for years. But, from my diagnosis of his mind, the recent real life augmentations to virtual reality created a vicious cycle. He would get drugged in the VR setup, so the body could still take more when in real world. But the mind could not.” They all pause to pick up the cups.

“He was probably already dead in the ambulance, in a portal between this realm and the next, if there is a next.” Ananya removes the cream from top before taking a sip.

The clock on the wall is working again.