SKIMS, Soura

The hustle and bustle of the hospitals is the same as a super market. But the main difference is that joy is replaced by worries, smiles replaced by frowns, food replaced by medicines. Rest all is same. People walking with hurried pace, back bent low with tension, carrying their appointment cards, whispering words of prayers.
Patients being wheeled away to different departments.
Amongst all this chaotic atmosphere, an old lady in typical kashmiri attire was sitting on a wheelchair. She was looking at nothing in particular.
Her eyes were vacant. Her lips were dry which she kept on licking in order to moisten them. She had a bundle of blankets in her lap. She kept staring at something. She had a crease of worry etched on her forehead which didnt lessen at all, not even when a nurse came and wheeled her away.

Rounding a corner, a man was puking water continuously. A younger lady, most probably her daughter since she was quite young, held his head as he vomited on the floor.

Rounding yet another corner, another lady was being wheeled by two men, could be her sons. She was middle aged, judging by her looks. She had a drip attached to her left arm. It was purple there. -_-

This particular hospital has a very depressing atmosphere. The clean floors, the white marble, the white walls do nothing but depress a person more.
Death lurks in every nook and corner of the hospital. It is scary. The labyrinth of corridors and lobbies. A maze. A depressing place. No one smiled. Not one.


Shifa Naseer


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