I stand at the head end of the patient,
a speechless witness to the kind cruelty
of the surgeon’s scalpel.
I have seen myriads of hearts
some of them dilated, some with physiological
and anatomical orifices, some with rickety going valves,
similar to my flow in the stagnant city traffic stream.
Some times, I try to draw analogy,
between emotions in the heart and cardiac anatomy.
What do people really mean, when they say
“Having a big heart!” , “Having a kind heart!”.
Are emotions nurtured in the heart?
I have seen bureaucrats, politicians,
both from emotional and anatomical view points.
They do not have a big heart morphologically and emotionally,
in spite of bearing the people’s mandate.
I brood, “Is politics a game of the heart?”
Often I have to wage a war against
the autocracy and stubbornness of the failing heart,
with my friendly inotropes in my armament,
each acting as a soldier, knocking down,
the autonomously stimulated receptors
as soldiers at the other end.
Sometimes, I become emotional,
when I look at the returning cars in the light bathed streets
and the chirping birds in the azure sky,
from the window screen, with the music of the pulse oxymeter,
reminding me not to sway myself away,
in the emotional stream.
I do nourish dreams of early home coming.
I have learnt to accept time dilation
is meant for me only.
I have cultivated my patience, and driven
the ravens of restlessness during my prolonged visits,
and stay in the fate ministrating recovery units.
I feel proud of being adept,
in maintaining normal haemodynamics,
amidst the autocracy of the surgeon’s scalpel.
I am more powerful and a friend of the patient’s heart.
Applause and laurels are miles away from me.
My unsung ‘Swansong’ is only known to me,
never revealed to the cruel world.
I have learnt to enjoy my work as an art.
My power to curb the physiological ministrations,
of the surgeon’s action.
I reap the fruits of my toil,
when I see the smile laden faces of the patients,
in the fate-changing recovery units.