Hope

Dr Ahmed stared at the book rack. It was three o'clock in the evening in Ontario. The day was cold and gloomy. For the last few days sun had disappeared behind the snowy clouds, creating a different kind of darkness. She sifted through the first rack. There were few novels that belonged to her elder daughter. She grabbed one of the novels sifting aimlessly through the pages. After few minutes she lost interest. There were few books on baking and gardening which she had bought during her trips to the local bookshop. Suddenly her eye caught the sight of the thick book, “Bailey and love a short practise in surgery”. She tried to move the book out of the rack. There were 20 other titles on anatomy, biochemistry and epidemiology. The book belonged to her son, a gift from her husband, who was the chief of surgery. She had used the same book, an older version perhaps during her own days as a surgeon. She placed the book on the bed. Then she started crying.

It was almost 30 days after the death. The house was silent. There was no sound. On one of the side tables, there were few broken crayons, a pair of earrings and a leather journal. Dr Ahmed was not an emotional woman. She was the perfect example of rationality and pragmatism. A success story indeed. During her collage years, she wanted to be a painter. Her father who had an established law practice found it idiotic. “Painting?” he had said, "what will you do with that?" Not that he was not a man of taste. There was a fake Monet hung in his office and he could talk consistently about the work of Van Gough and Anna Molika Ahmed. He recognized that his daughter lacked the touch that was the prime ingredient in an artist. He figured out that her sewing skills were amazing and her hands were perfect for surgery. She entered medical school, to be an example for her siblings not because she had some noble ideas about serving humanity. Dr Ahmed wanted to make her father a proud man. She did achieve it by doing what he always wanted to do with his own life.

She married well. She was lucky. Her husband was a typical surgeon with a head filled with noble ideas. He played tennis in his spare time and listened to old classic music she abhorred. They were able to raise normal kids who were also doing well. Except that her husband had filled the heads of her daughters with the leftist crap, he preached outside his theatre. But then she understood the value of dreams. She had supported each one of them to pursue what they had wanted from their lives by trying to dream with them their dreams. However, today she felt dreamless, empty like the house with no human noises. Her sobs, stopped with the sound of the doorbell. She moved to the adjacent washroom, washed her face and opened the door. The day was too cold for any solicitors. An old friend had dropped by with home baked cake. For few moments, she tried to hide the pain behind the mask of her smile.

She had done that before, many times in her life. She remembered the time when she did not make an effort to resuscitate her dying father on the dialysis table, she could have if she wanted to, but she wanted his pain to end. The time she posed a fake smile after she heard the news of her younger sister’s accidental death. There were other few moments. Abnormal moments for all other normal people, who lived normal lives. Not people like her or her husband. Their lives were dramatic, thrilling and now tragic.

She tried to swallow the cake with the bitterness of coffee. “Are you doing ok”. The friend asked with a genuine concern. “I am fine." She replied with indifference."You need to talk”, the friend insisted by pressing her hand into hers.
"Grieving is a long process." Why didn't they understand that all of us have our own small hells. “Hells fate creates for us in living life”.

She left in few minutes, as all her friends and family has done. Life moves, it never stops but she was unable to move even a single step. She felt as if she buried life with him. “Him”, her love, her soul, her little one.

As she opened the door for her friend, to leave, she saw a small cat sitting on the side of her drive way. Dr Ahmed , hated animals, in general. Pets were a mess. The only pet in the house were the gold fish in the silent aquarium. As she opened the door, the cat leaped and entered the house. The temperature outside was almost -20, and it was inhuman to leave the cat in the severe weather. She was already emotionally drained. She entered the house and switched the kettle. She placed an old bowl in the kitchen table and poured milk. The cat was hungry and sick. It was the first time in her life, she realized that she was sick of the world. Hospitals, deaths, and disease had left her drained. His disease.. His medicines, his death.

Why her?
Why her family. Why them?

It was ironic. Doctors also have sick in the house. Where was it written that people who earn their living in hospitals could not have sick in their own home? There were still his medicines in the cupboard in second rack. There were still his toys in her room. Still..

In midst of death and agony. The cat was frightened. And she was too tired to think. She opened the blanket and placed her legs on the sofa. Sleep was some time the best medicine. In few hours, the weather got worse. When she woke up from her little nap, there was a snow warning running on weather network. The roads were blocked; snow enveloped the whole town in a white sheath.


Her elder son had returned from school. Have you called the animal rescue mom?
He asked with concern..
“I was too tired." She answered with her grim smile.
By that time, the little kitty had become part of the family. The kitty leaped into his son’s lap, rubbing her face to attract attention. Suddenly there was life in the dead house. “We need some cat food, a bin and yes a basket”, her elder daughter added on the table. “It is only here for few days stupid”, the son added to her sentence.


The kitty was like a guest. Unwelcome but warm. By the morning, everyone had a concern. “She is definitely a pet”, the younger one added with a smile. Dr Ahmed, was wary of cats. She had washed her hands twice and had placed bed sheets on sofas to protect them from the hair of the cat. Kitty was definitely an amusing change. By the time every one left for their daily work, Dr Ahmed , started playing with the cat. She placed an old blanket in the basket she had used for hanging plants. Kitty liked the environment. By noon, the animal rescue team had arrived to identify the kitty and return it to her owners.

The next few days were the same. Gloomy, like those, which are filled with mourning. The whole house was again wrapped in the feel of death and pain. It was almost evening when her elder son arrived..
There is a box ammi in the car."Plants?"
She asked with naivety...
When she opened the box, it had a small kitten..She smiled.. perhaps life does not stop and we always have a time to love and hope a little more.