By: Anadi Naik
The room is cool
With a humming air-conditioner.
The bed, the chair and the table
Overused by ever present patients are old.
The walls are empty like the face of that mirror
sunk into the north side of my wall.
In my room
the walls of the building called ” hosp[ital” are horrible.
Looks are everywhere
their menacing stares
knock the hell out of me.
The pregnant nurse smiles
with bottles of medicine
“good morning” she says
It is her ritual.
The pills are bitter
They come in different colors
Vitamins named after alphabets
all that crap , not good.for me.
Doctor says” You must cooperate in taking pills.”
An oversexed brat, he is all business’
Heaven knows how many grands he makes in a year!
He makes me nervous.
With his unintelligible writing he prescribes medicine.
God forbid his handwriting
It is awful.
Hospital and its patients
Doctors, nurses, technicians
visitors, wardens and watchers
they bore me to death.
The food stinks
The air feels rancid with my body odor
Yet, I must breathe
I am in a nut house called “hospital”.
( At times, this is how a patient at a psychiatric ward thinks of his/her environment.)