Chapter 4 : The Habit of Returning
1395 Words
Three days passed before Arjun went back to the hospital.
Not because he had forgotten.
Because he was trying to.
Life had a way of correcting small mistakes if one simply allowed enough time to pass. That was what he told himself each evening as he drove home from work. The flowers had been an accident. The coffee had been a courtesy. Their brief conversation had been pleasant, nothing more.
There was no reason to return.
On Thursday evening, he dropped Ananya at his mother's apartment for her Bharatanatyam class.
His mother opened the door before he could ring the bell.
"Come in for tea."
"I'll pick her up in two hours."
"Tea only takes five minutes."
"I have to stop somewhere."
She looked at him over the rim of her spectacles.
"Where?"
Arjun slipped off his shoes, buying himself a few seconds.
"I need to pick up a book."
His mother smiled faintly.
"You've suddenly become interested in reading?"
"I've always liked reading."
"You've always liked buying books."
He laughed.
"That's different."
"It certainly is."
She didn't ask another question.
Mothers often understood when silence was kinder than curiosity.
The bookstore stood on a narrow street behind the hospital, squeezed between an old stationery shop and a bakery that had sold the same cream buns for as long as Arjun could remember.
It wasn't much of a*****e.
Books climbed the walls in uneven stacks. The wooden shelves sagged under the weight of decades-old paperbacks. A ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead, stirring the scent of paper, dust and fresh ink.
The owner looked up from his newspaper.
"Looking for something specific?"
"A novel."
"Malayalam or English?"
"Malayalam."
The old man stood and disappeared into the shelves.
"What sort of novel?"
Arjun realised he had no answer.
"I don't know."
The shopkeeper smiled.
"The best kind of customer."
He returned carrying three books.
M. T. Vasudevan Nair.
Paul Zacharia.
Benyamin.
Arjun picked up Naalukettu almost immediately.
"My wife liked this," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.
The shopkeeper nodded.
"So did mine."
There was something comforting about that answer.
No unnecessary sympathy.
No awkward silence.
Just one ordinary man acknowledging another.
"I'll take this one."
"And a bookmark?"
Arjun smiled.
"You remember."
"You bought one last week."
"I did."
"You looked like someone buying a gift."
Arjun paid without replying.
The old man wrapped the book in brown paper.
As Arjun stepped back onto the street, he looked across at the hospital.
He could still turn around.
He could drive home.
No one expected him.
Yet his feet carried him across the road before his mind had made a decision.
The nurse at the station recognised him immediately.
"I was wondering when you'd come back."
"I've become predictable."
"Not predictable."
She closed the patient file she had been reading.
"Expected."
Arjun rested the paper-wrapped novel against the counter.
"How is he?"
"Better."
She smiled.
"Stubborn enough to argue with the physiotherapist."
"That sounds encouraging."
"It is."
She hesitated before adding,
"He asked whether you'd gone back to work."
Arjun looked surprised.
"He asked about me?"
"I think he was trying not to."
She laughed softly.
"He started with, 'The engineer who brought the flowers...'"
Arjun couldn't help smiling.
"The engineer?"
"You never told him your profession."
"I suppose I didn't."
"He guessed."
"How?"
"You look like one."
"What does that mean?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully.
"You iron your shirts properly."
He looked down at himself.
"I wasn't aware engineers had a dress code."
"They don't."
She smiled again.
"But they usually carry one."
Arjun shook his head, amused despite himself.
Before he could reply, she pointed towards the corridor.
"He's awake."
Room 307 was brighter than Arjun remembered.
The curtains had been drawn back completely, allowing the last light of evening to fill the room.
Vikram sat in the visitor's chair rather than the bed.
The IV stand had disappeared.
A walking stick rested against the wall beside him.
He looked up as the door opened.
"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten the way."
Arjun leaned against the doorframe.
"I nearly did."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
Vikram smiled.
"I appreciate the honesty."
Arjun stepped inside and handed him the wrapped book.
"I wasn't sure if you'd already read it."
Vikram unwrapped the paper carefully.
His expression softened when he saw the cover.
"'Naalukettu.'"
"I almost bought something else."
"I'm glad you didn't."
He turned the book over slowly.
"My grandmother used to read passages from this after dinner."
"You've read it before?"
"Twice."
"Then I chose badly."
"No."
Vikram looked up.
"You chose familiarity."
The answer pleased Arjun more than he expected.
He pulled the visitor's chair closer to the window and sat down.
This time neither of them noticed he had moved it.
For a while they spoke only about books.
The conversation wandered from Malayalam writers to English translations, from libraries to second-hand bookstores that had disappeared over the years.
"My father hated novels," Vikram said.
"He believed reading fiction was a waste of time."
"And you?"
"I hid books inside engineering textbooks."
Arjun laughed.
"I did the opposite."
"What?"
"I hid engineering books inside novels."
Vikram looked at him for a moment before laughing quietly.
"That explains a great deal."
"What exactly?"
"You became an engineer anyway."
"I wasn't given much choice."
"Were any of us?"
The question lingered between them.
Outside, rain began tapping gently against the glass.
A nurse walked past the room pushing a trolley stacked with dinner trays.
The smell of rasam drifted in briefly before disappearing again.
"Do you still enjoy engineering?" Vikram asked.
Arjun considered the question carefully.
"I enjoy solving problems."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
He looked out of the window.
"When I was nineteen, I imagined I'd design aircraft."
"And now?"
"I approve manufacturing drawings."
"Do you regret it?"
"Sometimes."
"But then I remember it pays Ananya's school fees."
Vikram nodded.
"Life has a way of renegotiating dreams."
"And yours?"
Vikram smiled without humour.
"I wanted to teach."
Arjun looked genuinely surprised.
"Really?"
"I liked explaining things."
"What happened?"
"I discovered technology paid better."
"You make it sound accidental."
"It wasn't."
His smile faded slightly.
"It was practical."
Arjun recognised the tone immediately.
There were subjects people answered because politeness required it.
And there were subjects they answered only enough to prevent further questions.
He let the conversation drift elsewhere.
"So..."
Vikram folded the corner of the paper wrapping neatly.
"Tell me about Ananya."
Arjun looked up.
"I've mentioned her too often."
"Not often."
"Enough."
"What is she like?"
He smiled before answering.
"Curious."
"That's every child."
"No."
Arjun shook his head.
"She wants explanations for everything."
"Such as?"
"Last week she asked whether fish become thirsty."
Vikram laughed.
"What did you say?"
"I told her I needed time to think."
"And?"
"I'm still thinking."
The laughter lingered in the room longer than either of them expected.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The room suddenly felt less like a hospital.
More like two people passing an ordinary evening together.
Vikram leaned back carefully.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I hadn't realised how quiet this place had become."
Arjun followed his gaze towards the window.
"I think hospitals become quieter once you're no longer frightened."
"Maybe."
Vikram looked at him.
"Or maybe conversation changes the sound of a room."
Neither spoke after that.
The silence no longer felt empty.
It felt shared.
When Arjun finally stood to leave, the sky outside had turned a deep shade of blue.
"I'll let you read."
"I've already read it."
"Again, then."
"I probably will."
Arjun smiled.
"I'll see you."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"But you will?"
He looked towards the doorway before answering.
"Yes."
There was no hesitation this time.
No excuses.
No mention of accidents or coffee or flowers.
Just a simple answer.
"Yes."
As he walked down the corridor, the nurse watched him disappear towards the elevators.
She looked into Room 307.
Vikram was no longer staring out of the window.
He had opened the novel, but he wasn't reading.
He was smiling to himself.
It was a small smile.
The kind that appeared when loneliness stopped feeling quite so permanent.
The nurse quietly switched off one of the corridor lights and continued her evening rounds, thinking that sometimes medicine arrived in forms no prescription could provide.
- Writer
