The Symphony of Ward 66
This story recounts a poignant visit to a bustling Colombo hospital in 1966. The narrator, alongside their mother and sister, visits their ailing father, their senses overwhelmed by the ward's sights, sounds, and smells. Amidst the sterile environment, small comforts like homemade soup and king coconut water provide a poignant reminder of home and family. Through vivid descriptions and interactions with other patients and staff, the story highlights the resilience of the human spirit and the power of compassion in the face of illness.
The General Hospital in Colombo loomed before us, a sprawling colonial relic that seemed to exhale with the collective sighs of its patients. As we approached, following the Route 138 bus ride, the scent of city street scents wrestled with the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air, creating a strangely conflicting small, penetrating our noses.
“Come along, children,” Mother urged, her voice barely audible above the cacophony of honking rickshaws, shouting vendors, and distant medical sirens that filled the bustling streets of Town Hall. She cradled a thermos of mutton soup, its rich, spicy scent a warm counterpoint to the sterile air.
When we entered the hospital, the cool tiles beneath our feet were a welcome contrast to the sweltering heat outside. The corridors buzzed with activity, a symphony of squeaking trolley wheels, hushed conversations, and the occasional pained moan echoing off the walls.
“Ward 66, third floor,” Mother murmured, more to herself than to us. We shuffled towards the lift, its smiling sarong-wearing operator on a chair in that ancient metal cage groaning in protest as we ascended.
The ward was a sea of white — pristine sheets, starched uniforms, and sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. Father lay unshaven, still on his bed, his typically broad chest sunken against the crisp white sheets. His eyes, though clouded with pain, lit up as we approached.
“Ah, there you are,” he rasped, attempting a smile. “How’s our little baby at home?”
“He’s fine, Father,” my sister replied, her small hand engulfing his. “Grandma’s telling him stories about the olden days.”
Mother busied herself with the soup, the steam rising in fragrant tendrils. “Here,” she coaxed, lifting a spoonful to Father’s lips. “It’s your favourite — tender mutton with coriander and cumin. It’ll help you heal faster.”
As Father sipped the soup, I watched the ward around us. A nurse glided past, the starch in her uniform crackling softly. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the beeping and hushed conversations.
“Smells divine,” croaked the patient in the next bed, an elderly man with watery eyes and a wistful expression. “Takes me back to my wife’s cooking. God rest her soul.”
The taste of salt lingered in the air — not just from tears but from the breeze that found its way through the open windows, carrying with it the distant cries of crows.
A middle-aged doctor approached his crisp white coat, starkly contrasting the ward’s general wear and tear. “Mr. Jayasinghe,” he addressed Father, his voice carrying the clipped tones of an English education. How are we feeling today?”
“Better, Doctor,” Father replied, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his discomfort. “When can I go home?”
The doctor’s eyes crinkled with sympathy. “Soon, Mr. Jayasinghe. The hernia operation was successful, but we need to ensure no complications. Perhaps in a few days.”
As the doctor moved on, I felt the rough texture of the metal grille that served as the ward’s door under my fingers. The juxtaposition of the cold, unyielding metal against the warmth of human care and connection struck me profoundly.
A low hum emanated from the next bed, muffled by the heavy white curtains that were drawn tight. Curiosity gnawed at me, as it often did in this unfamiliar environment. I found myself wondering about the other patients and their stories.
Unable to resist any longer, I inched closer, peering through a gap in the curtain. There, on the bed, a dark-haired man, slightly older than my father, completely naked, was being shaved, possibly before an operation.
Before my wandering mind could lead me astray, Mother’s actions drew my attention back to our space. She produced a king coconut from her bag, its golden-orange hue a burst of tropical vibrancy against the clinical backdrop. The sight immediately lifted my spirits.
“Excuse me,” Mother called softly to a passing hospital attendant. “Could you please help us open this?”
The attendant, a kind-faced man with greying temples, nodded with a smile. He took the coconut and, with practised ease, skillfully pierced its top. “There you go, lady,” he said, handing it back to Mother.
Mother thanked him warmly, then turned to Father. Gently lifting his head, she held the coconut to his lips. “Here,” she murmured. “This will help you feel better.”
As Father sipped the sweet, cool liquid, I could almost see the colour returning to his cheeks. The coconut’s fresh aroma seemed to cut through the sterile hospital smell, bringing a touch of home to our little corner of the ward.
“Ah,” Father sighed contentedly, his voice stronger than before. “Nothing like our king coconut to revive a man.”
This simple act of care and the familiar taste of home breathed new life into Father. It reminded me that even in this clinical setting, surrounded by the unknown, we could still find comfort in the small things that connected us to our lives outside these walls.
