Moon at Half Past Noon

6:47 AM

The kettle shrieks, a jagged wail,
steam twisting like a wraith
in the dim kitchen, where plates
pile in the sink, daal hardened to stone.
The clock ticks, relentless,
its hands scraping past 6 a.m.

Ma’s cough hacks through the wall—
wet, like gravel churned in a tide.
Baba’s snores falter, then fade.
I shuffle, barefoot, on chipped mosaic,
past the plastic chair, its weave unraveled,
past the calendar, Krishna’s smile
faint under dust, stuck in 2019.

CGHS Headquarters – 9:15 AM

The CGHS building squats,
concrete and glass,
its doors streaked with greasy prints.

The clerk, belly straining his shirt,
rolls a toothpick, eyes glazed.
He doesn’t look up
when I slide the prescription
through the glass slit.
His fingernail – yellowed at the edge –

“New medicine? Doctor’s stamp,”
he mutters, shoving my file
like it’s a beggar’s plea.

The AC wrings at precisely 22°C.
a cold that gnaws the bones, and freezes hearts.
The queue coils,
weary spines and whispered pains,
forms creased, yellowed, clutched tight.

Dr. Sharma’s Chamber – 11:30 AM

The doctor’s room reeks of Dettol,
as if the rot could cave like humans.

The doctor stares another fly to swat.
His pen carves slow, cruel lines.
He examines my mother’s scans
like they’re counterfeit currency.

“Private hospital findings,” he murmurs,
“always exaggerated.”
His stethoscope coils on the desk
like a privileged pet.

“This injection costs ₹8,000 weekly.”
“Your father served railways, no?”
“Then he knows about budgets.”
He stamps REJECTED
with the same motion
used to swat flies.

As if Ma’s lungs can pause
for his ink.

My pride traps my tears in their womb.
Anger, crawling back into a hole deep inside.

Corridor Outside

A peon carries tea in glass tumblers
to the doctors’ lounge.

The scent of cardamom and milk
makes my empty stomach clench.
At Window No. 4, a widow
weeps silently into her pallu
while the clerk explains,
“Pension stopped, benefits stopped.”

A man in a faded kurta hisses,
“They act like gods.”
His words burn,
a spark in my throat.

The line crawls,
my chest a furnace of shame.
The guard’s baton taps,
a dull, mocking rhythm.

Outside, sunlight stabs,
glinting off a rickshaw’s rim,
searing my eyes.
The form crumples in my sweaty grip,
its edges soft, defeated.

Medical Store – 1:15 PM

The shopkeeper’s calculator
beeps as he totals:
“₹12,730 for one month.”
His fingers pause:
“I can give 10% discount…
…if paid in cash.”
The ceiling fan chops the air
above rows of gleaming boxes
we can’t afford.

3:00 PM – Home

Home smells of Ma and Baba.
Vicks, stale rice, maach,
And, an invisible air of sickness
That refuses like a shameless guest.

Ma slumps in bed,
her sari bunched,
hands like brittle twigs,
nails split, veins threading blue.

Baba hunches in his chair,
kurta blotched with tea,
muttering about the neighbor’s gate.

I set the form on the table,
its blank spaces screaming failure.
“I couldn’t get it,” I say,
voice fraying,
“the clerk, the doctor—they wouldn’t—”

9:30 PM – The Fight

Powerless are more cruel
to their own when on a dinner table.

He is swallowing rice.
Ignoring chicken leg, he bites into Lonka.

Baba’s eyes flare,
fish eyes popping out of its stew.

“50 years old,
you let petty north people
push you around” he roars,

His cane thumping the floor,
Trying to shake the earth
with his gout and shaking bones.

Crumbs trembling on the tablecloth.
Dal splatters the Krishna calendar,
turning the god’s flute
into a brown smear.
The neighbor’s TV blares
a laughter track.

“Always excuses!
You want her to die?”
His words slice,
sharp as the CGHS clerk’s sneer.
Ma stirs, her cough a weak protest,
but Baba’s rage fills the room,
a storm I can’t outrun.

“Shut up, shut up, please baba,”
my rage flies like an escaping thug.
“You can’t do this everyday.
I am not you. You are no longer you.”

“Get lost! We will die on our own.
Save your fake tears, for our funeral.”

The door slams,
its rusty hinges shrieking,
and the street swallows me,
night air cold as a blade.

2:30 AM – The Remorse

Love sours,
a bitter, gnawing thing.
I hate their need,
the chains of their frailty,
the way their voices claw my dreams.

But then—
Ma’s cough, faint,
a plea through the wall.
Baba’s hand, shaking,
groping for his glass.

Hate ebbs,
slips into pity,
heavy as wet cloth.

Pity twists,
hardens into guilt,
a stone lodged in my ribs.

I’ve failed them,
failed the child who swore
to hold them up.

6:00 AM – Kettle Screams

The wheel turns.
Dawn breaks,
the kettle screams again.
I grind pills,
stir tea,
step back into the chaos,
mosaic cold underfoot,
Krishna’s faded smile
watching,
as if he knows
I’ll bear it all again.