A tale of an ambulance driver
45 minutes ago . . .
The alarm in the reception area rings. It’s my turn.
I put down the newspaper. Two hospital attendants and a nurse followed by a lady appear out the elevator, steering a stretcher through the corridor, a patient laid on it.
I rush to the ambulance parked at the entry of the gate, and throw open the back-door to let the stretcher inside.
It’s a girl.
Teen.
Eyes shut.
Breathing through the oxygen mask.
Another emergency. 36th of my career.
“Major heart failure. Needs transfer. Drive to Apollo.”
The nurse commands me as she climbs inside the van. A lady follows. She looks restless, her hair messed up, draped in a creased saree, probably the mother of the girl. As both board the van, I bang the door shut and get to the wheel. All the vans of the hospital are kept at constant mechanical check and in no chance would the van require a second attempt at the ignition.
40 minutes ago . . .
It’s Monday evening and it’s Bangalore.
The office hours are over. The sky has fallen dark and the ‘engineers’ are returning home, little red lights of the cars crawling on the streets and over the flyovers. The navigation device on the dashboard shows me the fastest route to the Apollo. Soon, I hit the main expressway of Bangalore that leads right into the heart of the city, where Apollo is. I hope they hear the deafening siren of the ambulance I’m driving.
30 minutes ago . . .
I zigzag and overtake the cars and bikes driven by stupid people, who just happen to think that reaching their homes late by a few minutes is more dreadful than giving way to a trembling life inside an ambulance.
The scary siren of my ambulance that roars to miles afar wakes me up in the middle of the nights. The fiery red light over the top of the van rotates like a monster, yelling to people about the emergency that has got to a life, counting the very fragile breathes of the patient inside.
20 minutes ago . . .
The nurse in the back of the van slides the window pane aside and tells me “Ahmed, the conditions are falling. Please get us soon.”
I get a clear stretch for the next few kilometers. I switch to the top gear. Few cars lower their speeds and pull out of the way heeding to the siren of the van. People peep out their windows as the ambulance drives past them, praying, probably hoping that no matter what has happened to the person inside that van, he should not die .
10 minutes ago . . .
Apollo is still a good 8 kilometers away. The beeps coming from the machine inside tells me that the girl is still breathing. The rear-lights of the vehicles glare back into my eyes, teasing me, making me restless with every passing minute. The palms of my hand begin to sweat upon the steering-wheel. beep..beep..beep..beep..beep..she’s still breathing..
5 minutes ago . . .
The road has another lane for the vehicles to pull aside and let us pass through the other lane. A few actually did!
But the bus driver seems to be too hasty in finishing his job for the day and glides his bus in my way. The eyes that stick to the mobile screens and the ears that listen to the music in the headphones pay no heed to the roaring ambulance coming from behind. They’ve been listening to the sirens of the ambulances all their lives, what matters!
YES! I’ve been driving an ambulance all my life but the person behind is always different: a baby, an old man, a mother, a friend dashed by a rascal drunkard! A few die, several survive. It matters!
2 minutes ago . . .
A young life fights for every last breathe, her heart losing its dominance over her body, her nerves fall weak, eyes tremble, wanting to survive, her heartbeats fading, fading, fading . . .
1 minute ago . . .
The machine beeps, beeps, beeps, beeps, beeps and utters a longer beep that lasts for a few seconds and then falls silent. It falls silent like a constantly quacking monster held by its neck and muffled to death.
I turn off the siren overhead. The red light rotates no more.
0 minute ago . . .
Do you know how it feels to drive an ambulance and see the person die in it?
Do you know how I feel to whisper in her ear,
“Calm down. Keep breathing. I will get you there. A few miles more. We’re almost there. Don’t you give up!”
3 hours later. . .
I reach home at night. My daughter sprints and hugs my belly at the door.
In bed, she asks me how was my day and if I’m her super-hero with the arc-reactor inside my heart!
‘I shall be a super hero one day
if I’ll be driving a car and
see an ambulance rushing from behind
and I pull away and give it a side to pass.’
Until then, I am just an ambulance driver.
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