The Path We Choose

By Azlan Mahmud


He sat waiting inside his red Kancil, the air conditioner blowing out a gentle cool breeze. The radio was tuned to his favourite station, and was playing one of his all-time favourites, Sting's Englishman in New York. He found himself tapping to the music, his lips miming the lyrics. He stole a glance at his wrist watch - 8pm. It would be another 10 minutes before his friend arrived.

He had been working as a medical doctor for a good decade now, toiling in the now infamous government system. The work was hard; he had expected that. But now, he was growing disillusioned. He had been questioning his priorities. And why not? His contemporaries who worked in private practice were making 10 times more than he was, and they were enjoying the life that he wanted. He felt the time was right to join them.

It had been a late night and, as usual, he had finished his work in the operating theatre way past midnight. He wearily changed into his street clothes, and walked tiredly into the almost-empty hospital corridor. With the hours that I do, he thought to himself, I'd be a millionaire.

It was then that he caught sight of the bearded man lying on a bamboo mat in a small space between a wall and the entrance to the operating theatre.

The man was not alone; there were three children with him, the eldest probably no older than five. The youngest, who looked no more than a year old, began to stir in his sleep. His lips parted, and unintelligible sounds escaped from them, forming the prelude to a child's cry.

The man awoke slowly and reached for one of the milk bottles in a pink plastic bag. With a soft hushing sound, he gently placed the teat into the mouth of the child, who instinctively began suckling on it. The father's soft tapping on his thigh lulled him back to sleep.

He had seen this same man and his children in the same spot the past three nights that he was on call. Tonight though, something in him made him approach them. He knelt beside the man, and watched as his child's lips slowly parted and the bottle fell from his hands.

"He's asleep," he said, as he watched the bearded man's face. It mirrored a life of hardship, something he, who had lived all his life in the city, knew he could not even begin to comprehend. The man smiled.

"Yes. He's found it difficult to sleep ever since we came down from Bachok."

They have come a long way, he thought.

"Pardon me for asking, but why are you here?"

The man picked up the bottle and placed it back in the plastic bag. The child shifted uneasily in his sleep.

"My eldest daughter has cancer and she might not have long to live. The doctors here have tried their best. I want to be here when she goes to heaven."

Another child?

"Where is she warded?"

The man turned and pointed to a set of closed blue doors around the corner. Above it was a sign that read 'Paediatric Intensive Care Unit'.

"Surely you must have a place to stay?"

The man looked at his sons, who were in a deep slumber. Children without a care in the world.

"I have used up almost all my savings bringing my daughter here for treatment, and travelling up and down to visit her. Tomorrow I will have to go back as there's no one tending my durian orchard.

"And when I have collected enough money..." his voice trailed off and he turned to look once again at the closed blue doors ... "if my daughter still waits for me, I will be here when she decides to go."

Silence.

He got up, not knowing exactly what to say, and started to walk away. Just then, his pager beeped. He read the message on its small green screen, and let out a sigh. Another emergency.

He turned to look once again at the man and his children. The father was fast asleep, hugging his youngest child. It was almost as if he was afraid that this kid would leave him, too.

Who are they not to deserve the best of care? And with that thought, he walked briskly up the stairs towards the wards.

The loud honking of a car startled him out of his reverie. He looked left and saw his friend waving at him from a gleaming silver BMW. He watched as his smiling friend sauntered towards him wearing his designer clothes and shoes. He smiled back.

That is my friend's destiny, he thought. Mine is different.

From Starmag