Spice Of Life Gentle Ambush Of Memory In A Hospital Waiting Room

As I entered the officers’ waiting room at the Military Hospital’s medical OPD the other day, I found a lady with her two adolescent children engaged in conversation with a Colonel in uniform. While the adults talked, the children squeezed together into a single-seater sofa, flipping through a news magazine. From their dialogue, I gathered that the woman’s husband and the Colonel were coursemates. They had likely crossed paths during a training course or at an earlier posting.

Meanwhile, the children, having finished flipping through the magazines scattered on the table, turned to each other. After a few minutes of playful banter, they erupted into mild hand-to-hand combat. The mother calmly intervened, separating them and seating them on either side of her. Each child then attempted to locate her purse. Upon finding it, the younger one began rummaging through the pockets. She gently retrieved it and zipped it shut.

When the Colonel asked if the children fought often, the mother let out a sigh and said, “Oh, don’t ask!” She poured her heart out like any mother enduring the challenges of raising two sons who constantly vied for dominance in mischief, barely finding time for their studies. She mentioned that the younger one was particularly naughty, and I noticed faint scars and healed bruises on his elbows and knees. Hearing their mother speak about them, both children fell silent.

The younger one then seized her mobile phone and called up his father. The family chatted with him for a few minutes before he abruptly cut the call. I surmised that he was probably out on an operation, or caught in the middle of something that simply could not wait.

As the scene unfolded, I was overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu, a gentle ambush of memory. About 25 years ago, we were in a similar situation. My wife was residing in a separated family accommodation, raising two adolescents while I was deployed on a field posting. She had awaited my return with the same quiet resilience as this woman in the waiting room.

I had half a mind to step forward and tell her, “This too shall pass.” The children will grow up and eventually move hundreds of miles away. In time, they will long for each other and their parents alike. One day, she too might encounter another young mother like herself, enduring the trials of separation. But I said nothing. Some things are better understood in their own time.

Life, after all, is remarkably predictable—particularly in the armed forces. The faces change, but the story never does.

The writer is a Jalandhar-based freelance contributor.