Two cups of tea and music.

 

The hot porcelain warmed my hands, a familiar comfort against the late evening exhaustion. Two cups of tea. Not one, a solitary ritual, but two. One for me, and one… for the silence. A silence that, after the cacophony of the hospital, the operating theatre, the insistent beeping of machines, the hushed pleas and desperate whispers of families, felt less like an absence and more like healing. Today was not the first day but it was a usual welcome comfort on returning home.  At 53, a neurosurgeon with hands that had held life and death in their delicate dance, I craved this silence. It wasn't just the quiet of a room but the comfort of my soul.

The humanism, that well-meaning, often suffocating blanket of empathy, had begun to feel like a burden. Not that I’d abandoned it, not entirely. It was woven into the fabric of my being, a surgeon’s oath, a physician’s creed. But lately, it felt heavy. Each life I touched, each story I witnessed – the triumphant recoveries, the heartbreaking losses, the grey areas in between – left its mark. I carried them with me, these fragments of humanity, like wounds too deep to heal. The weight of it all, the sheer, overwhelming humanness of it, threatened to crush me. And yet I wanted to live with it, feeling complete only with the same daily engagements.

Music gives me comfort. Not as an escape, but as a different kind of engagement with the non-self. A way to connect with emotions, with stories, with the very essence of being, without the immediate, visceral weight of responsibility. And, as usual, I chose Hindustani classical music. Alexa took the liberty to choose the vocalist and the raga. Maybe the command of my tone suggested my choice for the evening. With the advance in artificial intelligence, I understand the emotional quotient of Alexa has increased and I was quickly comfortable with the choice and did not bother to further improve my selection. A transient thought passed my mind - how humane had AI progressed to or was it possible that at the point of exhaustion, a commoner like me could be guided into the emotional perspective of our AI companions. It wasn’t the polished perfection of a modern recording, but the raw, unadulterated soul of the music that resonated. I was not able to perceive the notes or the progress of the musical piece. It was the general tempo which eventually caught on with the velocity of my mind and eventually soothed my feelings.  It was a world away from the sterile environment of the hospital, the precise measurements, the life-or-death decisions. Here, in the realm of ragas and talas, time seemed to bend and stretch, to lose its relentless grip.

I brewed my tea and it turned out to be more than a cup. It was a routine habit to make two cups because Yogita would join in soon but today she was away for the Maha Kumbh experience. I poured the other cup and decided not to deprive each of the companionship of the other. The ritual of it, the careful pouring, the gentle steam rising to my face, was a regular experience but appeared to be in a hurry today, possibly because of the rhythm of the ragas. I chose two cups and decided on one for the silence and one for the silence in the music. I had read the meditative strength of the moments of pause between the chanting of Ram Nam. A simple act of self-care, a moment of respite in a life dedicated to the care of others through yourself. The search for silence within the continuity of the musical stream is difficult but it presence can be felt by those who yearn for it. The sipping of my cup of tea became less frequent as I gradually sank into drowsiness and comfort on my wooden sofa and the other cup evaporated its content into the room air to satisfy the need to share with the elements around me in resonance with the musical tribulations. The music unfolded, a complex tapestry of melody and rhythm. It wasn't just sound; it was feeling. It was the yearning of a lover, the joy of a child, the sorrow of loss, the quiet contemplation of existence. It was all the emotions I encountered in the hospital, amplified, distilled, and presented in a form that was familiar and nostalgic.

The raga—I believe it was Yaman—began to build, the notes climbing and intertwining, creating a sense of anticipation and longing. It reflected my own life: constant striving, pursuit of excellence, and desire to make a difference. But it was also something more. It reminded me that there was beauty in the world, even amidst the suffering, and that the human spirit, even when broken, could still deliver something exquisite. The interplay between the vocalist and instruments was a conversation, a dance, a story told without words. It reminded us that life, like music, is a complex interplay of different elements: light and shadow, joy and sorrow. And it’s in accepting this duality, this intricate balance, that we find true harmony. I closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me. I thought of my patients, their faces flickering in my mind's eye: the young girl with the brain tumour, her parents’ desperate hope mirroring my own quiet determination; the elderly man who had survived a stroke, his slow but steady progress a testament to the resilience of the human body; and the young doctor, fresh out of medical school, his enthusiasm and idealism a stark contrast to my own world-waiting weariness.

I thought of my own journey, the years of study, the countless hours spent in the operating theatre, the sacrifices made, and the toll it had taken, not just physically but emotionally. I saw how humanism, that once bright and shining ideal, had become tarnished, weighed down by the sheer volume of human experience, both of society and sickness.

I felt something shift within me. Not a sudden epiphany, but a quiet understanding. The humanism, the empathy, the compassion – it wasn't a burden to be shed, but a force to be channelled. Not a suffocating weight, but a current to guide me. The arts, the music, the two cups of tea – they weren't an escape from the world, but a way to engage with it more deeply. A way to reconnect with my own humanity, to replenish the well of compassion that had been depleted by the demands of my profession. There was life beyond the commitment in the medical unit, beyond my present knowledge whose presence was being conveyed by the music. The greatest revelation of the moment was the experience of the self merely guided to cognisance by the music. I had to choose to make it valuable or to log it into the archives of distress and dismay.

The music unwound, its tempo decelerating, notes dissolving into a hushed quiet. The raga's journey had ended, yet its resonance lingered – a sense of peace, a lingering echo. It whispered that even amidst suffering, hope flickers. Even in chaos, harmony exists. Even when the world's weight is almost unbearable, solace can be found in silence. A flicker of hope ignited within me, a renewed sense of purpose. Humanism wasn't extinguished; it had simply metamorphosed, refined by experience, tempered by loss, and ultimately fortified by art's restorative power. The two cups of tea, now cold and darkened, sat waiting, their steam vanished, a silent testament to the moment. A pang of regret, a touch of melancholy, brushed against me. The tea’s warmth was lost like the moment, but the silence reigned supreme, a vast emptiness that paradoxically felt full. My mind, cleared of its usual clutter, was now a blank canvas, ready to absorb more suffering, to empathize anew. I mentally placed the two forgotten cups within this newly created void, a small offering of acknowledgement, and left them to the quiet embrace of my impending slumber, their sacrifice a silent partner in the evening’s transformation.

Pratyush Chaudhuri