Nobody Genius - #ATOZCHALLENGE – N (2026)

 

His frail and fragile frame sat on his lone cot. The apple that lay in his dish was slowly browning. Still good enough to consume, yet not desired. The 80-year-old Kishore Garodia sat by his bedside nursing himself back from an upset stomach. His water consumption was measured. Anything in excess of a litre would lead him to lose the essential electrolytes he needed to preserve his aging frame.

Rakshit, the intern from the government hospital, saw the ORS missing from the table. It triggered in him a surge of concern that came out as anxiety, and a checklist that was reinforced repeatedly by his medical college HOD.

“No, no tell me. Should I ask the staff to get you ORS?”

Kishore looked on calmly. The only answer he could give was a muted no. He lacked the strength to placate the young doctor’s fretful tone.

“Your doctor’s prescription, Kishoreji, I hope you have everything that is on it?” Geeta, the caretaker interjected with the better intention of taking stock of the situation that Rakshit has innocuously stirred up.

Rakshit couldn’t reign in his anxiety. “No but he has to have his electrolytes.”

“Yes, sir. We will ensure he does. Would you like to see our other patient?” She politely escorted Rakshit to the other patient with a smile of compassion. It calmed his adrenaline rushed a bit. Nurse Geeta had the magical smile that could make the seniors forget their age-related perils. Not all were physical. Most were emotional.

Kishoreji however stayed aloof. He spoke only when it was necessary and didn’t venture far beyond his dormitory room. To nurse Geeta he was the easiest to handle.

Geeta was hoping Kishoreji would be thankful to her for leading the anxious Dr. Rakshit away from an ailing old man who would much rather not have people experimenting on him. Instead, he still wore his calm expression and got back to reading his newspaper. In an era of smartphones, he was one person who never believed in keeping even a basic cellphone.

Maybe he’s not savvy, thought Rakshit.

“He probably doesn’t know how to use one,” he mused to Geeta. “And that is good and not good. No life without phones nowadays, isn’t it?”

Geeta sensed it was better to be quiet and agree with an opinionated young doctor who always seemed to nervy to be receptive. They exchanged niceties and parted ways.

“Do visit again doctor?” She smiled her warm and endearing smile.

Rakshit returns a broad and boyish smile back to her.

“Do you need anything, Kishoreji?” She asked dutifully.

No. This was the only thing she heard. No more words followed from Kishoreji.

 

The next day, Rakshit brought his grandfather.

“Dadaji is geriatrician. I talked him into coming and visiting the home with me.”

Geeta knew how restless Rakshit could get and could visualize how the 70-year-old physician might have reluctantly agreed.

“Doctor, would you like me to get you a chair? If you want, I can send patients to you. You need not go to the ward to meet them.”

The senior doctor drew in a heavy breath and said,” No, thank you sister. I am here to meet just one. His name is Kishore Garodia, and I think I know him.”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone, Dadaji. Garodia uncle mainly keeps to himself.”  Rakshit concluded from his impulse.

“Harshit! My dear friend! How are you? So good to see you after all these years.”

Kishoreji, who was struggling to stand yesterday, almost darted towards the senior doctor.

“Kishore? Is it really you? I am so happy to see you. Just look at you. Still the stubborn rock you always were. You decided to break ties with all of us.”

“Your grandson looks exactly like you. I thought he would be related. You all have the doctor genes.”

Geeta looked blasé. He could have told her about the likely connection yesterday. Why did he remain silent?

“Rakshit is still in his final year, and as you might have seen, is itching to be a full-blown doctor. In our days, we were ready to set up our own practice after graduation. The studies were so much tougher. Technology has come a long way now. These young guns need to be made profession-ready first. All kinds of internship mandates have come up.”

“Yes, Harshu. I agree.”

“But Kishya, you still don’t own a cellphone. What are you doing? Give up now. You are old. Anything can happen anytime. At least keep one for emergency, to call sister Geeta.”

Kishoreji was indeed stubborn as an ox. No amount of cajoling from Dr. Harshit could convince him to keep a cellphone.

“What was Garodia uncle really like?” asked Rakshit quizzically.

“He would read a lot of Urdu poetry. Faiz was his favorite poet. In our days, we had no cellphones. WhatsApp jokes and memes were non-existent. But in those days, we read quality books, mainly from authors such as Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and George Elliot. Because Kishore had learned Urdu, he would read poetry as well. All these habits are so well ingrained in us, that we do not feel the need to rely on gadgets. See, it has made you so impatient. On the other hand, Kishore, even with so many ailments is able to pull along in this age. Give him something that interests him and trust me you will see a different side of him.”

The next day, Rakshit walked up to sister Geeta.

“Sorry if I rushed you during my rounds. I am a true blue of this one-click generation. I have very measured patience. Allow me to also add that you absorbed my anxiety beautifully and were an absolute angel while assisting me on my rounds. You are a true caregiver. Every intern’s dream nurse.”

“It’s my job! And no, you didn’t rush me. I was happy that you came to see our patients.”

“I am definitely not a sea of patience like Garodia uncle who has so much to talk about, but will bear in silence. You know what, Dadaji said he likes to read poetry. I got him a book by Faiz. Let’s see how he reacts.”

Sister Geeta was game for this experiment. Anything to start a conversation with Kishoreji would be worth it.

Rakshit walked up to Kishoreji. “Uncle, my dadaji has sent you something. He said you will like it.”

Upon seeing the words “Faiz” written in urdu, Kishoreji’s inexpressive eyes widened in excitement. “Wh-, Faiz? Dast-e-S-aba? Goodness, he wrote this while he was in jail. Too much of an idealist. Just like me. He was a socialist in a capitalist society. I was a social warrior all my life, so no woman ever stuck with me. I was a lone ranger all along. But I needed to express all my ideals somewhere. I wrote a few books, worked as a journalist for a leading paper, and dabbled in media. I have seen the stars you chase today work on per-day salaries. I have seen their struggle. Most have forgotten those days blinded by the arch lights of popularity. As if that was not enough, your social media is further messing with their heads. More easy recognition, even after doing nothing but posing. I stay away from all such things.”

Both Rakshit and Geeta listened wide-eyed. After years of quietude, one nostalgic connect was all it took to get Kishoreji to talk. With what he had spoken about himself, Kishoreji had many interesting stories to share. And when he was out of stories, there was always poetry. He urged Rakshit to ditch his cellphone for a soulful poetry book at least one day of the week after his rounds.

A role reversal ensued in the next few months. A calmer Dr. Rakshit met with the patients. An excited Kishorji often called upon sister Geeta, not because he was unwell, but because he had so much shayari to tell.

The once nobody revealed the inner, well-read genius to everyone around him.