The smell of carbolic acid always takes me back to a hospital waiting room. I no longer remember which doctor my grandmother was supposed to see that day, nor do I recall most of what my aunt said. What remains vivid to this day is the long, white iron bench in that waiting room—the way it made my backside feel cold whenever I sat on it—and the sensation of my ears turning red and burning hotter with every octave my aunt’s voice climbed.
That morning, I had accompanied my grandmother for a check-up at the city’s largest hospital. In the waiting room, she sat in the middle, with me to her right and my aunt to her left. The area around us was bustling with people—some there for their own appointments, others accompanying family or relatives for treatment.
Amidst the din of the crowd, my aunt’s voice grew increasingly loud. The longer she spoke, the higher her pitch rose. She even began pointing her finger at me.
“It seems no one at home cares about Grandma.”
“If she won’t eat, spoon-feed her!”
“Force her so she gets some food in her!”
“When things get like this, I’m the one who has to deal with the hassle, aren’t I?”
Suddenly, it felt as though all other sounds in the room vanished; all I could hear was my aunt’s tirade. I kept my head down, offering no reply or rebuttal.
I could feel the gazes of everyone in the waiting room shifting toward us as we sat there in the front row.
“It’s okay; Eka isn’t at fault.”
“I was the one who didn’t want to eat,” Grandma said, her weak voice trembling as she tried to calm Auntie down.
Instead of calming down, Auntie scolded Grandma—who was already sick—her voice booming just as loudly as the hospital’s public address system.
I clenched my fists tighter until my palms turned white. I wanted to shout back just as loudly. I wanted to leave that place immediately.
In reality, I just sat there in silence, staring at the tips of my shoes with eyes that were beginning to well up.
I fought with all my might to keep the tears from falling. I clenched my fists even tighter, as if that could hold back the tears ready to spill from my eyes.
Ever since then, I have always avoided running into my aunt. Whenever that older sister of my father’s came to visit, I would leave the house—or lock myself in my room, pretending I wasn't home—only emerging once she had returned to her own place.
I avoided encountering her whenever possible, steering clear of the conflicts that so often arose during our meetings—confrontations that always left me hanging my head, unable to utter a single word in response.
The memory of what happened in the hospital waiting room plays vividly in my mind whenever I see her. Not once have I ever said I hate her; I simply have no desire to be close to her.
Now, twenty years have passed. Time has moved faster than the anger in my heart.
I still run into my aunt at family gatherings from time to time. She isn't as strong as she used to be. She is stooped—not in apology, but simply because age no longer allows her to stand tall. Her gait has slowed, yet her face still reveals the same stern, unyielding woman. Whenever we meet, I speak to her only when absolutely necessary.
In her old age, my aunt lived alone with only her son. Despite sharing the same roof, they were strangers bound only by an address. More than once, I saw him fall silent rather than answer her, a habit that reminded me of someone I used to know very well.
The last time I saw my aunt, her gait had slowed significantly. Time had etched more wrinkles onto her face, revealing features that had long since left their youth behind. Her hands trembled as she drank her tea. She sat there all alone during a gathering at my grandmother's house; even her own siblings were reluctant to speak to her.
I used to see a woman who seemed so imposing she frightened me. Now, I see a body that has grown frail and small, yet still harbors the same anger as before.
For the longest time, I believed that wall was built by my aunt’s shouting that day. It turned out I was wrong. That outburst was merely the first stone of a wall I was building myself. I was the one who laid each subsequent stone, time and time again. Bit by bit. Until, eventually, that wall stood firm for twenty years.
I still remember the smell of carbolic acid. The scene in that waiting room remains vivid in my memory. What has begun to fade, however, is the anger I carried away from that place.
Perhaps walls do not crumble all at once. Perhaps a single stone falls away only when we dare to truly look at someone—not at the wounds they left behind. But, at the human being standing just right before us.
Image source: Photo by Rainier Narboneta on Pexels
