The Medicine

It was midday, and the heat in the small clinic was a physical weight. There was no air conditioning just two rusted ceiling fans spinning at full speed, slicing through the stagnant air without cooling it. About a dozen of us were crowded around a six-foot table that served as the pharmacy counter, jostling for the pharmacist’s attention.

The room felt small and loud, smelling of sweat and medicines. I had managed to snag one of the four plastic chairs tucked against the wall, waiting for my turn to pay for my meds.

To my left and right sat a young couple. They were physically pressed against me in the cramped space, but they were retreating. Each held a phone like a shield, their faces tightened in that specific, modern mask of digital preoccupation.

Then, I saw them standing in the thick of the crowd near the table.

The mother stood with a weary, practiced patience, one hand holding her saree pleats and the other anchored firmly to her daughter’s wrist. The girl was perhaps sixteen, her thick braids slightly dampened by the heat. She was vibrating with a restless energy that the crowded room couldn't contain. Every few seconds, she let out a low, guttural grunt - a sharp, involuntary sound that pierced through the mechanical whirring of the fans. This was coupled with a few sharp eye movements followed by a prolonged gaze that did not leave her mother’s eyes. Every motion signaled to the others gathered there, that she was unlike them in a literal sense.

The couple flanking me stiffened instantly. They didn’t look at the girl directly; instead, they cast quick, darting glances that were thick with discomfort. It was a scared, defensive energy - the kind of look people give when they feel their personal bubble has been punctured by something unpredictable.

They turned to their screens with a sudden, frantic intensity, their thumbs flying in a synchronized burst of texting. They weren't just typing; they were escaping. They were using their phones to build a wall against the girl’s presence, their body language pulled tight and brittle, as if her sounds were a threat they had to discuss in the safety of a chat with each other, lest their vocal concern should draw more attention from the ‘strange’ girl.

The girl’s grunts grew more frequent as the midday heat intensified. Just as the tension in the room felt like it might snap, the girl turned to her mother.

She didn't cry out. She didn't retreat. Instead, she reached out and took her mother’s face in her hands.

With a slowness that seemed to pause the spinning fans, she began to plant soft, deliberate kisses on her mother’s cheeks. One. Two. Three. They weren’t the frantic kisses of a child seeking comfort. They were the kisses of a soul that recognizes a burden and is trying to lighten it. She was cajoling her mother, soothing the woman who stood as her shield against the world. In the middle of that sweltering, impatient crowd, she was creating a pocket of perfect silence.

“Amma!”the girl whispered, leaning her forehead against her mother’s.

The mother closed her eyes, and for a second, the exhaustion vanished from her face. A private, radiant smile took its place. In that moment, the unpleasant sounds were revealed for what they were: just the heavy breathing of a soul trying to find its way home.

The couple next to me went still. Their thumbs stopped mid-chat. The defensive tension in their shoulders seemed to deflate. The blue light of their screens looked sickly and thin compared to the golden, raw intimacy of that kiss. They were forced to witness a language their phones could never translate - a moment of grace that turned their fear into something quiet and small.

When the pharmacist finally called on them, the mother stepped forward, her daughter still tucked under her wing. As they pushed through the crowded door and out into the sun, the room felt suddenly empty.

I looked at my own hands, then at the whirring fans. I had come for a prescription, but I left with the realization that the most powerful medicine in the room wasn't behind the counter.

The Oversoul Inc. (theoversoulinc.com and theoversoulinc.press) is an independent literary press and narrative studio based in India. We are not affiliated, associated, or in any way officially connected with any other company or website operating under the Oversoul name.