Physicians pack a punch in 55 words

“Brevity is the soul of wit,” says Polonius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. But, as 17th-century French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal said, “I have made this letter longer than usual, only because I have not had time to make it shorter,” brevity is far more challenging than rambling essays. However, ever since author Steve Moss introduced the genre of 55-word stories in 1986, also called “shorties,” these have become a popular mode of creative, reflective expression for many, including physicians.

In medical disciplines, this mode of imaginative expression has been used as a means of connecting practitioners with their humanness, bringing to the fore their own feelings and expressions of which they themselves may be unaware. The amazing thing about these brief stories is that their authors need not be writers, or even connoisseurs of creative works. However, with each attempt at editing, they introduce more poignancy, improve the shorties and provide a surprising window into the writer’s own self.

In 2021, Professor Marcia Childress took a session with CBEC students on humanities and bioethics. This was the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, which was taking its physical and psychological toll on students and faculty alike. She asked our students to pen 55-word stories, reflecting their pandemic experiences. These students had no prior experience in writing stories, long or short, their literary contributions limited to dry scientific articles based on quantifiable data. After overcoming initial trepidation, the students enjoyed the exercise and produced a series of extremely reflective shorties, finding the process cathartic. CBEC faculty, also having experienced the ravages of the pandemic firsthand, took a cue from them and captured their own experiences in shorties.

‘Tis folly to be wise
Farid Bin Masood

Dada got severe Covid-19 symptoms.
He was isolated in a small room of a large home with a large joint family.
I, Daddy, and Chachu lied to everyone about the results to avoid panic.
All the family members did what they could for his betterment.
Dada still believes that it was just a chest infection.

The Malang Laughed^
Farhat Moazam

The Malang laughed at my masked face,
Cautious, careful two meters away I stood.
“Death?” he smiled, “’Tis no lips heralding new life with whispered azaan, young bones grown old, distanced,
No hands wiping tears, arms offering embraces, shoulders bearing biers to final destinations.
I will die when my time comes, you die every day.”
(^Malang is a Muslim Dervish or Sufi)

It’s Everywhere
Bushra Shirazi

Fear of the unknown and trying to protect the loved ones by distancing.
Don’t touch, stay away!
Ironic and sad as it goes against the acts of life.
In reality one is born alone and dies alone. Why blame Covid?
Another truth, the existing psychosis of the loneliness and fear…
Who is next in line?

Reality Check
Aamir Jafarey

Covid: The clarion call. But I’m not a doctor. Not anymore.
I hide behind my keyboard furiously churning out op-eds and guidelines, much oohed and aahed, yet pointless.
Timepass.
I tweet and feeling important. I’m an ethicist.
No, I’m not; never was.
No longer a doctor, not an ethicist. Disappointment. Bad bet. Trapped.
Covid: Awakening.

Mountain Run
Anika Khan

Eighty-three years old.
Sinewy, puissant, she bounds up a mountain trail.
Panther-like she springs and leaps.
In an act of grace, wings sprout from her shoulders.
Still dreaming, she falls off her bed, fracturing a glass-brittle hip bone.
Ages seem to pass before the night dissolves into swirls of milky light and her daughter comes.

Que sera, sera
Sualeha Shekhani

She needs my touch.
She is breaking down,
“Reach out, hug her,”
But a few weeks ago
The strip had turned pink.
She is my best friend,
I reach out, cradle her in my arms
Holding my breath beneath my mask,
Whatever will be, will be,
Que sera, sera.