The Eyes

After a couple of weeks of mild headaches and eliminating possible causes with different doctors, I finally decided to check whether the problem could be related to my eyes. I already knew how delicate they were. My eyes have always been dry, the kind that constantly demands care and eye drops, like soil in hot weather that absorbs water the moment it touches it. If I ignore them for too long, they remind me of their existence in uncomfortable ways.

Eyes are strange like that. They are small, fragile organs, yet they quietly control how we experience the entire world. Every memory we cherish, every face we remember, every place we long for later in life, enters us first through the eyes. And yet we rarely think about them until they begin to hurt.

So one afternoon, I went to the clinic for a checkup. Eye clinics have a strange atmosphere. Unlike most hospitals, where people appear visibly anxious or restless, eye clinics are quieter, almost meditative. There is something oddly intimate about a place dedicated entirely to vision, a place where strangers quietly wait so that someone else can look deeply into their eyes.

I spoke at the reception, paid the consultation fee, and sat on a bench waiting to be called for the tests. After a few preliminary tests, they sent me to an interim doctor who asked questions about the headaches, checked my prescription numbers, and examined how my eyes responded to light. Then he said they would need to dilate my eyes. They would put strong drops into them, which would blur my vision for a few hours but allow the main doctor to examine the inside of my eyes more clearly.

I went back to the reception area, where many people were already sitting. Some had their eyes closed completely, clearly under the effect of the same drops. When my name was called, a lady approached with a small bottle and a box of tissues. She told me not to open my eyes for forty five minutes and carefully poured the drops into them.

Within seconds, my eyes started watering uncontrollably. She handed me tissues with the calm familiarity of someone who had repeated this exact routine hundreds of times. Watching the tears roll down my face reminded me of brides during farewell ceremonies, the careful wiping of tears so the makeup remains intact, grief handled delicately. I wiped my eyes the same way, trying to make sure the tears did not run into my beard where they would disappear without leaving a trace.

Sitting there with my eyes closed, I suddenly remembered the people who used to help me put eye drops in before. I was always terrible at it. Something about aiming a bottle directly at my own eye made me blink instantly and pull away. For years, someone else had to do it for me. And yet somewhere in the last few months, I had somehow learned to do it myself, not perfectly but still. I wondered why that change happened.

Was it simply a necessity? Or was it because the comfort of being helped had quietly delayed my willingness to learn? Sometimes when people care for us, they unknowingly postpone our independence. You grow used to someone else's hands solving small inconveniences for you. And maybe that is love, too. People doing the smallest things for you, to make you smile, to make your life easier... But eventually, life insists that you learn certain things yourself and do it yourself. You realise that even if many people love you, certain battles will remain personal. Some tasks, even small ones like putting drops into your own eyes, must eventually be learned to do alone.

All these philosophies reminded me of something the interim doctor had said earlier, when I was telling him that to offset my heavy screen time during office hours, I try to reduce screen time at home and just read or write. He explained that it does not make much difference whether I read books or look at my phone after long hours of office screen time. Both strain the eyes because the muscles are forced to focus at a very close distance for too long. To demonstrate this, he held a pen very close to my eyes and asked me to focus on it. Then he slowly moved the pen farther away and asked if I noticed the difference.

When something stays too close to the eyes for too long, the muscles become strained. That is why, he explained, every hour we should take a few seconds to look at something far away, as far as we can, and in as many directions as we can. Just a brief moment of distance and movement is enough for the eyes to relax.

As usual, I turned the advice into philosophy. Maybe life works in a similar way. When we examine our lives from too close a distance, the daily stress, the tensions in family, the complications in work, the fragile dynamics of relationships, everything feels overwhelming. The details become too sharp and too immediate. But sometimes we need to step back and look at things from afar. From a distance, the patterns become visible. Even mistakes begin to make sense.

If we are doing something right, we have to be proud of that. And if we realise we boarded the wrong train, it is better to get down at the next station, even if the destination is only a few stops away. Continuing the journey in the wrong direction simply takes us farther from where we actually want to go.

Somewhere in the middle of these thoughts, my name was called again. The lady returned and added another round of drops. It must have been about fifteen minutes. The second drop disrupted my chain of thinking, and my mind wandered in another direction.

I started imagining what it would be like to become an eye doctor. Wouldn't it be fascinating to spend your life looking into people's eyes? Black eyes, brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Young eyes full of curiosity, tired eyes carrying years of stories, anxious eyes that blink too quickly, confident eyes that look straight back at you. Eyes reveal more than what people often realise.

The more I thought about it, the more fascinating it seemed. Every pair of eyes carries an entire biography behind it. Some eyes look restless because they have seen too much too early. Some look calm because they have learned to accept things life did not ask permission before giving. Some eyes laugh even when the mouth remains serious. Some eyes carry a sadness so quiet that only a careful observer can notice it.

But then I paused. How could I become an eye doctor when I cannot even keep my eyes open during that machine test where they blow air into your eyes? That test always defeats me. No matter how determined I am to keep my eyes open, the sudden puff of air makes them close instantly. Becoming an eye doctor with that weakness would be like a bald doctor performing hair transplants.

Still, I had a solution in mind. If a patient had eyes like mine that refused to stay open, I would simply play a song for them. Maybe something like,

Noor-e-khuda, noor-e-khuda

Tu kahan chhupa hai, humein yeh bata?

Noor-e-khuda, noor-e-khuda

Yoon na humse nazrein phira

Noor-e-khuda, noor-e-khuda

Tu kahan chhupa hai, humein yeh bata?

Noor-e-khuda, noor-e-khuda

Yoon na humse nazrein phira, noor-e-khuda. 

Music has a strange calming effect. Perhaps after hearing that song, those eyes would stay open long enough for the test.

Then I remembered a girl in my office with whom I recently had a nice conversation about eyes. I had recommended the same drops that I use, one water-based drop for normal dryness and another stronger one, gel-based, for extreme dryness. A few days later, she showed me the bottle she had bought with a smile. I remember feeling oddly proud, as if I had successfully treated my first patient.

For a brief moment, I actually believed that perhaps I could become an eye doctor.

Then another strange thought appeared. What if one day I looked into some patient's eyes and fell in love? What if someone's eyes fascinated me more than the world is fascinated by the Mona Lisa and the mystery of her eyes? Eyes deep enough to carry their own stories and mysteries. Eyes that do not reveal themselves completely the first time you look into them, but slowly unfold like a novel you keep returning to.

I would probably just sing softly to her,

Aankhon Mein Teri

Ajab Si Ajab Si Adayein Hai

Aankhon Mein Teri

Ajab Si Ajab Si Adayein Hai

Dil Ko Banade Jo Patang Saanse

Yeh Teri Woh Haawaien Hai

Aai Aesi Raat Hai Jo

Bhahut Khushnaseeb Hai

Chahe Jise Door Se Duniya

Woh Mere Kareeb Hai

Kitna Kuch Kehna Hai

Phir Bhi Hai Dil Mein Saawal Kahin

Sapno Mein Jo Roz Kaha Hai

Woh Phir Se Kahun Ya Nahi..

Aankhon Mein Teri

Ajab Si Ajab Si Adayein Hai

Aankhon Mein Teri

Ajab Si Ajab Si Adayein Hai

Dil Ko Banade Jo Patang SaanSe

Yeh Teri Woh Haawaien Hai

Tere Saath Saath Aisa

Koi Noor Aaya Hai

Chand Teri Roshni Ka

Halka Sa Ek Saaya Hai

Teri Nazaron Ne Dil Ka Kiya Jo Hashar

Asar Yeh Hua..

Abb Inmein Hi Doob Ke Ho Jaaun Paar

Yahi Hai Dua

Aankhon Mein Teri

Ajab Si Ajab Si Adayein Hai

Aankhon Mein Teri

Ajab Si Ajab Si Adayein Hai

Dil Ko Banade Jo Patang Saanse

Yeh Teri.. Woh Haawaien Hai..



And then another question arrived. Would that even be allowed in the medical code of conduct? Can a doctor fall in love with a patient?

I smiled to myself and let the thought go, the way I usually do when my imagination wanders too far.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and the lady returned with the third round of drops. My thoughts drifted again, this time toward memory. I started recalling the many eyes I had looked into throughout my life. Innocent eyes, curious eyes, mischievous eyes, intimidating eyes. Among those memories, one pair of eyes suddenly stood still.

The eyes of a girl in a white dress.

I remained there for a moment, remembering what it felt like to look into them. Some eyes cannot be explained with language. Words fall short. Some eyes are not meant to be described. They are meant to be remembered. They stay somewhere inside your mind like a photograph that refuses to fade (If you search carefully enough, those eyes still exist somewhere on my website, vimarshshah.com. They remain there quietly, like a memory preserved.)

Eventually, the forty-five minutes passed. I slowly opened my eyes, tears still lingering from the drops, returning from imagination to the quiet waiting room filled with patients.

Soon, my name was called for the final consultation. I sat in the examination chair while the doctor looked into my eyes with a small torch and asked me to read letters at a distance. At that moment, I almost laughed, of course, only in my mind. Just minutes earlier, I had imagined myself becoming an eye doctor, perhaps even falling in love with a patient's eyes and singing songs in the clinic. And here I was, the patient.

For a brief second, an absurd thought appeared again. What if I am the patient the doctor falls for? A ridiculous idea. But imagination rarely cares about realism. Fortunately, I thought, most people respect the decorum of the profession and the place much more seriously than wandering minds like me do.

After examining my eyes, the doctor said they were extremely dry and that I should do something about it. Almost as if she was suggesting I should cry more often to keep them moist. I told her I had already done enough crying. She smiled and prescribed artificial tears instead, four times a day. Still have to cry, I thought. Just more scientifically now.

And I realised again how delicate eyes truly are. Always demanding attention. Always asking to be cared for. But perhaps all eyes are like that. They demand a gaze, a moment of pause, a little respect. And perhaps they deserve it, because eyes reveal things that words cannot.

To those eyes,

To the book that I lost somewhere in the hospital while thinking about this piece of writing.

And to the author whose stories I have fallen in love with recently, the one who quietly makes me a better storyteller. This one's for you, Murakami.

- Vimarsh Shah 

51st article, 30 March, 2026. The Book:

The songs:

How can I forget this one...