How To Stop Snoring

PLEASE HELP!!!! IBEG AND SUPPLICATE YOU ALL!! CAN ANYONE HELP ME GET STARTED ON MY ORAL COMMENTARY! ILL DIE! I?
PLEASE HELP!!!! IBEG AND SUPPLICATE YOU ALL!! CAN ANYONE HELP ME GET STARTED ON MY ORAL COMMENTARY! ILL DIE! I?
Im stuck, and I reallydont know what to do, my oral commentary is due may 14, and I have no idea what to do:( I need to write an oral commentary on one of the pages in this book called Such a Long Journey by Rohinton Mistry, and I have no clue how to start it at all, we are supposed to make internal connections, take about rhetorical schemes, poetic devices, tone, mood, effect on the reader, types of imagery if applicable etc, and im really stuck, please help me i dont know where to start, im no asking you to do my homework, im just asking for youre help to atleast start this thing, im so stressed,a nd im dying here, i dont know what to do
My assigned page was page 238 of Rohinton Mistry's Such a Long journey:
Here is the passage, if it will help

Gustad entered hesitantly and looked towards Dinshawji’s bed. The figure of the woman he expected to see, seated in vigil, was missing. He gazed absently upon the rows of sleeping patients, heard their breathing and snores. And if I did not know Dinshawji is gone, he would also have the sleeping look. Strange feeling. To stand beside his bed, and he cannot see me. Unfair advantage. As though I am spying on him. But who knows? Maybe Dinshu is the one with the advantage, spying from Up There. Laughing at me. The straight hard chair was by the bed. He had grown so used to it over the weeks. Dinshawji’s sheet rose in a sharp incline at the nether regions of the mattress. He glanced under the bed to see if the size twelve Naughty Boys were there by his trunk. Only the bedpan, its white enamel stark in the dark space. Beside it, the transparent flask-shaped urinal. Not all patients were asleep. Some watched intently, keeping an eye on this healthy one visiting after hours, when he had no business to be here. In the dim night-light of the ward their eyes focussed fearfully, drifted, then refocussed. When would it be their turn? How would it happen? And afterwards…? Down an old man’s face, tears were rolling slowly. Silently, on to the pillowcase dull white like his hair. Others were peaceful, reassured, as if they knew now that it was the simplest of things, was dying. After all, the one who had joked and laughed in their midst for several weeks had shown them how easy it was. How easy to go from warm and breathing to cold and waxen, how easy to become one of the smooth white figures in the carts outside the gates of Mount Mary. Dinshawji had been stripped of all the appurtenances with which he had clung to life. The metal stand, gaunt and coldly institutional when the saline solution bottle used to hang from it, now stood empty. Now it looked just like a wire coat-rack, harmless and domestic. The various tubes had grown in number with the passing weeks: one through the nose, two in the arms, somewhere under the sheet a catheter. All withdrawn. As if he had never been sick. Were the tubes removed carefully, the way they were inserted: skilfully, by steady hands? Or just yanked out—the useless wires of an old broken radio, like my Telerad. And then the tubes thrown away in the rubbish, like the coils and transformers and condensers littering the pavements outside the repair shops. Dinshawji dismantled. And after the prayers are said and the rituals performed at the Tower of Silence, the vultures will do the rest. When the bones are picked clean, and the clean bones gone, no proof will remain that Dinshawji ever lived and breathed. Except his memory. But after that? After the memory is lost? When I am gone, and all his friends are gone. What then? The eyes of the wakeful patients were still on Gustad. He found it disconcerting if their eyes met. So he kept looking at Dinshawji’s surgical bed. The iron frame, painted creamy white. Black in places where the paint had peeled. Three sockets for the wooden-handled crank. The first raises the head—I used to wind it when Dinshawji’s dinner arrived. Crankshafts and gears, just like my Meccano set. Second socket for the feet (I raised them once by mistake). And the third for the mid-section. Strange. Why should stomach or pelvis be higher than the rest of the body? Only one reason I can think of. And not a medical reason. Unless the interns and nurses use it for playing doctor-doctor. Wish I had thought of that earlier. To tell Dinshu. But he would have come up with a better one himself. His hospital song. O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam… ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,’ he whispered in Dinshawji’s ear, and smiled.
3 days ago - 14 hours left to answer.

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