Till the Last Breath . . . Page 18

  They were supposed to meet at eleven in the night, when everyone else would have slept. Time had slowed down. From eight in the evening, she had glanced at her watch every few minutes, hoping time would move along faster. 9. 10. 10.30. 10.45. The closer it got, the farther it seemed. In the last ten minutes, she sprayed perfume over herself and brushed her hair the best she could. There was a limit to things she could do and in all honesty, she liked that. It was simple.

  Her eyes never left the door, waiting for her knight in shining armour—in her case, a knight with a stethoscope around his neck—to take her away. Her heart was literally throbbing and it was no longer just an expression. The electrodes and the monitors that measured the beating of her heart showed a huge spike and the graph looked as if she had just run a marathon. It became worse with every passing second. Sometimes, she felt she would pass out. Moments later, the door was pushed open and Arman walked in. Almost instantly, she felt dwarfed in front of his imposing personality, now dressed in a dark-blue shirt—a first—and a pair of fitted trousers. His short hair was neatly parted, his face shaved clean of any stubble and he smelled heavenly. The neatness of his face brought out his eyes, big and twinkling, and his teeth, sparkling white. Oh my God! I hope my jaw hasn’t unhinged and fallen off my face! He is gorgeous!

  Finding her voice again, she muttered, ‘You look fabulous!’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, softly. Seemed like he had forgotten the rude, abrasive doctor side of him home, and kept the gentlemen part. ‘And you always look great.’

  ‘Yes, why not? Every girl dreams of being in a hospital robe on her first date, doesn’t she?’ she mocked playfully.

  ‘I don’t know about other girls, but I know what you want. Your first date in a hospital. It’s perfect, right? And not in a hospital robe, but a doctor’s coat,’ he said and put forward with his right hand a white coat, neatly folded, and along with it, a stethoscope.

  ‘What?’

  She took it from his hands and memories of medical school came flashing to her mind. It was lame but it was not lame. It was by far the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. She spread open the coat and was in for the second shock of the evening when she noticed a badge attached to the coat. It spelled ‘Dr Pihu Malhotra’. Below it was the hospital’s logo and the name of the hospital. I wish I could marry him!

  ‘This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me!’ she shrieked.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ The arrogant doctor blushed and shifted nervously on his feet.

  ‘It’s a lot!’ she said as she hugged the coat lovingly and smiled at Arman. She put it around her shoulder and slipped her arms in and hung the stethoscope around her neck. It felt like … it always felt in her dreams.

  ‘Shall we go?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ she answered and reached out for her crutches that were on the side of her bed.

  ‘They will not be of any use where I am taking you,’ he said and blocked her way.

  ‘Wheelchair?’

  ‘Better,’ he answered.

  Confused, she looked at him as he swept in and one of his hands went around her neck. She instinctively put hers across his, and his other hand scooped her up from her bed. With one swift motion, she was high up in his arms; Arman’s smiling face bore no sign of strain as he headed to the door, carrying her in his strongly built arms. She was beyond words, beyond feelings, beyond senses; she was numb and all she did was stare at him in sheer admiration and heart-wrenching adoration. As he carried her through the corridor, she wished the moment would freeze in time. She wanted to leave her body and see what it looked like—him carrying her in his arms—and then click a mental picture of it and etch it in her mind. Why wasn’t I dying before? she asked herself.

  Arman’s long strides were confident and powerful as he walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. Every step and every sensation of his body against hers took her to a different world altogether. If there was any sensation she wanted to live with as her last, it was the touch of him against her. The elevator reached the top floor and he walked out, his hands still tightly wrapped around her. His warm breath against her hair gave her untold happiness and she had goosebumps on her flesh. The feeling was indescribable as Arman walked to the stairs of the fire exit and climbed a flight of stairs to take her to the roof of the hospital.

  It was only after they were up there that she realized she was not in her room any more. The cool breeze against her face broke her out of her trance-like state and she returned to the present. She looked around and it wasn’t really how they show it in the movies. The supposedly dreamlike sequence had no tiny red LED lights, or a small round table with candles on it, or a chunky black stereo piping her favourite songs, or glasses of wine, or fancy cutlery with delectable food hidden under steel domes. Instead, there was a small rectangular table and two plastic chairs. On the table were two packed dinners and a couple of bottles of mineral water on the side. A frown appeared on her face momentarily which was creased out as Arman’s cologne wafted into her senses again and she found herself smiling.

  Finally, he put her down on the chair and sat down next to her. For a few seconds, no one spoke. Okay, so this was strange. No candles? No lights? No music? Bad plastic-bound food? Would her last date be like this?

  ‘So …’ she said, as she tried to explain herself and ask him for an explanation too, all at the same time.

  ‘I know what you are thinking. Why this, right?’ he asked. One of his eyebrows was arched as if he was about to unfurl a devious scheme.

  ‘Yes. I am sure you have a logical explanation. I mean, everything is great, but no flowers? No music?’ she poked fun at him.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do have a logical explanation. Imagine us together five years down the line. What would we be doing? Maybe we will go on dates with flowers, candles and whatever you might have thought of in your pretty little head. But that’s not going to be our life—is it? Our life will be this—sitting in the hospital cafeteria, eating bad food and discussing patients. Fighting over who’s wrong and who’s right. Learning from each other. Quarrelling. Laughing. Crying. That’s what we would be about. Those will be the big moments of our lives. Those will be the happiest moments of our lives. No one remembers one anniversary from the other. Years down the line our thirteenth or fourteenth or fiftieth anniversary will be the same to us. But we will remember those years, not those anniversaries. Days aren’t important, years are. Years aren’t important, experiences are. Experiences aren’t important, lives are. And this will be our life.’

  ‘I get your point. But can’t we do that with flowers?’ she chortled. ‘Just kidding. I think it’s great and I don’t think you could have put it better. And you just said “ours”, so I am happy. But what’s all this?’ She pointed out to the file on the table which was almost six inches thick. The papers in the file were frayed at their ends and appeared to have been filed improperly.

  ‘This is the file of the sixty-three most interesting cases I have ever handled. Some of them died, some of them lived. These are the charts of their diseases, the progress, the medications and finally, the results. Some of them are beyond your understanding, but you have proved more than once that you’re more than just brilliant,’ he said. ‘I think we would have fun doing this.’

  At that point, she hated to admit it but she was aroused. It was like mental sex with multiple, unending, exploding orgasms, only better. Gingerly she opened the file and started to go through the first patient.

  ‘2004, a fifteen-year-old boy came to the hospital with chest pain and rashes all over his body—’

  ‘You compiled this for me?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the case,’ he said and continued.

  For the next one and a half hours, they went through numerous cases, fought over potential diagnosis, ate the cold, tasteless food, looked into each other’s eyes and knew nothing would make them happier if this was their rou
tine for the rest of their lives. Somewhere between the heated conversations, Arman had shifted right next to her and taken her hand. They were talking about dead patients, but both of them knew what they were really talking about. When both of them were exhausted, Arman took her back to her room and tucked her into her bed. The goodnight kiss lasted an eternity and then Arman left.

  Pihu couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. She couldn’t stop replaying the night in her head. That and the niggling chest pain and the rising difficulty in breathing kept her awake all night. Nothing is wrong, she told herself and closed her eyes. This is my life, she told herself, and tomorrow is just a sick leave.

  24

  Dushyant Roy

  It was late and Dushyant hadn’t gone to sleep. For the last two hours, he had been waiting for Pihu to come back from her magical date. It had been long, so it was going well, he guessed. He would have no one else to blame but himself if anything went wrong. After all, the stethoscope, the doctor’s coat, the case files of interesting patients—it was all his idea for a perfect date for Pihu. Earlier that day, when Arman was doing a routine check-up, he had seemed to be a little tense. Dushyant wouldn’t have talked, but he asked what was bothering him. Arman had asked him to fuck off and be busy killing himself, but Dushyant had insisted. Long story short, Dushyant had suggested what the perfect date for Pihu should have.

  Earlier that night, when he saw Arman execute the date just like he had suggested, he smiled and prayed for her. On second thoughts, he knew a touch of flowers and candles wouldn’t have been that bad either. It was two in the night when he saw Arman walk in, carrying her in his arms. How heavy must she be? As soon as Arman left, he wanted to go over and talk to Pihu. He also had to apologize and he had not got the time to do so till then. But better sense prevailed and he thought he would let her soak in the moment.

  As he lay down his head on the pillow, he wondered how different his life would have been had he respected the one girl to whom he meant the world. Unable to curb the urge, he took out his cell phone and called the number he should have called long back. The phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Kajal. Dushyant,’ he said and waited. It had been long since he heard her voice and he wondered if the raw, sugary sweetness of her voice was still there.

  ‘Umm … Hi. How are you?’ she responded. Still so sweet!

  ‘I am good. The medicines seem to be working for now,’ he lied. ‘How are you?’

  He wanted to ask her why she had come to the hospital but didn’t know how to approach the topic.

  ‘I am good, too. I came to the hospital that day,’ she said. Phew! ‘You were sleeping, so I ended up talking to your roommate. Pihu.’

  ‘Yes, she told me. I wish I could have seen you,’ he replied. He wondered if it showed his vulnerability, but he was allowed to be so. He was dying, after all.

  ‘I wish so too,’ she said.

  ‘Can you come over?’

  ‘Now? Are you sure?’

  ‘Can you?’

  There was silence on the other side. An unending, torturous time between when he finished and she responded. He didn’t know why he had asked her to come over. Was it because he had just seen Pihu come back smiling from a date? Did he want the same? As he weighed the possibilities of his womanlike proposition, Kajal said she would be there in a bit. He did a happy little dance in his head. For the first time since he had come to the hospital, he got up from his bed, dragged himself to the washroom and looked at himself in the mirror. I hate myself. He hadn’t shaved in days, but that wasn’t the only problem. Over the last month, he had lost a lot of weight and he no longer looked the guy whose bench press had touched 190 pounds in his bodybuilding prime. He even tried flexing his biceps in the mirror but a skinny arm stared back at him. No more of that protein-supplement-pumped, steroid-injected-in-the-bum bloated hands that would scream out of his XL-sized yet tight T-shirts. He shaved. Washed his face. Twice. Still looked as bad as he did before. Exasperated, he even washed his face with Pihu’s strawberry-flavoured facewash, which left his skin surprisingly fresh.

  He walked back to his bed and started to count time backwards. It hadn’t been long when the door was knocked upon and Kajal walked in. In a blue tank top, slightly torn jeans and chappals, she didn’t look like an engineering student at all. And then it struck him; Kajal may no longer be an engineering student after a few days. Although rich, she had never seemed like the type who would quit engineering midway because life was too short to do uninteresting shit and go dancing to London to do a course which had no academic value. And of course, to have sexual intercourse with white men with different accents. But then again, Pihu had added that Kajal’s decision had something to do with her break-up with Varun. That bastard!

  Dushyant’s hatred for Varun was multilayered and very complex. The most obvious reason was Varun sleeping with his girlfriend. But then again, it wasn’t the only reason. Varun was rich and accomplished beyond any girl’s criterion. He came from a family of millionaires, but he had added a few millions of his own, too, into the bulging accounts of his father’s clandestine bank accounts in countless European countries. He hated almost everything about him. The cars. The places he went to. The first-class flights he took. The opulent flat he never lived in. The slicked hair. The perfect tone of talking. The first time he met him—and that’s when Dushyant and Kajal were dating—he had decided not to like the guy and the feeling of revulsion had only grown with time.

  ‘You look amazing,’ he said as Kajal sat down by his side.

  ‘You don’t look too bad either. A little thinner, but I never liked your muscles anyway,’ she chuckled. Dushyant saw her eyes rove over all the drips and needles that plunged deep into him and kept him alive.

  ‘You loved them! You couldn’t keep your hands off them!’ he poked.

  ‘Naah. That was just because you worked so hard and I didn’t want to disappoint you.’

  That was correct. She had never disappointed him. I am an asshole.

  ‘Are you feeling any better?’ she asked.

  ‘A little. Though there is a shooting pain every time the effect of the painkillers wears off. My liver and kidneys are shot. They have put me on the transplant list, just in case,’ he said. He conveniently missed out the fact that he might not make it to the next month.

  ‘Transplant list?’ The shock on Kajal’s face was off-putting. He regretted saying it. He was no stranger to saying things he shouldn’t.

  ‘Oh … there is just a one-in-a-million chance of that happening. Nothing is happening to me,’ he lied. Even though Arman’s words rang clearly in his head. We will get you on the transplant list, but I don’t know if it will be any good. The list moves slowly and your record of abuse will not go down well with the people who decide. I think you should tell your parents. Maybe there is a match there.

  ‘Your room-mate thinks you’re dying, too,’ she said, her voice cracking.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ He put his hand across to comfort her. ‘She is just a wannabe medical student. And moreover, she is the one who’s dying, so quite obviously, she is slowly losing her mind.’ He laughed. The room reeked of death and disappointment but there was still laughter in their hearts. She laughed.

  ‘I heard you’re going to London? Why is that?’ he asked.

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s got nothing to do with Varun … or me?’ he pried.

  ‘Why would it be like that? Both of you are assholes. You cared too much, he doesn’t care at all. I have always been wrong with my choices in men. Remember Charanpreet? That sardar guy who told me in first year that he would wait for me till the end of eternity? The guy with the big black SUV?’

  ‘Yeah, the guy we beat up,’ Dushyant said with pride.

  ‘Yes, the same guy. But he was alone and you were with ten other guys.’

  ‘I had to get extra help! He was big, wasn’t he?’ he defended himself. It was odd how the mention of other guys still made him
squirm. Just imagining Kajal with someone else was distressing. During the period of time that they were together, Dushyant routinely found himself in drunken brawls and fist fights with guys who made passes at her. Sometimes, they blew up to the magnitude of fifty-people-a-side showdowns. His side usually won. He could get beat up and he could smash heads in.

  ‘Yes, he was big. Maybe I should have gone to him. You know—he’s still waiting? I still get flowers and chocolates at my doorstep every birthday and Valentine’s Day. That’s cute, isn’t it?’

  ‘Frankly, that’s creepy and a waste of money!’ he mocked.

  They laughed again. In an instant, they were back to the times they had spent together, holding hands in the empty corridors of the department of mechanical engineering or the third floor of the library. Soon, they started gossiping and reminiscing about all the times they had spent together. A couple of hours had passed when Dushyant felt the pain shooting up from his stomach again. He grumbled and growled inside but didn’t let it show on his face again. But just as the pain crept up, he thought he should call for assistance. The last thing he wanted was to bleed in his bed in front of Kajal and freak her out.

  ‘I think I need help,’ he snarled. ‘The pain …’

  ‘Oh, I will just call someone!’ She panicked and rushed out.

  Dushyant clutched his stomach as his insides burnt up; he heard choked sounds from the other side of the curtain. He pulled himself away from the bed and pulled the curtain away even as his body seemed to slowly disintegrate. On the bed, he saw Pihu wildly flapping her hands around, her eyes rolled over and her body furiously shaking. Before he could pull himself to her bed, she had stopped. Still. He cried out loud as he saw her stop moving. He shouted and shook her, but she didn’t respond. Panicking, he slapped her a few times but her face just flopped from one side to the other. He screamed for help. With the last bit of strength left in him, he climbed over her bed, put both his hands to her chest and started to push it down. It was something he had seen on television many times before. He bent over her and breathed into her open mouth and again pounded her chest. The pain in his body rose. The legs. The stomach. The chest. He was falling. His eyes closed as his body slumped and fell from the bed on the cold, hard ground. Darkness.