Till the Last Breath . . .

by Durjoy Datta

  ‘He had a fracture?’ Zarah asked, shocked. ‘The operation went well?’

  ‘As if you don’t know. You went to his room before you came here, didn’t you? And you checked all the charts, too. Clearly, you care about him,’ he smirked.

  ‘How do you—?’

  ‘Leave that. I just know,’ he said and sipped his coffee. He knew one thing for sure and it was that Zarah was an excellent choice as soon as he took a sip. ‘Brilliant coffee, I have to admit that. You’re weird, Zarah, and you know that, but I like your coffee.’

  Quite often, Arman had noticed her reluctance to hold men’s hands to pump in medicines and how she tried to keep her distance from male patients—except Dushyant, of course. There was something eerie about this girl, but Arman had chosen to ignore it.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. Arman knew he had put her a little off balance by his rare politeness. Zarah shrugged off the anomaly and asked him, ‘What really happened with Dushyant?’

  ‘He fell down, but that didn’t break his arm. His bones were soft and withering away. We tested him for cadmium poisoning and he tested positive. That’s what is eating his liver. We have to treat him for that first before we can start treating the tumours.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ she exclaimed as she always did whenever Arman came up with an improbable idea like this. ‘Keep me around for the coffee, but please do keep me around.’

  ‘I didn’t come up with it,’ he clarified. ‘Pihu did.’

  ‘Pihu? Pihu Malhotra? The patient?’

  ‘Dushyant’s ward mate. She was there, too, when it happened. It took her just a split second to realize what was wrong,’ he explained with a hint of pride in his voice.

  ‘Umm …’

  He saw her run out of words and could understand her disbelief. They sipped on their creamy coffees. Finally, she said. ‘What were you doing there so late in the night?’

  Arman didn’t answer for a few seconds and then said, ‘I was checking up on Dushyant. And I ask the questions, not you. You make coffee.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I thought I was pretty clear,’ he interrupted to avoid further questions. It wasn’t the discomfort he felt when others prodded him about his personal life, it was the uneasiness he felt thinking about his dysfunctional relationship with Pihu. He had been through the same thing before and it distressed him to think he was going down the same road again. A relationship with a patient was always a road spiralling downhill.

  Zarah smiled and Arman knew she had assumed what there was to assume on her own. She picked up the files and prepped herself up for the first round of patient check-ups. Arman tried to avoid her eyes.

  ‘Are you starting to see your patients now?’ Zarah asked and chuckled.

  ‘I think I have to, since my patients are coming up with better explanations for diseases. I don’t know why we hire interns and doctors any more. We should just ask patients to come up with solutions, shouldn’t we?’ he smirked. Zarah didn’t flinch and the smile was still pasted on her face. By now, she was used to the condescending taunts. He left his office and headed to the cafeteria for breakfast. And, more importantly, to avoid Zarah’s piercing questions, and some of his own.

  He also needed to see how she was doing.

  15

  Zarah Mirza

  Zarah lived fifteen minutes away from the hospital and usually the roads were deserted by the time she got home. That night was no different. She was tired, both mentally and physically, after a long day of injections, tests and complaining patients. She parked her car at her usual place—outside the apartment complex. After six months of fighting and haranguing with neighbours and other flat owners for parking space, she realized it just wasn’t worth her time. It was just a car! Parking feuds were common in her neighbourhood and she felt lucky she wasn’t a part of them any more.

  She dragged herself up the stairs of her apartment—something she did regularly to keep herself in shape—and put the key in. She tried it again. She kept jemmying the keys for the next thirty seconds but the lock didn’t budge. Locked from the inside? Oh no. This can’t be happening. Reluctantly, she rang the bell and waited for the worst. The sound of approaching footsteps made her belch. She wanted to run away. The door was flung open. She could feel the vomit in her mouth.

  ‘Hey, beta!’ her mom shrieked and then hugged her. The dupatta wrapped around her nose and mouth indicated that she had been mopping and cleaning the house.

  ‘You come home so late? Every day?’ she asked as Zarah walked inside the flat, her shoulders drooping, and threw her bag on the shoe rack. The house was much cleaner, and smelled fresh. She had never been messy—given her cleanliness-obsessed mom—but her mom still made the house look a lot cleaner. She wondered what had happened to all the bottles of alcohol—stacked in neat rows beneath her bed—she had duly collected to empty them into herself—or herself into them.

  ‘There is just so much work,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not safe at all. And this area is so dangerous. Only yesterday there were reports of a chain-snatching incident in the neighbourhood. I think you should get married. At least then we wouldn’t have to worry so much about you.’

  ‘So you would have someone else to worry about me, and not you?’ she snapped.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Her mom’s rants went on and on. She told Zarah about the overage girls in their family who were having trouble finding a suitable match, and Zarah chose to ignore her concerns with a brief smile. In the corner of the room, her dad was watching television and had not noticed that she was in the room too.

  ‘And the house is so dirty. Doesn’t the maid mop the floor? And the bathroom mirror looks like it has never been cleaned. How much do you pay her? I will talk to her when she comes tomorrow. Why don’t you say anything to her? And you leave hundred-rupee notes lying everywhere. I am sure the maid flicks a lot of them. She will take all your money and run away some day!’

  ‘I am busy, Mom. I don’t have three hours to look over what the maid is up to,’ she argued and lay back flat on the drawing room sofa.

  Her dad noticed her. ‘Oh, you are here? When did you come? Your mom has been cleaning the house. I asked her not to, but you know your mom.’

  And I know you. ‘Yes,’ she said, met his eyes and looked away. Her mom rolled her eyes. She had always wondered what Zarah’s father had done wrong. He was a good man, a good Muslim, but his relationship with Zarah had been strained for as long as she could remember. That one summer long ago, things had been quite all right … great, even. And over the course of one day, they had become as bad as they could have been. She had waited for it’s to sort out on their own, assuming every father–daughter duo goes through such a phase, but things never looked up.

  ‘I will go and change,’ she said and went to her room. She closed the door behind her and bolted it. Michel de Montaigne once said—‘Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.’ She knew this better than anyone else.

  If only she could snuggle into her bed and stay there till her parents left the house, the building, the apartment and were far far far far away. She wished she could do that. After splashing some water on her face, she sat down with her newly bought and inexplicably expensive MacBook Pro, which she hardly had the time to use. She logged on to Facebook and scrolled down her newsfeed mindlessly. Some friends were getting married. Others were on vacation. A few had pictures in short dresses, partying in glitzy clubs with rich-looking, fat boyfriends.

  On the other hand, her life had a sense of overbearing inertia … slow and moving at a dreary, constant pace. But she was sure no one else looked at her life like that. After all, she was the lucky one who was interning at a renowned hospital known for its unparalleled research facilities and labs wielding the most cutting-edge technology. She was the one who had got a chance to work with one of the best doctors one could have asked for. A few years in the US and her success would be a coffee-
table conversation topic amongst her peers for years to come. Disappointed, she switched off the laptop and cursed her wretched life. She desperately wanted a smoke, but her mom was persistently banging on her door. She thought of Dushyant and how he had managed to shed his family and move ahead.

  After changing into her night clothes, she joined her mom in the kitchen and helped her out a little. Her mom had managed quite a spread in the little time she had. Dal makhani, paneer kofta, butter chicken, boondi ka raita—the only things that made her want to go back home and stay with her. They sat on the table and she tried hard not to meet her father’s searching gaze. She hoped it would be over soon. For her, the incident that had scarred her for life was her father’s fault and she had accepted it as God’s honest truth.

  ‘How’s the doctor you are working under? I heard he is pretty good,’ her dad said.

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Tell your dad more about him,’ her mom nudged to encourage conversation between the two. She had been the silent sufferer all these years.

  ‘There is nothing more to it. He is a great doctor and a brilliant teacher.’

  There was silence again. Her mom tried to bring up topics like when she planned to get married, and whether she was in love with someone, and she shot everything down with disdain. Her parents had stunned expressions on their faces, wondering what they had done wrong to deserve such hostile treatment from their daughter. What do they know? She, on the other hand, felt nauseated sitting next to her father. After dinner, her father opened up a bottle of whisky he had got and invited Zarah to join him. She refused, even though she really wanted that drink.

  It took her three hours and two potent joints to fall asleep. Stoned, she even dialled Dushyant’s number, but couldn’t get through. The network in the hospital had always been suspect. Her eyes were sore and the pillow was wet by the time her eyelids swept down. She wished her dad had understood her when she really wanted it … No, needed it. At times, she wondered if he still remembered that day when she had mentioned the incident to him. Did he really not know that their discord had stemmed from the moment when he had not believed his own daughter? Was he such a coward that he couldn’t stand up to his seniors?

  Every time she thought about forgiving her father, horrifying images of a young Zarah dragging herself through the washroom, blood trickling down her thighs, crying soundlessly, waiting for her hero—her father—to save her flooded her mind. If her dad had not been there to support her through that then, she certainly didn’t need him now.

  16

  Pihu Malhotra

  Pihu’s condition had started to worsen. The first signs of the relapse of ALS were beginning to show in her body. The nerve conduction tests showed that there was a significant loss of sensation in her legs. That morning, she had bumped into the door when she had gone to the bathroom. Her hands were starting to betray her again. She had started to drop things and had become clumsier. The horror of being an ALS patient was back. The loss of sensation and control didn’t bother her as much as it bothered Arman, who was the first to go through the reports.

  ‘Maa, I will be okay,’ she reassured her mother who was inconsolable on seeing her daughter struggle to do the simplest things again. The disease was back and it was worse than ever.

  ‘No, you won’t be. It’s our fault,’ she said. ‘We must have done something wrong,’ and she burst into tears. Her dad stood over her mom’s shoulder and smiled at his daughter. That’s the only thing he did. Someone had to be strong, hold the pieces of their lives together and remind them that there was still hope, that all was not lost. Yet. It was a little unfair to expect it from Pihu.

  ‘When is he scheduling the treatment?’ her dad asked.

  ‘Soon,’ she said.

  They had discussed the treatment before. It was illegal and highly dangerous but Pihu saw it as a win-win. It was no secret that there were just two possible outcomes of the radical stem cell treatment. Either die a quick, painless death or be cured. It made perfect sense for her. Having seen herself rot and almost die, she knew what it took for her to plod through that time. Behind the smile and the emotional strength she portrayed, inside she was still a little girl scared to death. Either the disease would kill her or the treatment—she preferred the latter.

  Her sobbing mom excused herself for a bit and her dad sat near her.

  ‘Do you think we should do this, beta?’

  ‘Dad, it’s our only option. And Dr Arman is a brilliant doctor. He is putting himself on the line to try this out. I am sure he has something in mind,’ she assured him.

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I am in good hands,’ she said and her dad snickered like a child.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I think about sometimes?’ her dad said. She looked at him and encouraged him to continue. ‘Every time that Arman comes in to check on you, I think what if you two were to be together. As in, be married. You know. I know it’s stupid but I can’t help it. All the jewellery your mother bought for you … and her … her … dreams …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Aw. That’s sweet, Dad. But isn’t he a little too old for me? And you forget—he is trying to kill me with his scientific experiment. You wouldn’t want your daughter in the hands of a guy who uses girls as his guinea pigs.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘By the way, I have something planned for you. I really hope you like it.’

  ‘For me? A birthday gift? I am not dying in fifteen days, Dad,’ she said and wondered if it was a possibility. Her birthday was in thirteen days and she wondered if she would see another one after this. She had never really been a birthday person, but every year her parents put together a family-only birthday party with a butterscotch cake, trick candles, heart-shaped balloons and birthday hats to top it off! Oh well, maybe she had always been a birthday person because she loved these parties, and pitied other friends who spent theirs in clubs, decked up in newly bought shiny dresses and claiming to have brought the house down.

  ‘I know you’re not going anywhere,’ her dad responded. The smile had vanished for a bit but now it returned. ‘It’s just something I wanted to do for you.’

  She listened closely, waiting for her father to give more away.

  ‘I will tell you more about it later. I think you should go sleep now before my son-in-law comes in!’ her dad joked.

  ‘Yeah, he can be a pain in the butt,’ she smirked and closed her eyes. Her mind started to concoct images of her getting married to Arman in a huge marriage banquet hall with all her friends and relatives lit up like Diwali in their sequined saris, mixer-juicers and enveloped money in hand. In a red-and-gold saree, she thought she looked resplendent while Arman looked his dapper self in a white bandgala, tailored with golden thread. She wished. Oh, how she wished! With dreams of a lovely, romantic honeymoon in the bluish-green waters of Malé, which she remembered from the holiday-package pamphlets, she went to sleep. For the first time, she fantasized about kissing a boy and clutched her pillow tighter.

  When she got up a few hours later, she saw her father pacing in the room excitedly. The surprise?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked groggily.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ he answered and smiled broadly. On the next bed, Dushyant, who had been heavily sedated since he broke his arm, was grunting in his half-asleep state. She couldn’t wait to tell Dushyant it was she who had found out about his cadmium poisoning. After all, it was her first diagnosis. After her own, of course.

  Just as her father sat down, tired, the door of the ward opened and ten familiar faces with big smiles came in, and crowded the tiny room. They shouted Pihu’s name in unison and hurrayed. Seeing her friends from the medical college again opened the floodgates of the happiness hormone in her and she felt her heart would pump out of her chest. She hugged them one after the other, Venugopal being the last one. He had the biggest smile, and the most crushing grief behind the misleading eyes. They had not come
empty-handed. Similar rectangular boxes wrapped in yellow Pikachu wrapping paper. Some of them carried helium-filled balloons which were now kissing the ceiling and she wondered when they would come down again. Would it be when she was sleeping and would it scare the shit out of her?

  All of them sat around her bed and asked her if she was doing okay. She pulled out one of her ‘I am going to be dead’ jokes and everyone laughed out loud. They told her how proud they were and how strong she was. A couple of girls broke down.

  ‘Who’s he?’ a girl asked about Dushyant lying on the next bed. ‘He’s hot, isn’t he?’ the girl winked at her.

  ‘He has AIDS, so you should probably leave him alone,’ she said.

  ‘You are kidding me, right?’ the girl said, duly horrified.

  ‘Obviously. He is a poisoning case. Though he is really rude and we don’t talk,’ she said and smiled. The girl’s eyes were still on Dushyant. ‘It’s so sweet of all of you guys to come here. I am so happy! Can I open these? Please?’ She flitted like a small child amongst all the boxes, touching them, guessing what they were. She knew. It was one of those things when you know what the gift is but you don’t want to believe it till the time you unwrap it, just to prevent disappointment.

  Everyone looked at her and smiled. Her dad, standing in the corner, radiated happiness and her mother was choked with tears. She ripped open the presents one by one. They were books. Big books. Mean and thick. Books on medicines. Holy shit.

  ‘What is this?’ she said, her eyes a barge of tears, threatening to flood.

  Her classmates were bewildered. They knew she would love them, but her smashing, teared-up smile exceeded their expectations. Venugopal said, ‘We all know what you want the most. You’re a freak. A junkie. So we are giving you what you want. That is the whole course for the next two years. And some old notes from a few seniors. Potent stuff.’