Till the Last Breath . . . (14 page)

‘An addiction that you have too, don’t you?’ Pihu replied.

‘But you should be resting and not reading medical—’

‘And you shouldn’t be? When was the last time you slept?’

‘I don’t need sleep. I am too busy helping your kind,’ he argued.

‘And that’s not addiction?’

‘You should sleep,’ he said and put the book back down. ‘I will check on you later. Goodbye, guys. And really, if anything, you should have got her jewellery or something. Not that she needs anything to look prettier.’

He turned and left the room. For the past few seconds, it was as if no one else existed. Slowly, conversation returned to the room and the topic hovered around the charismatic doctor who clearly had a thing for Pihu.

‘I think he is into you,’ one of the girls said.

‘He is a doctor, he is supposed to be nice to everyone!’ Pihu retorted.

‘Oh, c’mon. Did you see the way he looked at you? He is clearly into you. It was as if we didn’t exist!’ another girl added, disappointedly.

‘Whatever.’ Pihu shrugged and they moved on to other areas of discussion, even though she couldn’t really think about anything else but him.
Pretty. Stunning.
All in the same conversation. It really did feel like her birthday after all.

They left after a little while. Everyone wished her luck, some for life, and others for her non-existent relationship with her doctor, Arman. They had come scared, thinking they would find a girl devoid of hope, but what they had found was a girl throbbing with more life than all of them combined. Venugopal hugged her the longest and told her that he had started to date. It was the girl who had cried. Pihu nodded approvingly.

Alone in the room, she started to daydream again. This time Arman was the visiting professor and she was the bubbly, enthusiastic student in the front row who would do anything to get a good grade.
Anything.
She blushed in her sleep as she fantasized about kissing him in the staffroom. Slowly, she drifted off before things got nastier.

It was late evening when she woke up to an empty room. She hadn’t slept that well with all the books around her distracting her, begging for undivided attention. Throughout her sleep, she had been tossing and turning, thinking about the time she would wake up and write her name in blue ink on each of the books she had been given. She really wanted to use the fountain pen Venugopal had gifted her too. And she was pleasantly surprised that Venugopal had started dating a
real
girl (after a slew of imaginary ones), a Punjabi at that, and imagined the girl who had cried today laughing at Venugopal’s terrible Hindi. She missed him, and she missed her college. At times, she really missed the physical part of studying medicine—cutting open a dead body and seeing what lay inside. Rotten lungs, shrunken pancreases, wasted livers—these were things that really got her skin to tingle and her face to light up. She got up and walked awkwardly to the bathroom, her feet and hands not really strong enough to support her, and washed her face. Her body might be giving up, but her spirit wasn’t. Plus, Arman had just called her stunning. She had every reason to be the happiest she had ever been. The warm, fuzzy feeling still tickled her and the shy grin refused to wash off her face.

Once back in the room, she picked up a few of the books from the pile and dumped them on her bed. With the fountain pen she wrote
‘Pihu Malhotra, 2nd year, MBBS’
on each one of the books. Once that was done, she picked up a book on cancer and flipped through the pages. It had numerous coloured pictures interspersed with millions of bits of text. She flipped to a random chapter and started reading through it. There would be no exams and this only heightened her pleasure of studying medicine.

She was on the fifth page when the door opened and she saw Dushyant walk in. He headed directly to his bed and clambered up. Two ward boys in white overalls walked in
beside him and hooked him up to all the syringes, needles and drips.

Despite what happened earlier that morning, she didn’t feel any hatred for him. In all of her nineteen years, she had never felt that emotion for anybody. Though she did have a good laugh when a furious Venugopal had said, ‘Had he not been sick, I would have taken him down.’ Pihu knew he would do no such thing. Venugopal was a nice guy. Dushyant, on the other hand, was battle hungry and war scarred. If anything, she felt sorry for him, for his anger, his lack of friends and his affliction. He could fight though, and girls love that in a man. Pihu was no different. Tense arms, anger in his eyes, pumped chest. All he was missing was a kind heart.

Dushyant winced in pain as a syringe plunged into his vein and a transparent liquid was pumped into his bloodstream. His eyes were stuck to the bed next to him—empty. Zarah overlooked the administering of the medicine and the subsequent blood draw.

‘You look distracted,’ Zarah noticed.

Dushyant looked away from Pihu’s bed and replied, ‘Not really. You didn’t come in the morning. Why?’

‘My parents are living with me. They wanted me to spend some time with them. So I took the day off,’ she said and rolled her eyes.

‘You look sad.’

‘I can’t stay at home any longer,’ she said. ‘It’s okay when I go to their place … I mean where I used to live, but not when they come over.’

‘I can understand.’

‘I don’t think you can,’ she fussed.

‘Why don’t you make me?’ he asked. ‘Is it done?’ he asked the nurse who was constantly plunging needles into him. The nurse nodded and took her leave.

‘You look tolerable today. What’s the matter?’ she queried with a smirk.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Usually, it’s hard for people to stay around you. You’re aggressive and unnecessarily rude, and don’t tell me you don’t know that.’

‘I am not—’

‘Oh, please, you are,’ she cut him off.

‘Whatever. By the way, why didn’t you tell me that she diagnosed my illness? Did she really?’ he asked. ‘Or was Arman just blabbering?’

‘First, Arman never blabbers. And she did. She got it within minutes of you breaking your bone. Arman was impressed and he never gets impressed either,’ she clarified.

‘Fuck,’ he grumbled.

‘What happened?’

‘I think she had her birthday or something. There were a few friends of hers who came here this morning and were making a shitload of noise … and …’

‘And?’

‘I might have hit a few of them,’ he murmured.

‘You WHAT?’ she exclaimed.

‘You know, I was irritated. I asked them to shut up and they didn’t. I punched a guy and hit another one,’ he shamefully admitted.

‘Are you crazy, Dushyant? What did Arman do?’

‘I think he wanted to hit me but he didn’t. He shifted me to a different room for a bit and then I was shifted back last evening. I feel so crappy now. Why did that girl have to diagnose me? It’s so irritating,’ he growled.

‘Why? Because if she hadn’t, we would have killed you by now. We were treating you for the wrong disease. You should be thankful to her,’ she said.

‘I think I should. She is a sweet girl after all. Why did she have to choose this room? So annoying,’ he squeaked and lay his head back. If he could have made himself disappear for a bit, he would have done that. Dushyant had done a million things he wasn’t proud of, but he was never sorry about it. But in those moments, he was. He looked over to Pihu’s bed and wanted to thank her. It really didn’t matter to him whether he lived or died; he was usually terrified of waking up the next morning and dragging himself through another day. But he felt a little odd about having thrashed the friends of the girl who had saved him.

‘I think I need a smoke,’ he croaked.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked and sat on his bed.

‘Yes,’ he asserted. ‘And I need to thank her. What’s her name again?’

‘Pihu. Don’t tell me you don’t know!’ she squeaked.

‘I mean … I did, I just forgot. Can we go?’

Zarah unscrewed the drips and helped him down his bed. On their way out, Zarah picked up Pihu’s chart hanging on the entrance of the room and said, ‘Her birthday isn’t until two weeks from now. I think you should get her something.’

‘You think I will still be here after two weeks?’ he asked, his voice reeking of nervousness.

‘There are tumours in every place we see, Dushyant. You’re lucky to be alive. I think you will be here for a really long time,’ she said.

‘I really need that smoke.’

Both of them left the room and walked through the corridor wordlessly and rode the elevator to the sixth floor and then went to the balcony. Zarah had a few joints—perfectly rolled—in her handbag and Dushyant was pleasantly surprised, if not downright impressed.

‘That’s good,’ he said after inspecting the joint carefully between his fingers.

‘What? You think I can’t roll a joint?’ she asked.

‘You don’t look the type. But anyway, you don’t look the type who would risk the life of a patient, too, by unhooking the meds and getting him high,’ he chuckled.

‘I am not risking your life. It’s to soothe your pain. This is medicinal marijuana! It’s totally legal,’ she claimed.

‘It would be legal if you weren’t stealing it, which is quite obviously the case here. And I don’t think they give it you so that you can pull a patient out of his bed and make him smoke it,’ he said and took a long drag. The smoke scraped his foodpipe on the way down and dulled his senses.

‘Whatever.’

‘Okay, fine. I agree this soothes
my
pain. And it’s incredibly strong,’ he noticed. ‘But what pain are
you
soothing?’ He passed the joint to her.

‘Nothing.’ She shrugged.

‘C’mon. You can tell me. I am almost a dead man. Your secrets are going nowhere,’ he pressed. ‘I am sure you can trust me. A few more days and you won’t even see me any more. And if you think I am not worth your trust, you can kill me in my sleep.’

‘No, junk it. It’s personal,’ she sneered.

‘I was just trying to help.’

‘I know. It’s just that I haven’t really shared it with anyone. I don’t think it makes sense sharing it with you. I don’t even know you,’ she said, her eyes now glassy and distant. Dushyant knew she was vulnerable and she would spill it out and tell him everything; he just needed to push her over the edge.

‘You can. I was reading a book on war soldiers. Experiencing the horrors of war over and over again makes it easier to tolerate the pain. Sharing with me might help,’ he pestered.

‘I don’t know—’

‘You know you want to,’ he interrupted.

Zarah hesitated and looked away from Dushyant’s
inquisitive and piercing gaze. Dushyant wondered what she was hiding behind her glassy eyes and guarded exterior.

‘I was raped,’ she squeaked and a lone tear streaked down her cheek.

Dushyant stood there, doubting what he had just heard. It reverberated in the space near him and he couldn’t bring himself to believe what he thought she had said.
She has got to be kidding …
The silence confirmed the matter’s seriousness. His throat dried up and he struggled to say something.
What? Why? Who? When? What did you do?
Nothing but a silent sigh escaped his lips as he stared at her, as if he had seen a ghost.

Zarah said, ‘My father works in the army. During one of the many army parties, two of his drunken seniors raped me near the washroom. I was fourteen.’ All of a sudden, the tears in Zarah’s eyes vanished and the glum expression on her face was replaced by a calm, practised, nonchalant look.

‘Then what happened?’ Dushyant inquired as soon as he got his voice back.

‘Then, nothing happened,’ Zarah said with an air of finality to end the discussion.

‘What nothing? Didn’t you tell anyone? Your parents? Your mom? Dad?’ he questioned.

Zarah gazed wordlessly at the glittering lights of the city while Dushyant waited for her answers. It felt like he had been violated, not her, and his fists clenched in anger. He stepped closer to her, Zarah’s hair brushing against his face. A part of him wanted to turn her around and envelop her in his arms but he didn’t know how she would respond.

‘You can tell me,’ Dushyant pressed again.

‘I tried telling my father …’ Her voice trailed away.

‘What did he say? Didn’t he do anything?’ Dushyant almost bellowed, the Anger Vein in his forehead now far more prominent.

‘He didn’t believe me.’

‘He didn’t believe you? That you got raped? Why the fuck? How can that be?’ Dushyant clutched her hand and jerked her around, almost as if it was not Zarah in front of him, but the men who had raped her. ‘There are tests, aren’t there?’

‘I didn’t tell him I was raped. I told him I was manhandled … Molested.’

‘Why? Umm … but still …’ Dushyant struggled with his words. He grappled in the dark to come up with an explanation as to why her father didn’t believe her and why she had to lie. He also wondered if Kajal had told anybody what had happened that night.

‘He refused to believe me and said I was imagining things,’ Zarah said, her voice steeled now. ‘I didn’t know what to tell him.’

‘And you have not talked about it to anyone?’ Dushyant still pressed on, looking for answers, trying to make sense out of this ridiculous atrocity.

‘You’re the first person I have told this to,’ she confessed.

Why?
Dushyant felt burdened by the truth. All of a sudden, he felt accountable for what had happened to Zarah fifteen years ago. He started to imagine a lonely little girl being ravaged by two big army generals as she screamed powerlessly in agony. He felt vomit rising to his throat.

‘What about them? The men who …’ Dushyant asked, hoping for the worst.

‘One of them died in action a year later. The other had an accident at home and slipped into a coma. He was taken off the ventilator recently and he died too,’ she said with air of triumph.

‘I hope it was painful,’ Dushyant spluttered.

‘You sound angry,’ she said.

‘Obviously, I am! Who wouldn’t be?’

‘I have hated men ever since. I am scared in their presence.
I loathe touching them and I wish they never come near me,’ Zarah said and shifted in her place.

All men are the same
, Dushyant thought, as the memories of the night when he had forced himself on Kajal came rushing forth.

‘Your father should have supported you. This is simply unacceptable … Oh, is that why you don’t get along with your parents?’

‘Just my dad,’ she corrected.

‘Don’t you think he has the right to know? Or you have the right to tell him?’ he interrogated.

‘What good would that do?’ she responded, her face contorting to show she didn’t care, even if she did.

‘You never know. I mean I don’t know why your father did what he did, but you need to tell him where he was wrong. He should have been there and he was not,’ he said.

‘I don’t think that will help. I am over it,’ she clarified.

‘You are over it? You’re close to tears, Zarah,’ he said.

‘I am not—’ she said and was reduced to a puddle of tears. Before Dushyant could say anything she wrapped herself around him and started to sob profusely. Dushyant ran his hands on her back in an attempt to soothe her and make it better, all the while wondering if she was repulsed by his touch too. He, too, was a rapist after all.

‘I think I need to go,’ she whimpered.

‘No, you don’t,’ he said, his hands locking firmly around her. ‘I think you should stay here … with me.’

‘Seriously—’

‘I am not letting you go,’ he interrupted.

‘I need some fresh air. Let’s go for a drive?’ she suggested, trying hard not to cry any longer.

Dushyant nodded. As they rode the elevator down to the last floor of the hospital, Dushyant felt a throbbing, piercing
pain in his lower abdomen. He winced in pain and looked the other way.

‘Are you okay?’ Zarah asked.

‘Shouldn’t
I
be asking
you
that?’ he said, smiling.

He needed another smoke, he thought. She checked out in the staff register and they walked to the doctors’ parking lot.

‘Nice car,’ he muttered. His abdomen throbbed. He really needed the pain meds.

‘If that’s a joke, it’s not funny,’ she said. A smile crept behind the unyielding tears.

They climbed into the car and she put it in gear. As they hit the main road, the tears dried up in the wind sweeping in through the open car windows.

‘So are you going to tell him?’ he asked. The pain intensified and it reached his lower back. It felt like his insides were being ground in a blender. He started sweating, his hands became clammy and even the cool air didn’t help.

‘I am not telling him anything,’ she replied, ‘I don’t see the point.’

‘But there is one … You need to understand that. What’s the harm anyway? You say you are over it, right? The people who did it are dead. You don’t get along with your dad even now. I think you should tell him,’ he grumbled. The pain was piercing and he felt his body getting warmer, trying to fight the pain off. Blood rushed to his face and he felt like his eyes would pop out. It felt like someone had got hold of his body and was scrunching and twisting it over and over again.

‘Dushyant?’ Zarah said. ‘Are you okay? You look flushed …’

‘I am fine,’ he replied. He felt like he would pass out any moment.

‘You don’t look fine,’ she said and put her hand on his forehead. ‘You are burning up!’

He opened his mouth to say something but a flood of his insides filled his oesophagus and he vomited furiously. He opened the door of the car and slumped on the pavement. His back shook uncontrollably and he started to puke blood and half-digested food all over. Zarah bent over and patted his back to give him some relief but his body still shook hysterically. There was blood all over. After he was done and his eyes rolled over as if he was dead, Zarah somehow got him back inside the car and drove back to the hospital as fast as she could. Three ward boys were waiting with a stretcher at the main door of the hospital. They rushed him to the ICU while Zarah frantically checked in and put on her doctor’s coat. She ran to the operation room where she noticed that Dushyant had already undergone a seizure and the doctors were cutting a hole in his throat to help him breathe. Dushyant’s body fought involuntarily against the knife which pierced his throat. Zarah stood there, stunned and traumatized, as the doctors pushed a breathing pipe inside his throat. Not able to take it any more, she slipped out of the room and almost fainted on the bench outside.