by Durjoy Datta
‘I think I read it somewhere,’ she mumbled. ‘Very nice to know that my brain is getting smaller. It makes sense though. My brain’s too big for my cuteness.’
‘I can second that.’
She chuckled and stopped. ‘I am just afraid if I laugh for too long, I might not be able to stop,’ she said. They both laughed and high-fived and Pihu wanted to hug him again but thought it would get awkward.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘we can schedule the first surgery whenever you are ready.’
‘I am ready,’ she said.
‘Tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘That soon?’
‘I think it’s time. Also, I need to ask you a few questions before the surgery,’ he added, his voice grim and stern. ‘I want you to talk to your parents before you answer the questions.’
‘What are they about? You’re scaring me,’ she replied.
‘It’s nothing to be scared of, just the usual questions. It’s something you should discuss with your parents,’ he said solemnly. Arman’s voice quivered, which was a first.
‘What are they about?’ she queried again.
‘Umm … It’s about whether you are in favour of us keeping you alive with external support if and when anything goes wrong. Do you want us to revive you in case you lose your pulse … that sort of stuff,’ he whimpered. The weight of the questions clearly wore Arman’s voice and spirit down. More than anything else, Pihu was bothered by the look on the doctor’s face.
‘I have already made that decision,’ she said.
‘You have?’ he asked nervously.
‘I want to live for as long as my body allows me to, even if it means keeping me alive artificially,’ she explained. She knew she wouldn’t have cried if the look on Arman’s face hadn’t changed from one of limitless grief to one of relief. As she found herself in Arman’s embrace again, she felt the warmth of Arman’s chest and rapid short breaths and felt something she had been yearning to feel ever since she read the sexually charged Mills & Boon collection of her mother. She felt close to someone in a way she hadn’t felt before. The sense of it being forbidden, wrong even, heightened her excitement. Maybe Arman was crying … she wasn’t sure. But the very likelihood made her smile even though she couldn’t keep the thought of being kept alive using by a machine out of her head. Back in medical school, she had come across numerous cases of people hooked on to life support and she had always wished to relieve them of their pain.
‘Are you sure?’ Arman asked again as he let her go.
‘More than anything.’ She smiled at him and added, ‘I am ready for tomorrow. But you’ve got to tell me what you will do to me. Like the exact procedure down to the tiniest details.’
‘I sure will. You’re probably the most self-aware patient I have ever treated! If everyone were like you, life would be hell for us doctors,’ he mocked.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Aren’t you afraid you might lose your job? Your licence?’ she asked. ‘And don’t give me the old reasons. You know that even if I am cured, you can’t put me up as an example to further research on this procedure. It would still be illegal.’
There was silence.
‘I want you to live and that’s my reason,’ he said.
Her eyes didn’t leave his face and he looked away. Finally, he said, ‘Can we not talk about this?’
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t want to imagine you dying soon,’ he said. Unnoticed, his hand crept up to hers and he held it. The touch of his hand against hers made her feel like she had never felt before. It was the way he held it. She felt special, she felt loved. The unsaid words between them were beautiful and fulfilling. The creases on Arman’s strikingly gorgeous face reminded her of the age difference between them. But anyone would pine for someone like Arman. What perplexed her was why he took special care of her. Why was she more than just a guinea pig for his research? He deserved better, didn’t he? She was young and she was stupid. And she was no match for the gorgeous, phenomenal doctor. Was everything in her head? No, it wasn’t. The tenderness of his touch, the fondness in his eyes and the unmistakable look on his face hinted at more than just concern. She was sure of that. Or was she?
‘I don’t want to die soon either,’ she said.
Arman could just beam like a schoolboy.
‘You know what?’ she purred.
‘What?’ he responded.
‘You will laugh at me,’ she whimpered and her face flushed, her insides all warm and fuzzy.
‘I will not,’ he assured her. ‘What is it?’
‘I have never had a boyfriend,’ she said and paused, ‘and … I have never been kissed.’
Almost as soon as her words left her lips, she regretted it. Seeing Arman not react only made it worse. His face was stoic and his eyes were stuck on her, unmoving. Every passing moment was worse than the one preceding it.
‘You should have been,’ he disagreed and wrapped his hand tighter against her soft, fragile fingers. His body leant into hers as she found hers leaning into him. Her eyes closed midway as the stretch between them closed further. Arman’s hands left hers and reached for her face which was now feverish in anticipation and exhilaration. Little by little, he pulled her towards himself and their lips touched. She convulsed as his lips wrapped hers in a torrid, passionate embrace. The dampness of his lips was like her life’s elixir. In those moments, as Arman’s fingers lingered on her neck and her face, slowly caressing them, she felt she was cured of every ill. She lost herself, her body went limp as his body met hers and she found herself in a magical daydream. Her tongue played around involuntarily with his, while even there Arman commanded respect and guided her through the motions. His tongue played around with hers, hers played around with his and there was no telling apart their tongues. Arman’s short and heavy breaths and his frenzied moans only heightened her contentment. A few seconds later, Arman let go of her. Pihu dropped back on to her bed like a sack, helpless and weak, still lost in the Just Been Kissed moment.
A precious few minutes went by before she opened her eyes and saw his stunning eyes looking at her with unwavering focus. She couldn’t face him, feeling enormously shy about looking directly at him. She fidgeted with her fingers.
‘For someone kissing for the first time, you’re damn good,’ he chortled. ‘We should have done this long ago.’
Pihu had never felt more uncomfortable. Her fingers were still trembling and she had no idea what she should say next. The moments just gone by had seared themselves in her brain and she knew there was no forgetting them.
‘Thank you,’ she whishpered.
No one said a word as slowly they slipped into each other’s arms again. She rested her head on Arman’s strongly built chest and heard his heartbeat rise and fall periodically. Sometimes she felt his fingers on her face, brushing away the strands of hair that hovered over her eyes.
‘Are you scared about tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Not any more,’ she replied and looked at him adoringly.
‘I am scared,’ he said, the mother of all fears in his eyes. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You’re doing your best not to lose me,’ she assured him. ‘And think about it, had I not been inflicted with this disease, I would have never met you. This is destiny, isn’t it?’
‘That doesn’t make this any better,’ he said, his heart now a twisted heap of emotions. It showed on his face and Pihu didn’t know how to make it better. It was ironical because she couldn’t remember herself being more satisfied with how things were.
Pihu didn’t let go of Arman’s hand till late in the night and only unclasped it when she realized that it was late and he had other things to do. She pretended to drift off and smiled when he tucked her in and kissed her forehead.
Of the nineteen years that had gone by, she was convinced that there was never a night more gratifying than the one she had just lived.
20
Kajal Khurana
Kajal had always found herself in the midst of confusion and mental strife. Decisions never came easy to her and even if they did, she always wallowed in doubt and reservation after making them. That day, surrounded by her technical books on Fourier transforms and traction devices, she played out her life in her head in technicolour. It seemed everything had gone wrong, though the worst part of it was that she didn’t have anyone to talk about it with. She was a rich kid, and it was unfathomable for people around her to comprehend that she could have any grief to lose sleep over, beyond the trouble of picking out what new to wear.
It had been a few days since she had decided to snap all ties with Varun, and despite repeated efforts by him to talk to her, she stood her ground. A part of her wanted Varun to try harder, to call her and drop by at her college hostel, insist on dinner, send her flowers, but all she got were a few persistent calls and texts pleading her to give their relationship another shot. Sometimes, she knew she was being unreasonable and irrational, but she had been the understanding person in the relationship for a little too long now.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to run away now or if it was something she should have done a very long time ago. But the thought of staying at the Delhi College of Engineering any more seemed like a pain she couldn’t endure any longer. It wasn’t what she loved. A little voice in her head told her she should have listened to her parents—who were never wrong—and applied for a course in journalism or literature in London.
Her decision was made; it was just a matter of time—she knew—before she would commit to it and tell her parents about it. Her mom, a rich but responsible socialite, wouldn’t mind. She had always found it bizarre to tell her friends that her daughter was doing engineering from a premier institute. Kajal knew her mom’s friends thought they had paid for her daughter’s admission into an engineering college. The day she had cleared the entrance examination was a day of rampant gossip in her mom’s circle. The news of her daughter applying to a college that taught liberal arts and not switchgear mechanics would certainly gladden her.
Only yesterday she had talked to her sisters and they seemed enthusiastic about their sister’s career move. But they seldom opposed her choices in life. She was the spirited little girl who was loved to bits by her family. She wondered how much of her decision was influenced by her recent break-up with Varun and Dushyant’s behaviour towards her. Was she running away from things which had the capacity to hurt her? Or did she realize there was nothing left in Delhi for her to stay back? For she knew she had a perfect life apart from a few speed bumps—Dushyant, Varun and Fourier transforms—that upset her rhythm here and there. Impulsively, she left her hostel room, her hair still in disarray and her clothes crumpled and untidy. She waved frantically for an auto to stop and asked the driver to take her to GKL Hospital.
As the wind hit her face, pulling her back from her own dreamlike world, she started to grapple with the reality of facing Dushyant again. Dushyant had always struck her as someone who loved once, and never again, so she knew Dushyant was intentionally pushing her away. The rage in his eyes, the Angry Vein on his temple and the clenched fists were just a physical manifestation of how Dushyant still felt about her. She had seen and faced his ire before, the day they had kissed their last.
The autorickshaw driver dropped her at the entrance of the hospital and Kajal nervously clutched her handbag. She was sweating now even though there was a slight nip in the air. Her heart was pumping furiously and her mind argued the futility of such an exercise. Reluctantly, she trudged towards the receptionist and asked if the patient was still in the same room as before. The receptionist checked the database and confirmed this.
‘Are you a relative?’ the receptionist queried. She nodded and walked away from her, wondering if she meant anything at all to him. Her steps became smaller and her walk more uncertain as she stepped out of the elevator and went towards the room she had been admonished out of. A deep breath. Two deep breaths. She knocked on the door and waited for someone to respond. No answer. She knocked again and heard a feeble voice from the other side asking her to come in.
She entered the room which reeked of the peculiar hospital smell of sterilizers, phenyls and disinfectants. And of almost-dead people. Before her senses could acclimatize to the foreign surroundings of the room, she saw Dushyant lying almost lifeless on the bed and her face fell. Her throat collapsed as she tried to say something. Tears formed tiny puddles just below her eyelashes and were on the verge of streaking down her now-pale face.
‘Dushyant …’ she choked on her own words. Dushyant’s chest rose and fell periodically and made a horrible whooshing sound every time that happened. It sounded like his life force was leaving him with every laborious breath he took. His eyes were closed and he seemed under influence. Slowly, she walked up to the side of his bed and sat down. Dushyant’s face looked a lot different from the last time; it was sunken and it seemed he had lost a lot of weight. There were blotches on his cheek where the flesh had retreated towards his jawbones. Kajal placed her hand on his chest and ran her fingers on it. She knew Dushyant couldn’t feel a thing.
‘A friend?’ a voice from the other side asked.
Kajal looked up to see a smiling face staring at her, waiting for an answer.
‘Yes,’ she replied, finding her voice momentarily.
‘I am Pihu. He is sleeping, I am afraid,’ the girl said.
‘I am Kajal,’ she responded. ‘Will he be okay?’
‘I don’t know. Arman said his condition is critical. A lot of his organs are failing and he might …’ She stopped.
‘He might?’
‘There is a slight chance that he might not make it,’ Pihu said solemnly.
Kajal couldn’t say anything beyond that. She felt the walls of the room close down on her, locking her in and making her claustrophobic, suffocating her. She sat there with her hand wrapped around his and trying hard to stifle her sobs. Pihu’s eyes were still on her. As Kajal’s eyes surveyed the multitude of tubes, monitors and drips around her, she blamed herself for Dushyant’s pitiable state. She imagined a situation where they would be together and happy, no one would be hooked to life support and no one would be browsing through colleges in London.
‘If it makes you feel any better, I am dying too!’ the girl on the other bed said with a big smile pasted on her face.
‘It doesn’t,’ she snapped. And later added, ‘I am sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s okay, I didn’t take offence,’ Pihu replied.
‘But you look healthy …’ Kajal said out of curiosity and shock.
‘I know I do. I am dying of progressive paralysis. It’s creeping up from my limbs and spreading to other parts of my body. One day it will reach my chest and I won’t be able to breathe and end up dead!’
How could she be so nonchalant about something so deathly serious? Kajal wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or be in awe.
‘How do you know Dushyant?’ Pihu asked.
‘We are friends,’ she answered, not wanting to go beyond that.
‘Wait! You were that girl? Who came that day?’
She froze. Now, she was embarrassed. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone had listened to her humiliating conversation with Dushyant from that day.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Actually, we used to date.’
‘You were his girlfriend?’ she asked to confirm. She could spot a sense of pity in the way Pihu asked it, as if she was apologetic that Kajal had a boyfriend like Dushyant. It wasn’t the first time, though. Kajal’s friends were always disapproving of her relationship with Dushyant which they believed—though torrid and passionate—was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
‘Yes, I was,’ she replied. ‘It’s been years now.’
‘What brings you back?’ Pihu asked earnestly.
Kajal, although in no mood to talk, was compelled to answer her. ‘I had never stopped worrying about hi
m. He is majorly self-destructive by nature,’ she said and her eyes roved back to where Dushyant lay—weak and dying.
‘I have seen that,’ Pihu added.
‘You have?’
‘Yes, I have. He has been a pain in the butt,’ she chuckled.
Kajal knew exactly what she meant. Every passing second Kajal spent sitting next to Dushyant made her want to stay there longer. As Pihu explained to her how he had charged at her friends, Kajal thought about how different life would have been had they still been together. Maybe she would have convinced him to give up his addictions. Maybe he would have eventually emerged as a better man, and she knew he was capable of that. Dushyant, in his very core, was a nice person, but one had to flail blindly through the haze of tobacco and weed in which he had lost himself to get to that nice person inside of him. Maybe that resounding slap on her face was a one-off incident; maybe it was not. Maybe that forced intercourse was a one-off incident; maybe it was not. Maybe it was the start of an abusive relationship; maybe it was not.
‘He hit your friends?’ Kajal wanted to confirm, as she had drifted away on her own thought train.
‘Yes,’ she clarified. ‘Yes, they were making a little noise, but nothing that would make anyone hit them. He is a little, well, you know, self-destructive. Do you still love him?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then why are you here?’ Pihu probed.
‘I just worry about him,’ she answered, a little uncomfortable about the concern Pihu had for him. After all, she spent almost all her time next to him. ‘Why are you so bothered?’ Kajal asked, almost envious now.
‘I just want to know who can love him. I mean, he is a little rude, isn’t he?’ Pihu chuckled and added, ‘But I still like him. He is a little misunderstood, I think.’
‘You like him?’ Kajal asked.
‘Like, as in like? No, no! Not at all. Yes, he is cute. But I don’t like him in that way. In fact, the way he talks to me, it’s a surprise I don’t hate him,’ she responded.
‘Why don’t you hate him?’ Kajal asked, because in spite of everything, neither did she. For all the times that Dushyant had been needlessly oppressive and possessive, she had never managed to hate him. There was a growing discomfort in their relationship, but not once did her feelings towards him waver.
