Till the Last Breath . . . (15 page)

Dushyant, though half dead, could see her leave the room before he passed out from the pain.

Arman kicked in his sleep when his phone rang. It was the first time in weeks that he was back in his apartment and an uninvited phone call was the last thing he wanted. It rang for the fifth time and he had to pick it up. The patient from room no. 509 had had a seizure and his kidneys were failing. He had puked blood and a hole had had to be punched through his throat to keep him from choking to death.
Fuck.

After what had happened in that room with Pihu’s friends and Dushyant, he wouldn’t have cared if Dushyant lived or died. He was a burning pain in the ass anyway. Mindlessly, he stepped into the shower and washed up. As the water ran down his body, he realized he had gained considerable weight over the last few years. He wasn’t the young, athletic charmer any more. His body, once as hard as granite, was now slowly withering away, his eyes were sunken and fine lines of tiredness from long hours in the hospital showed on his face. He stood in front of the mirror and wondered how his parents still looked so young. The answer was clear as it was always—making money as a doctor was easier than going out there and making a difference.

He sat in his gleaming blue BMW—one of the few gifts he was showered with on his last birthday—and zipped through the early-morning traffic, reaching the hospital in fifteen minutes. He noticed Zarah’s car parked rather awkwardly in the parking lot. He checked in at the reception and headed straight for his office. On his way, he crossed the surgery room Dushyant was in and stepped in for a bit to see what had gone wrong. His eyebrows knitted. He put two and two together.

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ he bellowed as soon he stepped into his office. Zarah was startled out of her slumber, the pattern of the table mat imprinted on her face.

‘What?’

‘Do I need to tell you what? You almost killed him. First you make him smoke, then you take him out on a drive? WHAT were you thinking, trying to pull off something like that?’ he interrogated.

‘I am—’

‘If it were not me, you would have lost your job! You almost killed somebody last night,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t even know if you are capable of grasping the concept of being a doctor and not making patients bleed to death. Do you get that? There are rules and regulations that you need to follow. How hard is that to understand for you? I don’t know what you fucking share with a useless, half-dead man, but whatever it is, it shouldn’t mess up his treatment. I will NOT have his blood on my hands!’

‘I am sorry.’

‘But what the hell were you thinking? A patient has to stay in the hospital till he or she is discharged—how hard is that to understand?’ he said, banging his fist on the table.

Zarah’s lips quivered and Arman could see her hands shaking in fear. Though Arman never respected rules and regulations himself, the understanding and repercussions of breaking them had to be grasped to the full. Something that the young doctor,
Zarah, didn’t understand. The girl in front of him just looked down at her knees and mumbled something indecipherable.

‘Can you speak up?’ he asked.

‘As if you follow all the rules …’ she muttered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know you’re about to run an experimental treatment on Pihu, aren’t you?’

The blood from Arman’s face drained away and he stared at Zarah in horror.
How does she know?

‘Who told you?’ Arman queried.

‘No one did,’ the girl looked straight into his eyes and answered. ‘I am not stupid. I saw the reports and the frequent tests you have been doing on the girl. Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me, sir. I am sure you have something in mind.’ Her voice was now strong and resolute. ‘Yes, I did something unasked for last night and I am really sorry about it. I will make sure it never happens again. And that patient means a lot to me, just like Pihu does to you. I will do anything to make him live. I am sorry to have let you down.’

‘I don’t think he has much time left,’ Arman mumbled.

‘He doesn’t? What makes you say that?’ Zarah pried like a restless relative. Arman didn’t have the heart to tell her, especially since his opinion was based more on experience and instinct than a study of hard facts and test results.

‘His whole body is shutting down. His liver has suffered irreversible damage and now it’s his kidneys. He is weaker than we thought he was. Just because he doesn’t cry out in pain doesn’t mean there isn’t any. He might need a transplant which he won’t get due to his alcohol and drug-ridden past. I don’t see him getting out of here alive,’ he explained.

‘But he was getting better—’

‘We just treated the symptoms. His body is a battlefield of diseases and tumours, and we can’t treat everything.
Any drastic treatments will kill him sooner than you can imagine. And we can’t really transplant every living cell in his body,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to save him, though I have been wrong before.’

Arman, even with his tough exterior, never quite got used to delivering bad news to anybody. Not even fellow doctors. He knew about the bond Zarah and Dushyant had grown to share and it crushed him to tell her this. Also, the fact that Dushyant had been recovering steadily over the last few days gave everyone—Arman, Zarah and Pihu—hope that it was just a matter of time before he would swagger out of the hospital with a joint on his lips.

‘We can’t remove the tumours?’ she posed.

‘From a kidney that’s already dying out?’

‘What are our options?’ she pressed on.

‘We can apply for transplants for a new kidney and possibly a liver if it deteriorates further but given the time that he has left, I don’t think we can get any,’ he explained.

‘I will fill out the application,’ she said. ‘How much time do we have left?’

‘Not more than three to four weeks,’ Arman replied. He had no words to soothe the pain of the young doctor who he knew would take this death seriously. Doctors never forget the first deaths they encounter. They stay with them, reminding them of their responsibility and fallibility.

Conversation died out after a while and he left the room. He had Pihu’s test results on his mind. His steps quickened as he hastily headed to the research facility of the hospital to chart out a medicinal routine for the dying girl. She had less time than Dushyant did.

Pihu’s eyes were immovably set on the other bed in her room, partly because she was in denial and partly because she felt sorry for Dushyant’s pitiable state. The number of drips and the monitors monitoring his vital stats had increased. He wasn’t breathing on his own but through a pipe that fit into a nozzle in his throat. His body struggled and writhed in pain with every breath and he looked tormented. It had been almost two weeks since the incident—when he puked blood—and he had hardly been awake after that. Now, he got up, took the medicines, whined and moaned and went back to sleep. Sometimes she noticed Dushyant looking at her, trying to say something but nothing ever made sense. His speech was reduced to long-drawn-out mumbles and painful groans.

Only yesterday, she had mustered up the courage to ask Arman if Dushyant was going to be all right. She was stunned to learn he was dying.
He was just fine, wasn’t he?
Her gaze shifted to her own legs which were being examined by Dr Zarah and a couple of more people she had seen for the first time. The medicinal routine had started and she was
sick of swallowing twenty pills a day. It had been easy at first but slowly it was becoming tougher. The pills started to depress her and every time she had to take one, the bad aftertaste at the back of her tongue served as a reminder of what she had.

‘Can you feel them?’ one of them asked.

‘Pihu?’ Zarah said to catch her attention.

‘I can’t,’ she mumbled as they kept creeping up her leg. She could see their hands mould, prick and knead her legs but she couldn’t feel them in the way she used to. Now, her legs were just extensions of her body that she could neither move nor feel any sensation in. She felt helpless, defeated, as she saw the shock and horror in her mother’s eyes. The disease was progressing faster than it should have.

Later that day, she tried walking to the bathroom and found it hard to do so, even with the crutches. Her strength was draining out. Since her every need was catered to in the hospital, she had not realized how tough daily chores had become for her. Walking was a problem, getting in and out of clothes was a real pain, and she was a lot slower at eating her meals. To prevent exhaustion from chewing, her meals now consisted of mashed food that had to be reheated at least twice in the course of every meal. Her jaws hurt like crap after every meal.

Pihu knew that she would soon start to choke on her food and require help to bathe and to relieve herself and to even pick up a book. Given the special condition, she knew it could come sooner than expected. She kept the book on cancer aside and picked up
Tuesdays with Morrie
, the book on the real-life account of someone who had died of ALS. It wasn’t the first time she was reading the book and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. The book gave her the strength to carry on and to keep the spirit to fight alive in her.

Later that night, Arman came to visit Pihu. Her mother was sleeping and her father had gone home for the day. Arman woke her up and she smiled groggily at him. His presence in the room always shook something deep inside her, a feeling that she had never encountered before, a warm, fuzzy feeling that smelled of chocolate … and home. It was as if every cell in her body responded to his being in the vicinity. He sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand in his. As he clutched it, Pihu felt the loss of power in her hands. She couldn’t clutch it as hard as she would have liked to.

‘How are you feeling today?’ Arman asked.

‘Pretty shitty,’ she answered shyly. ‘I am slowly losing all my strength.’

‘Tell me more,’ he replied.

‘My bench press is down to 200 pounds and I don’t think I can compete in the Delhi marathon this year,’ she said in all seriousness. Arman chuckled. She laughed.

Pihu told him about her loss of strength and coordination, about how she could no longer use the fork or the knife to pierce or cut through food, about how she felt that she would not be able to walk, even with a crutch, for long and how sometimes she had trouble breathing. Most ALS patients die because their diaphragm muscles are too weak to support breathing and they suffocate to death. She asked Arman if that was the way she would die. Arman comforted her and told her whatever he knew about the disease—which was everything there was to know.

All of a sudden, Pihu started to cry a little. Arman put his hands around her and comforted her and she kept sobbing softly in his arms. The crying went on for an inordinately long period of time. When she looked at the clock that hung on the wall just opposite to her bed, she noticed that she had been crying for the past thirty minutes, twenty-five of which had been in Arman’s warm embrace. She tried to stop but couldn’t.
Thinking of the horrors that were yet to come, she did not want to live any longer. If she were to die sleeping, her lungs screaming for a few last breaths, she would rather die now.

‘Are you okay now?’ Arman inquired as she stopped crying.

She felt embarrassed and said, ‘I am sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be. I thought you knew that heightened emotions are a symptom of this disease. Patients continue to laugh or cry for longer periods of time because of the degeneration of brain cells which control these emotions,’ he clarified.

‘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.