I watched my fingers as they dropped the white tablets, one after another, into the transparent water. Sporadically they gave a nervous twitch. They obeyed the brain, with ambivalence. The twelfth tablet that came out of the silver-foil soon coalesced with its brethren, who by now were in a semi-dissolved state.
I looked at the water. As the troches kept pouring in, it assumed a milky hue, spreading like smoke, which emerged from the center and spiraled outwards, forming concentric circles of widening diameter. I removed the twentieth tablet—the last one—and dropped it into the tumbler. As it reached the bottom with a series of jerky movements, I felt relaxed. My passage to paradise was ready; I only had to ensure that I got a window seat for the journey. I stirred the contents of the tumbler. The granular deposits at the bottom swirled up and dissolved into the water.
I picked the glass up and looked, for the last time, at my worldly possessions. The silver plaque stood upright at its appointed corner. The lustre undaunted despite the passage of time (12 years). A little dust laden, it proudly proclaimed:
PRESENTED TO DR RITESH KAPOOR FOR HIS PIONEERING WORK IN NEUROSURGERY – BY THE ROYAL CHAMBER OF SURGEONS, UNITED KINGDOM
Numerous awards had followed, most of them presently strewn all over the room. My hour of triumph had come four years ago when I was nominated for the Nobel Prize for conducting the first successful hypothalamus transplant in the world. There were mementos and souvenirs from all over the globe. Then there were photographs; with the President, receiving the Padma Vibhushan award, with the Prime Minister, with the rich and famous, with Bollywood and Hollywood celebrities and with commoners alike. Finally, my eyes rested on the photo kept on the bedside table. I gave it a long and penetrating look.
It was monochrome, slightly larger than postcard size. The ivory frame, hand-carved down to the minutest detail, was of impeccable craftsmanship. Which alone was insured for two lakhs and with the photograph it was priceless, to me at least.
The snap showed a man and a woman. Both were in their late twenties. The man sported a polo-neck jersey. He had short crop hair and a narrow face with sharp features. He looked directly into the camera, lips parted in a smile, which alluded among other things, to a sense of pride, of achievement. His left arm entwined that woman's waist. She was slightly shorter than him. Her frame, though slender was elegant. She was strikingly beautiful. The shoulder-length hair had been ruffled by the breeze. While she was about to brush the few strands back, which had fallen over the left eye, to their rightful place, with her left palm reaching halfway to the face when the camera shutter had clicked capturing the moment for eternity. Her mouth, a perfect Cupid's bow, hovered somewhere between a smile and laughter. Dimple on the cheeks clearly discernable, she was not looking at the camera. Her eyes were onto the man. They spoke of passions, dreams and promises. They were twinkling, full of mirth and youthful vigor. The world was at her feet. She was young and happy to be alive and her eyes bore testimony to her inner feelings. Though the photograph did not show, but I remembered; those eyes were blue, the perfect shade of turquoise and her name is Suman, and she is… was my wife.
Fifteen years ago, freshly out of medical college, with a first-class degree in hand, when I had gazed rapturously into the captivating eyes, time had stood still. After two years of courtship, Suman gave her consent. It was the happiest moment of my life.
She was my inspiration, my panacea, the center of my universe, without her my life had no meaning. A year later I made the first major contribution to the ultra-complex field of neurosurgery. My genius was acclaimed by the medical world and the commoner alike. The breakthrough had been possible only due to Suman. Her love and encouragement had seen me through numerous failures. Along with the fame came wealth. We became one of the most sought after couples in the capital.
There was hardly any party where we did not figure among the invitees. Most of them I could not attend due to my work, but Suman with her electrifying presence always made it up for me. In turn, we also played host to many distinguished gatherings. Suman's fame as an impeccable hostess soon became one of the most raved about subjects in the grapevine. Everyone who was someone wanted to be a part of Suman's elite evenings. I missed most of them. I knew it was unfair on Suman but I was helpless. I was always traveling, crossing time zones, attending seminars, addressing the press, receiving awards or doing what I knew best. Suman hardly ever complained. As every day passed she grew more beautiful. She was often featured on page 3 and cover of glossy woman's magazine. People congratulated me on my luck. I bloated with joy.
Then two years back something changed. I had just returned from Frankfurt. Suman knew the day of my arrival but she was not at the airport, neither was she home. She arrived in the evening along with a man at least ten years her junior, whom she introduced as Deepak. Thereafter they were often seen around together. I could sense a subtle change in Suman. She was still as vivacious, as loquacious but somewhere a small fissure had appeared in her charm. Those eyelashes still beckoned me but the longing in the eyes were no more there. The caress of those delicate hands as gentle, but they no more inflamed my skin. Then one day she shattered my world with one sentence, 'Ritesh, please release me. I want to marry Deepak.'
Poor darling, I wondered, how she must have suffered all these years trying to cope up with a husband who was never around.
I only wished her happiness and as it was a childless marriage, the divorce came through easily. Suman refused any alimony. The final verdict granting the divorce and untying the knot, legally, which had been tied by something more divine, arrived today. The Court Seal was intact, the judge's signature legible. It lay next to the photograph. I took one last look at Suman, now lying in the arms of a man who deserved her more. As I brought the glass to my lips, I uttered the final four syllables of my life, 'Suman I love you.'
But before my tongue could feel the first caress of death the phone rang. I hesitated. The glass with its lethal content was pressed against my lips. Only a few insignificant millimeters stood between death and me. The phone kept ringing. I looked at the watch; 1:30 a.m. had to be an emergency. The moment of indecision passed, I lifted the receiver.
'May I speak to Dr Kapoor please?'
'Speaking'
'Sir, I am Dr Karan Sharma, from AIIMS. We have an emergency in the neurology ICU. If you could help us please, I would send the car to you right away.'
'Not required, I would be there in thirty minutes.' I put the phone down.
The tumbler stood like a tireless sentinel. The journey to paradise would be delayed by a few hours. I gathered some ew of my essential tools and stepped out into the chilly November morning. I braced myself against the nippy wind. The car sprang to life at the very first turn of the ignition.
A lanky youth met me outside the ICU. 'Please come, Sir, I am Dr Sharma.' He led me to the patient. It was a woman of around thirty. She lay under sedation. I read the case sheet. She had suffered a brain hemorrhage with a severe concussion. Internal bleeding had blocked the sensory lobes and she would either die or become vegetable for the rest of her life if the corrective measures were not taken within the hour. Immediately I got her transported to the OT. The head was already shaved and dabbed with disinfectant. The area where the cranium had to be cut was marked. I pulled on the gloves, signaled to switch the operating lights on, and took my post. The resident interns and nurses gathered around expectantly. It was not every day that one got to witness Dr Ritesh Kapoor, engaged in the awe-inspiring task of delving into the most complex machinery ever known to man. This was a field of high precision. Even a difference of few microns could mean life or death, or worse, brain dead. I have had my share of failures but then that is life. You win some, you lose some. I extended my right hand, without shifting my gaze from the exposed skin. A trepan was expertly placed on my palm. I got down to the job.
After three hours I emerged from the OT. It had been successful; she would require two weeks of post-operative care and thereafter could resume a normal life. I completed the case sheet, wrote down various medicines and after acknowledging the gratitude of the man who happened to be the patient's husband, started walking towards the car. I looked at the watch. Four fifty a.m. plenty of time to catch the morning flight to paradise.
As I bent down to unlock the car, I heard someone hailing 'Excuse me, Dr Kapoor.' I turned around, it was Dr Sharma.
'Yes,' I said wearily.
'Sir, if you don't mind,' he sounded apologetic; 'there is someone who wants to meet you.' He paused. I just stared at him; my eyebrows slightly raised encouraging him to go on.
'It's Mr. Gupta, the well-known industrialist. You see, it's his daughter, she has a brain tumor.'
I slowly unclasped my fingers from the car handle, dropped the key in my pocket and went to the visitor room. Mr. Gupta, a congenial man of around 40 stood up as soon as I entered.
'Dr Kapoor, please save my daughter. She is everything to me in this world. All the doctors have given up. Now only you can save her.' His voice broke down towards the end. I remained silent and after offering some consoling pats on his back went to the record room.
'It's a hopeless case Sir, the very last stage.' Dr Sharma said as he handed me the reports. The CAT scan said it all. The tumor had been detected at the final stage. The chance of a successful operation was even less than one percent. I let my mind wander. There were only three neurosurgeons on this planet who could convert that one percent to a hundred percent and of the three the only one in this country would cease to exist within the next hour. It was certainly hopeless. I looked up from the file. Dr Sharma looked at me hopefully. I envied him for that. He was young, he still had hope.
'What do you think?' he asked.
'Where is she?' I asked.
He led me to the Children's Ward and pointed to her room. I dismissed him at the door.
The lush carpet silenced my footsteps as I approached the bed. The room was softly lit and the blinds were drawn. The bedside lamp was on. A delicate child of about ten or twelve lay half-supine, engrossed in a comic book. I went up to the foot of the bed and stood gazing at her. She had not yet sensed my presence. I still wore the white coat and the symbolic stethoscope around the neck. 'Hello!' I said.
She looked up, startled. Seeing me she gave a smile. A pure and innocent smile. I took a step forward and laid my hand on her forehead. It was burning.
'How are you?' I asked.
'Fine, but who are you?' she asked.
'Your doctor uncle. What is your name?'
'Neha. But you are not a good uncle. Why didn't you come to see me yesterday?' Her bright eyes held my gaze.
'Well… I was busy.' I mumbled.
'You know, Uncle, I have so many plans…' she held my hand. The same hand that could free her from the icy clutches of death but would not. I looked at her, as she rambled on with her future plans. For both of us time was ticking away yet we were so different. She, so fresh so full of hope and visions of tomorrow, ready to meet any challenges and I, at the end of the road, no more ambitions, no future, no dreams, seeking death as my only companion. In time both of us would die, but she would die a winner and I a loser. Two people on the same road, approaching the same destination, yet so different.
'…then I will the climb the highest mountain and from there everything will look so small. Won't it be fun! You know, Uncle, actually I am confused. I want to do everything at the same time so I generally end up doing nothing. But I promise you, once I get well then I will seriously plan my life… don't laugh, do you think I am a child! It's me who looks after daddy. You know when four years back mummy went to God, daddy was very sad. He stopped wearing those bright clothes. Often he used to miss his meals. Then one day mummy came in my dreams and told me that now I must look after him…'

Neha spoke to me as if she knew me for ages. Then I realized how lonely she must be. To her every stranger looked like a long lost friend. She kept on talking, weaving a magical pattern of life I had never imagined. I did not utter a single word. I just kept looking at her bright expressive eyes. The face so fresh without a single blemish and thought, why life was so unjust? Why deprive her of the joys she rightly deserved? Why fill her up with so much optimism if it was only a mirage?
'… a few months ago this pain started. Then I used to faint. All of a sudden everything would become dark. Many doctor uncles came and saw me. Asked me all sorts of funny questions. Then daddy took me to hospitals where they had huge machines. I felt like a Lilliputian, but you know I was never scared. I asked everyone what was wrong with me, but nobody told me. They only brought me gifts. Although daddy smiles in front of me, I know he is again sad. I don't understand why. Is it because of me! Now I don't feel like sleeping too and the headache never goes. What is wrong with me, Uncle? Please tell me. I won't tell anyone, promise! If you tell me I will give you my best Tintin comic. Please uncle, tell me.' She tugged at my sleeves. I shifted my gaze to the floor. I could no more look into the bright expectant eyes.
'Sometimes at night mummy talks to me. It seems God is calling me, I get scared… but why should I be scared of going to God! I don't know but at times I feel I will not see daddy again and this makes me really sad. Who will look after him? Who will tell him that it is time for lunch, who will get him clothes? Who will read stories to him, who will wish him, happy birthday? Uncle, please tell me, will I die, will it be painful?'
Her fragile fingers interlaced with mine. I looked back, at those shimmering eyes. I knew the answers to some of her questions but had no simple answers to the simple questions she had asked. She had asked them with pure intent and even if I answered, they would be full of treachery and subterfuge. I remained silent. I just let my fingers comb through her hair. I stood up and said, 'Now I must go. You take care.' Then as an afterthought added, 'I will come to see you again tomorrow.'
Our hands parted, lingering for a brief moment as the fingertips brushed. 'Goodbye, uncle, tomorrow I will tell you a story.' She waved cheerfully.
When I reached home, it was a quarter to six. The eastern sky was still unlit. I knew somewhere down there the sun was struggling to break the horizon. Today I won't witness its triumph. I entered the bedroom. It lay exactly as I had left it. With halting steps I reached the bedside table. The tumbler stood at vigil. The last and final call for the passengers bound for paradise was being announced.
I picked up the glass and brought it to my mouth. As I tilted it, my whole life flashed past my eyes. All my achievements, my failures, my good times, bad times, things I had lost, things I had gained. In a moment I saw the entire forty-four years of my existence. And as it thundered past me I heard a faint echo from a distant past, when my life was plentiful and out of all those emerged one voice, predominant, repeating the same words, 'Will I die, uncle, will it be painful?'
Something snapped within me. I watched the tumbler slip out of my grip. I tried to hold on to it but could not. Some unseen force loosened my grip. I watched the path of the glass all the way from my hand till it smashed onto the floor, disintegrating into hundreds of pieces.
I looked up and gazed outside. The dawn was breaking. Street lamps were going out, one by one. The milkman was keeping a bottle outside the neighbor's door. A faint jingle of cycle-bell came floating as the newspaper boy delivered paper.
I felt alive. I felt refreshed as if woken up after a long night's slumber. As I took a step to open the window shutters, something crunched under my feet. I looked down at the glass pieces strewn on the floor and in each of them, as they reflected the morning sun's ray; I saw the face of a child who would not die.