Page 12 - Till the Last Breath . . .

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Dushyant Roy

The curtains had been wide open for quite some time now, letting the sharp

rays of the sun stream in through the open window, on to the face of a
prostrate Dushyant, who lay in bed, covered in a worn-out hospital

bedsheet, very uncomfortable in his sleep but still unmoving. His eyes
flickered through the night and his fingers trembled. He was asleep and

didn’t wake up. It wasn’t a good night’s sleep.
Finally, after tossing restlessly from side to side, he woke up and tried
opening his eyes. One of them refused to open, swollen from the huge gash

just above his left eyebrow, which had been heavily taped and bandaged. He
touched the bandage with his hands and checked for blood with his other

half-open, groggy eye. He sighed as he found none … Only then did he
venture to look around the hospital room. He was surrounded with medical
equipment, a lot of it connected to him, a small television in one corner of

the room and an empty bed on his left side. His thoughts wandered to what
had brought him there. It wasn’t the first time he was in one of these beds,

but this time it seemed a little more serious than the other times. Landing up
unconscious after a series of uncontrollable vomits and brain tremors was a

way of life for him. It was his escape, his refuge. Being sober hadn’t got
him anywhere, and being drunk obliterated the possibility.

He had tubes attached to needles, which dipped into his veins and
arteries, and pumped liquids from transparent pouches hanging from the
stand on his right side. He was sure his parents had no idea of his

whereabouts. He knew none of his friends would have given the hospital
authorities his parents’ numbers or address. He was in no mood to see or

talk to them. Not now, not ever.