Page 61 - Till the Last Breath . . .

Pihu Malhotra

From what she had learnt about the disease, she knew she didn’t have more
than three months to live; some doctors gave her even less. The fear in her
parents’ eyes multiplied every day, their grief slowly becoming unbearable

for them. During those days, her relatives and cousins had started to drop in
to see her for the last time. Pihu, confined to her bed, would smile at them.

And cry when she would be alone. For the most part of the day, she would
sleep. Her body, whatever was left of it, was constantly tired and exhausted.

She began to get bedsores. Her mom would spend hours shifting and
rolling her on the bed to prevent the infections from the bedsores from

spreading. They only became worse. She would stay up and cough for
hours on end. Saliva drooled from her mouth but she couldn’t bring a hand
up to wipe it. Day after day, she would spend all her time lying on the bed,

staring at the ceiling as her father read to her from medical books and
journals. She could only talk in mumbles; her tongue had become weak too.

She was trapped in her dying body, waiting for death to come.
Her father clicked pictures of her every day, trying to capture his
daughter for the last few times. Visiting doctors always left the home with

their heads hung low. They knew the next time they could find her dead.
A few days after she sent her last mail, a package arrived at the front

door with Pihu’s name on it. Her father opened the box gingerly. The
contents were wrapped very carefully in bubble wrap. There was a spiral-

bound file of papers and a box with syringes, bottles of coloured liquids and
capsules.

‘What’s this?’ her father asked as he sifted through the contents.
She shook her head and looked at the letter that lay with everything on
the bed. Her dad read the letter, which stated in clear, simple words that

these were the medications they were trying out on the clinical-trial patients
at GKL Hospital. The handwriting was lucid, not like a doctor’s.

Dear Pihu,