Beep-beep.

‘Motherfucker,' Avish swore over the honk. 'Move on, will you?’

The car in front of him obeyed. Avish whizzed past it, sticking out the finger from the window and shouting 'So long, suckaaaaas!’ at the oblivious driver.

(just like your father)

Avish told the voice in his head to eat shit, but he knew what it stated was undeniably the truth. It was just a truth he wasn’t willing to accept.

___________________________________

‘It’s getting cold, eh?’ The young doctor eloquently removed his surgery gloves. In fact, Avish didn’t think there was anything the man did that was not eloquent. By doing pragmatically nothing, the young doctor had already warranted some respect in Avish’s books. After all, young or not, the guy was the head of his department around here. ‘Temperature’s plummeted by ten degrees. And cold doesn’t suit me.’

An eloquent sneeze.

‘I can see that,' Avish observed. ‘May I ask why you called me here today, doc?’

‘Please call me Rahul.’

What kind of a medical practitioner does not want to be called a doctor?

‘Of course.’

The young doctor took a seat in front of him. The tip of his nose was crimson entirely. Avish was bemused by the rapid change in his facial expressions as the doctor proceeded to sneeze again. Well, there’s that for not being eloquent. He's only human.

But why did it feel like he was trying to make Avish comfortable? Aren’t successful professionals in the medical line supposed to be all business and no stray?

‘Pardon,' the young doc excused.

'Bless you.’

Someone entered the room just then, a medical intern, by the look of it. Still, she somehow looked the same age as the doctor. One of the many miracles of the world.

'Later, Rosy,' the young doctor said, and Avish saw something in his eyes, a . . . warning? A request? What Avish saw was foreboding. He shook his head to clear those thoughts.

(brace yourself)

Avish had heard that voice before somewhere, but not in many, many, many years. It scared him. Scared him more than he could imagine. What was happening?

(there’s a storm coming)

‘Shush,' he told his head.

Rosy the supposed intern, meanwhile, exited and the doctor’s charming gaze fell again upon Avish again. 'Excuse me? I didn’t catch that.’

‘Oh, nothing,' Avish said, embarrassed.

‘Anyhow,' and now the young doctor donned a grim mask, 'I checked your chest X-ray.’

A sneeze. A cautious one this time.

‘Bless you. What's the matter, doc?’

Shoulda called him Rahul, he said so.
But did it make any difference?

‘I’m going to be very straightforward here,' Rahul said, indifferent as well.

'Appreciate that.’

‘I gather you had bronchitis at some point. Is that right?’

This can’t possibly mean well. Don’t screw with me, Rahul, what're you getting at?

'That's right.’

The doctor flipped pages in some file. 'Two years back, is that correct?’

Don’t fuck with me, man.

'That's correct.’

‘And you are an avid smoker, I take?’

Avish gulped.

'You smoke?' the doctor repeated his question.

Avish felt the lighter in his back pocket. 'Now and then, yes.’

‘And have you been feeling anything . . . Any pain in your chest? Vomiting? Any adverse symptom at all?’

Avish thought he might as well keep the bloody puke in the pub a secret; he assumed it was more a ramification of his past digging its bones up than something to do with his health.

So he said: ‘No, I don’t think so. Uhm . . . may I say something, Rahul?’

He smiled a delectable smile. ‘Shoot. One must never hesitate with one's wife and doctor.’

Don’t remind of Preeti, you fucker.
Can this get any worse?

'Yeah, thanks, man. Now, it’s very apparent that something is wrong with those reports. If so, I’d rather that you just spill it. I prefer headshots.’

Rahul adjusted to the change in the tide; he was good at what he did. 'As you say, then.’

‘So, no, uhm, what is it? An infection? Or – or – I mean, what?’

'Actually,' the young doctor said, 'we think it might be a lot more serious than that. Now, we can’t stretch the string since I don’t know for sure. But you will need to consult Dr. Luthra in the pulmonary branch. The biopsy will be able to deduce if it is what I think it is. I sure hope not, but I would insist on taking these tests.’

‘You hope it's not what?’

The doctor pointed at a particular region of the X-ray. ‘You see that right there?’

'Uh-huh.’ Avish actually didn’t see anything, but why sound like an imbecile.

'I fear,' Rahul the young doctor said in the plainest way possible, 'that those might be tumor cells. Advanced necrosis, here and - erm . . . '

But Avish had phased out. His ears were in paralysis. Suddenly he was aware of the shadows cast by the revolving ceiling-fan, of the imaginary finger creeping up across his throat.

Eventually the doctor stopped, understanding the delicacy of the situation. Both because of having done this before and witnessing the expression on his prospective patients ' face.

Before snapping into reality - though it wasn't a snap, not quite; it was more a clap or a screech - Avish heard a few more words. Then he phased back out while Rahul went on a consoling medical rant.

'We fear that those might be cancer cells.'
____________________________________

Avish stood in front of his car, didn’t get in.

Lung cancer, huh?

There was a chance he might actually have it. What are the odds, he wondered, drawing out a cigarette, lighting it up and taking one long whiff. What a shitty day.

The fire from his lighter . . . He looked at it, the tiny orange blaze reflected in his pupils.

Even as he saw it, the little fire grew, grew and grew and grew. Avish couldn't stop looking.

Soon he could see figures dancing in the flame, figures that with each curl of the flame merged into one.

Until at the heart of the flame, a single  figure stood. Unwavering, unlike the rest of the fire. Hands spread and aloft, as if emanating the rest of the flame even as it grew furthermore in ferocity, becoming a fire which was greater than any lighter could summon.

The person at the centre was still. It was watching. With one glowing yellow eye and another indiscernible one.

Avish felt a magnetic pull towards the flame, and moved his face forward, forward until his face was nearly burnt by -

He shut the lighter.

What the fuck was that?

Avish stood there just like that, a cigarette lit in his limp hand. He stood like that for over ten minutes, ash building up. And not just due to the cigarette, but inside of him.

Deep inside of him, he could feel himself rotting. His eyes had already sank into hollows, like slinky little Gollums into caves. At times he coughed like a tractor. At times his heart seemed to stop beating. His hair was greying, more so everyday. Who was he lying to?

It was almost like . . . the figure in the flame had told him the results of his report prior to the actual date.

The fuck is wrong with you!

He would have to wait till after the biopsy results arrived. Until then, he was playing a blind man's buff. A game he never lost as a child, but now just might as well, as an adult.

There were millions of people out there, he reasoned, who smoked more than him. Then there were those who worked in factories, shat in mines, kissed lepers. All sorts of weirdos in the world. And if anything, Avish drank more than he smoked, so shouldn’t it be his liver or something that became defunct or whatever you call it?

His grandma – his own fucking grandma – had smoked like a goddamn . . . well, smoker. Or a chimney, for the cause of a better similie. But she never got lung cancer, did she? This was ridiculous. He hadn’t thought of her in a lifetime, despite having lived in her house for over eight years.

This was crazy. He didn’t have a fucking disease. A disease that rotted you and killed you in the cruelest possible way, at that. He was a rough guy, a tough guy

(a weasel)

-the most he could have as an ailment was a severe infection. That was all. No sweat.

But he knew. Deep down, somewhere, he knew something was eating him up alive.

And he knew he deserved it.

(killed your mother beat your wife you are just like your father)

‘Fuck cancer,' he muttered and kicked a stone and dropped his fag. ‘Fuck everyone.’

Avish got into his car – rust eating its metallic body up – and started off, but not to home. Not directly. First, he needed a little liquid luck.

_____________________________________
 
Even after spending two wholesome hours at The White Tiger, he still didn’t feel like going home. None of his pals had been there at the pub. Norman the Barman had duly noted not to pique an already troubled-looking Avish. Drinks had but doubled his cumbersome feelings, rather than conciliating them down.

Images of himself on the deathbed, shriveled as a dead leaf, ribs poking out spookily from under his pebbled, parchment skin – kept popping up inside his head.

But something really serendipitous then happened. He happened to crash into a man immaculate in a neat coat and business pants who could compete Giri in his physique. Depressed as he was, he didn’t apologize despite it obviously being his fault, walking with head bowed down and all – but the stranger perhaps sensed his irk and calmly asked in a very heavy accent: 'You okay, man?’

There had been something about that voice that made Avish stop and look at the gigantic stranger's face. He frowned. Something familiar and chummy here as well. The giant, too, seemed to be staring at Avish for too long.

Then the stranger raised a plump, fit finger at him. ‘Avish?’

'Uhm . . . yeah?’

Fortuitously, the giant wrapped his huge arms around Avish. And it felt good. Warm and fuzzy and . . . soothing. What the drinks had been unable to do, an embrace had.

As it turned out, the stranger wasn’t a stranger after all. It was Divyam. His childhood friend. ‘I looked for you everywhere, man,' he said.

‘Here for business?’ Avish asked.

'Yes, God, yes. Travel agents sometimes gotta travel.’

‘Travel agent, huh? Good for you.’

'How about you? What are you doing here?’

‘I live here. This is my place.’

'Married or what?’

Here comes the sprinkler to my wound.

'Yeah,' Avish replied in a small voice.

'Missed you, man. What do you – what do you do?’

‘Drink and smoke and kick ass.’

Divyam laughed as though it were the joke of the year. ‘Your sense of humor totally slipped my mind. No, but, like, for a living? What do you do?’

'I'm an agent,' Avish said in an even smaller voice.

‘Like-like a secret one?’ Divyam jested. ‘Her Majesty's Royal Service?’

‘Nah, just, like, a dealer. A property dealer.’

‘That’s dope, man,' Divyam cheerfully said.

‘Not as much as you'd think.’

‘So, you in contact with any of our old pals?’

'Nah,' Avish said, this time barely even aware his mouth moved.

‘Well, give me a call, man, I’ll save yours.’

And on and on and on went their conversation, and in the end things took a turn for the worse. For some reason, Avish started weeping. Alcohol makes men, breaks men. And then he told Divyam of how miserable his life was – and drank another bout as served by Norman the Barman, who didn’t even grudge on being called Risharb – and how he was tired of his wife and his life and how he probably had cancer. Then Avish got out a cigarette and was about to light it up when Divyam grabbed his hand. ‘No, man,' he advised. ‘Not in your current state.’

‘Who the fuck're you to tell me what to do?’ Avish rebuked, high as hell, eyes red and baggy.

‘What’s wrong, man? It'll all be fine. Take a deep breath.’

‘You take a deep breath!’ Avish placed his forefinger against the man’s boulder-chest. ‘You fucking abandoned me! I needed you guys to be there! To fucking be of use! Wipe my tears when they wouldn’t stop!’

'Don't do this, man,' Divyam said – no, pleaded. ‘I know how you feel.’

Avish broke into maniacal laughter. ‘Why does everyone say that? No, you don’t! You never can. You go live your perfect fucking lives with your ideal fucking wives and let me live mine!’

Avish pushed Divyam, and the push was belligerent enough to cause the latter to lose his balance and collapse down to the ground. The pub employees rushed to help.

‘Listen, dude. You're overreacting. People are watching. Calm down.’

‘Kiss my ass.’ And just like that, Avish walked out of The White Tiger, bringing out another cancer-stick to smoke, leaving his old friend behind on the floor. Gawking at what his friend had become.

_____________________________________

It was a cold night. Power was out. With no electricity, thus, the entire neighborhood was redolent to a vacant vale.

The biopsy results had arrived.

In the dark, Preeti hit her foot against the bed and fell upon it after hitting the hard frame. Avish chuckled. There was little in this world that regaled him than his wife's pain.

‘Come on, darl,' he said to her. She was momentarily stunned by the politeness in her husband's usually hoarse voice. 'I need to tell you something.’

____________________________________

An hour had passed. Electricity was back. Her husband was asleep – or that's what she thought, at least.

Preeti could hear the steady ticking of a clock. Only it wasn’t an actual clock; the one she heard was inside her husband, more of a time-bomb than anything.

A silent tear streaked down her left cheek. She loved him. She was certain Radha loved him as well. No matter what he did, he was a nice man. She knew it. She wouldn’t just marry an abusive bastard. He cared, in spite of what he said or did.

And now the clock had started ticking fast, and she wondered how long it would be before he was gone.

_____________________________________

In the chilly, dingy night, when the clock stroke two, Preeti sat down in front of her laptop to write.

Somehow, the cold didn’t trouble her. Somehow, she felt like she wasn’t alone.

_*_

Avish opened his eyes. He saw his wife, on her device, actively typing words he had no interest in scouting. He turned sides on the bed, careful not to perturb her – he didn’t need any “special” chats in the middle of the night, his brain was ready to explode as it were – and saw another delineate, just sitting there on the dressing table. Staring at Avish with one gleaming eye.

His throat caught. Blood turned into water. He wasn’t sure if this was due to cancer (his cancer, his, his) or the man in black.

Closing his eyes, he tried to doze off. Abortively.

The man's charisma disrupted the air.

Avish was convinced that Preeti sensed it, too. For neither husband nor wife went to sleep that night.

To anyone out there having any malady, my deepest condolences.