Today he touched 100.
He looks like a little boy, but at the same time he's an old
man. His flesh is wasting away. Bones
once covered and concealed by well rounded muscles now stick out
offensively. Once, a man on the move is
now confined to the bed. He lies
helplessly on his stained sheets. Impervious to the bites of the bedbugs and
mosquitoes. He is nearly blind. Cataract has taken over the retinas. Yesterday
someone called. A relative. Wanted to know, how he was doing. He couldn't get
the name. But at this stage of life, names, faces do not matter. His memory was
also fading. He has an old mobile phone by his side. That's his only contact to
the outside world. His relatives call. Now and then. He does not remember their
names anymore. Keeps confusing one with the other. Rarely they come to visit
him. They have all contributed and kept a servant to attend to his needs-which
are now limited to eating, peeing and shitting. He shits more than he
eats. One of the signs of him being alive. One night, he heard a woman's voice in the next room. Then he
heard her moaning heavily. The servant perhaps had got a whore for the night.
Or maybe he imagined, he was not sure.
He gets irritated, when the
phone rings. He does not want to talk. The effort, tires him out. He does not
know anything about his disease. He only knows that its time to die. There was
a time he was scared of death. He didn't learn to swim for fear of drowning. He
didn't fly kites for fear of falling off the roof. He is tired of shitting on the bed, tired of the bloody servant,
trying to force food into him.
The phone began to ring. Then it went on and on…………