Chapter 23

August 2016. Fort Hospital

I was waiting outside the doctor’s cabin. I noticed that familiar face again. She looked confident, mature and beautiful. Confidence is the secret to all beauty. There is no beauty that is attractive without confidence. She was sitting next to me. I wondered how she could have a psychological problem.

We had spoken to each other before, we have chatted formally. I can say that we were familiar to each other, but I could not find the courage to initiate a conversation. Truly speaking, it was hard to believe that she was depressed. I knew that it was none of my business, but still, I could not curb my curiosity.

‘Hi, how are you doing?’ This seemed to be the popular question meant for depressed people, so I went ahead and asked it.

‘I am not doing good,’ she responded, much like I had so many times before.

‘The doctor says that sharing will heal faster. If you feel like you can share your loss, that is. . .’ I mentioned the word ‘loss’ outright. I just assumed that all those who were there had lost something.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked me.

‘I lost my wife,’ that was enough to make her understand. After all, we were sitting outside the psychiatrist’s cabin.

She took a deep breath and said, ‘I have lost my family’s trust. And I am going to die, soon.’

‘Everyone is going to die someday.’

I had faced death. It was not a theory. I had been through the toughest practical lesson of life.

‘Actually,’ she hesitated, ‘I am HIV positive.’

This was astonishing. So far, I had thought that such patients existed in books and in advertisements only. I turned to face her squarely. ‘So your family thinks that you are immoral?’

She shared her suffering with me. What I heard from her cannot be put here in a line. It was not the first time that I was hearing about HIV. But meeting a person who had the condition itself was a novelty.

I was called in by the doctor, after a few minutes. I turned to her.

‘Ajay, I will leave now,’ the lady said, ‘I came today only to collect reports.’

‘It was good to meet you.’

I am not mentioning her name, and I hope you understand why.

I could sense that she wanted to say something. She had many things that she seemed to want me to know. We exchanged numbers. Before leaving she said, ‘I don’t know what you will think about me or people like me, but we are not sinners. An AIDS patient is just a patient.’

I mumbled, ‘That will be the moral for my next book.’

‘How are you doing, Ajay?’ My doctor asked – finally the right question from the right man.

‘Doing good, doctor,’ I answered truthfully, in a long time.

‘I checked your report. You are indeed doing good. So, I am reducing your dosage. Now, you have to take the pills on an SOS basis. Sertraline (Zoloft), when you find it difficult to sleep or when you are upset.’

The doctor explained some more things, which I did not understand. I nodded like an obedient pupil. ‘Thank you, doctor.’

‘You’re welcome. Anything you wish to share?’

‘Yes doctor, apart from these pills, please suggest something that I can do when I am feeling down. I feel excluded. Humans treat humans differently. I have started feeling that this world is a bad place.’

Doctor smiled. ‘Please understand, Ajay. We are not here to correct others. Every person is good and bad in their own way. The world can never be a bad place.’

This time, I did not nod. It felt like the entire world was giving me gyaan .

The doctor was a perceptive man. He understood my disappointment. ‘You can do one thing. Whenever you feel like the world is a bad place, do an act of kindness. I am sure it will help you to understand the world.’

This time I nodded.

He also added one more instruction. ‘We all have some guilt in life. When we do something good, it helps to recover from that feeling. A person without guilt has the biggest gift of life.’

Guilt? It was the first time that the idea was put in my mind, that I had a feeling of guilt within me. It was weird. I was puzzled and wondered, What did I do wrong?

I searched for the reason. Anisha was the only new addition to my life. Was my friendship with her wrong? My mind tried hard to answer this, but failed.

I left the doctor’s chamber. At the pharmacy, I was purchasing the prescribed medicine, when an advertisement caught my attention.

Give the gift of life and donate blood.

Most people donate blood because they want to help others. Donating blood a single time may help save the lives of upto three people. Yet, less than 10 percent of the Indian population does that.

The gift of life! It was enough for me to make my move. I knew the location of the blood bank. I had been to the place a hundred times. It gave me the chills. It was where I had sat continuously for hours, thinking and praying to the useless God, for her recovery. God – who had never come to my rescue.

I made my way to the blood bank and went to the reception.

‘I want to donate platelets.’

The person at the counter gave me a form to fill. I filled all the relevant details and returned it to him.

‘You are donating for a patient?’ the man smiled and asked.

‘I am not associated with any patient. I am here for a random donation.’

He smiled again. This time, his smile was bigger. He took a sample. After fifteen minutes, he came back to me. ‘We cannot take your platelets. Your platelet count is 1,20,000. It should be more than 1,50,000.’

This was insane. It was like someone was snatching an opportunity from me, an opportunity to be a happy man. We all have guilt, or might be guilty. The emotion is overhyped when you are in depression. There are thirty-five conditions associated with anxiety. A depressed mood, mood swings and sadness, are a few of them. I did not know which was mine at that time.

‘No, don’t say that,’ I pleaded.

He gave me look. ‘Would you like to donate your blood?’

‘You can take my blood?’

‘Yes.’

I lay on the bed. A needle was inserted into my body and I closed my eyes. An excuse never saves a life. Blood donation does. In some corner of my heart, I had a soothing feeling.

I returned home. Mom’s absence was making me sadder. I sat down with a novel, but found it hard to focus on the story.

Sanju’s words were echoing in my head, jarring my nerves. I failed to understand how his drunken reflection should affect me.

I closed my eyes and tried to forget everything, tried to sleep. I could not. I then attempted to read the novel again, but failed miserably. I adjusted the AC’s temperature, popped the two pills as suggested by the doctor, but there was no respite.

The worst part of having memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness. I opened my almirah, pulled out a woman’s t-shirt. I pulled it over my head, not caring about the size, fit or colour.

I hugged my pillow. The entire night I kept murmuring, ‘I am not second-hand. . .I am not second-hand. . .’