A story is born every moment in life; sometimes it is in a hospital and sometimes in a Dance bar. And sometimes these are connected, and the connection is you many times. Here is a short story of love and care and a justified asking for Freedom.
It was not the first time she had called me a coward. I hate that, and I am no coward. I loved her and still do, even after knowing everything about her. She loved me black, and I can anywhere recognise the perfume she puts on to hide the stink of cigarettes. She is there on the hospital bed. The white and blue pattern on the wall was mocking me and making me angry. She did not move her lips, but I heard her say the ‘C-word. I can read her expressionless face that has not moved a muscle for long.
It is now more than a year. She lies there, oblivious to her surrounding in this speciality hospital. It is me who continues to suffer. I have been braving her silence. Even the stink of cigarettes has left her thinning hair. Now, the antiseptic smell permeates every corner. She does not need the perfume any longer. Like always, I have been thinking of her. Doctors have no hope left, and it is merely a question of time.
I know she suffers too, but I think my suffering seeing her this way is much more painful. I am no coward. In the past, I have stood up looking at the plug connecting the ventilator. I have evaluated the transparent pipe guiding oxygen to fill her lungs. All this time, she kept staring at the ceiling. She has been this way for far too long. She no longer feels the difference. I have considered my options. While the tired nurses catch their sleep, I have thought of switching the oxygen supply.
I know it will be pain for some time, but it will release her from the situation. I don’t want to be the one responsible for her final pain. Late at night, I hear her call me a coward, and the sound kept getting louder with time. I listen to it all the time. I don’t know why nurse Savitri does not hear her say anything. She pities me, and she thinks I am imagining. She has not said anything for so long. I first heard her use the ‘C-word for me when I could not rescue her from the Shetty Dance Bar at Vile Parle.
I, the son of one of the wealthiest builders in town, first bought her love and then fell in love with her. As Mahesh Shetty once said to me, her price of freedom was marriage. He laughed when I offered money for her freedom and flatly asked me how Sonia’s life as my mistress would differ from her life as my mistress. He said, Raje Shaadi mana- mai kanyadaaan karta hai. I could not do anything, and that was the first time Sonia called me a coward.
She was at her sarcastic best and doubted if I ever really loved her. She told me, forget love- you are after my body- my jism and my jawani. I let it go like a monk. But realised I was a coward. Mahesh Shetty’s laughter and Sonia’s statement still ring in my ears. I could not tolerate her accusations. No money could buy her freedom. The only way out of the bar was for me to marry her.
And that I could not do for family honour and business. II punished everyone who came in my way, including myself, and never married. Soon, Minster Rane closed the bars, and I lost her. She just disappeared. I, Prateek Ranade lost my life. I searched for her. In the process, I visited places where the bar girls landed after the Maharashtra closure. I visited Kolkata and Bengaluru in search of her and even Belgaon and Sonagachi. I paid for sex that I never had, hoping that some girl would know her.
Finally, I found her working at my new construction site. She was unwell. I was not willing to lose her again. I had the confidence of being alone and being successful. Since the death of senior Ranade, there was no one I had to answer.
I got her admitted to the hospital, and room 402 became my home. Coward, she had said, and here I was to prove her wrong. She had a stroke a few months back, and since then, she just stares at the ceiling, not even looking at me. The clock told me it was 2 AM.
The time I used to leave the dance bar through the back door. But, life, unfortunately, does not have an escape. How can I allow this to continue? It has to stop the ringing in my ears. I have been awake at night, and the sound has grown louder. Nowadays, the noise is there 24 hours a day. Coward, Coward, Coward. It is beyond tolerance. I want freedom from it. And there is only one way to stop it. Something must give in. I look at the extra pillow and think the softness will not bother her.
I am not sure if she can hear me or has an idea of what I am feeling and thinking. A soft pillow but strong enough. I picked her with all my love. She was so light and fragile. I then applied sindoor to her head. I felt she smiled, though the eyes were still staring at the ceiling. And then I placed the pillow. It was effortless; maybe she was free much before I freed her. I pulled the bedsheet over her body. The monitor went silent. Freedom has never been so easy.
The silent cry coming from me echoed inside the room, and the loud sound bothering me suddenly stopped. Here are two other Coward stories. ‘Unfinished Coward Story’ and ‘Once a coward, always a coward’. Do you think I am a coward? It does not matter what you think.
Now, Sonia is free from every pain. Moreover, she would have realised that her Prateek is no coward. Tomorrow we inaugurate ‘Sonia apartments’, and soon I will shift into the penthouse with her memories. The penthouse has a bar and the things I purchased from Mahesh Shetty when the Bar was closed. I will be there and will miss my Sonia. And if you insist, I am a Coward.
The initial draft of this story was developed at the Raksha Bharadia 2-hour Writing Workshop at MICA on 8th Feb 2017. Raksha is the author of ‘All & Nothing’, ‘Roots and Wings’ and the editor-author of the Chicken Soup India series. Here is another Coward story and another unfinished story of a Coward.
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