Till the Last Breath . . . by Durjoy Datta

bedsheets and the tonnes of books she had so lovingly arranged. She wondered if she would get to read even a third of them. She was distraught. For all the times she had craved to be in a medical school, she got only three months. It had been nine months since then. The loss of sensation meant she had to drop out of medical school as soon as four other hospitals—one in Delhi, two in Bangalore and one in Mumbai—gave the same verdict, each one with more finality than the last. Her disease had progressed faster than anyone had anticipated. Within two months of detection, she had trouble walking without crutches. Soon, eating had become a problem and she couldn’t chew for very long. Fifteen minutes of activity made her breathless and tired. Her muscles were slowly losing their strength and integrity. The paralysis slowly set in. Life for her became a constant battle for survival—to see the next morning. To see her parents around her, to hold their handsand recount memories till it felt like she had lived them twice. It became a constant struggle to forget what was coming for her. She had committed herself to her impending death sentence. She had just a few excruciating months to live.
    All this while, she made sure she sent across a mail every day to the young doctor, who was a part of the research team looking for a cure for ALS, in New Delhi. Sometimes, it was about the pain of being an ALS patient. On other occasions, it was something interesting she had read in a medicine book. His mailbox had become like a personal online blog-cum-punching-bag-cum-stress-ball for her. She knew for sure that he must have marked her mails as spam after the third one. But she kept sending them …
Pihu Malhotra >
    To Dr Arman Kashyap >
    Hi Dr Arman,
    My mom still hasn’t stopped crying. She tries not to cry in front of me, but she doesn’t make it. Dad is a lot better. I got myself checked again. Six months, they say.
    Give or take a few months. I can’t walk for very long.
    Regards
    Pihu Malhotra
    Pihu Malhotra
    To Dr Arman Kashyap
    Hi Dr Arman,
    Sorry to disturb you again. But I am crying. For the past two days, I haven’t been able to sleep. I think of all the bad things that are going to happen to me. Why? Whyme? I didn’t do anything wrong to anyone. Neither did my parents. I just … I am sorry.
    Regards
    Pihu Malhotra
    Pihu Malhotra >
    To Dr Arman Kashyap
    Hi Dr Arman,
    I finished the book on cancer diagnosis. It’s very nice. Wish I was in the lab and could see the carcinomas myself. I envy my classmates. They must be having so much fun. I wonder how Venugopal is doing and whether he still misses me. And I hope he has made good friends there. I wish I was there. I am sorry to disturb you again. I am sorry.
    Regards
    Pihu Malhotra
    Pihu Malhotra >
    To Dr Arman Kashyap
    Hi Dr Arman,
    I can’t walk any more. I see a shining new wheelchair in the corner of the room. I don’t want to use it. I want to stay in bed. I am scared. I also choked on my food once. People say I am dying. They tell me time is running out. Why doesn’t it feel so? Why does it feel that time has slowed down? Every moment lingers like it will never pass. It feels like death is moving away from me and I am running to get there soon. The sooner it comes, thebetter. I just want to be put out of my misery. Is a dead daughter better than a dying daughter?
    I am sorry.
    Regards
    Pihu Malhotra
    The mails never stopped. It was like a vent for her frustration and her growing anger.
    Four months after the first email, she received a mail from
Dr Arman Kashyap, GKL Hospital
. She jumped at the sight of it! And had wondered later why she had done so. Arman Kashyap was a handsome man, tall, fair and with rimless spectacles that made him look very intelligent. But the