Six more months

“Six more months, not a second less,” proclaimed the biopsy report. Patient repeated the affirmation quite a number of times like a hymn. Doctor was exasperated for the first time. He detested this patient’s lament. He was used to such cases. In fact, he was the only gastroenterologist of Midnapore municipal hospital. Colon cancers are ‘in’. It renders the affected a distinct historic value. So why is this creature crooning? Death is the cardinal truth of life. Evasions are impossible. Therefore, no point cribbing. Coming back to the Doctor, being a prodigy does not guarantee you a satisfactory life. Moreover, he was an anachronism of the bygone era. A period in the history of homo sapiens, when people preferred service to money. They held themselves responsible for the betterment of society. His disarrayed thoughts took him back to his reflective pension.

“….brightest of the lot,” ended Professor Munshi, then H.O.D of the Doctor. Munshi was the most profound admirer of him. He was especially impressed by his dogmatic approach. He was determined to join a government hospital and be posted in some forsaken village. This sort of behavior would definitely be termed as “ersatz” in this mechanized ambience. His retrospective parentage could not justify such vehement discrepancy in his character. They tried a bit of retardation technicalities citing examples of poverty. The never-yielding soul refuted. He renounced his luxuries and off went to Sundarban. Only objective was to serve the people, desperately in need.

A peal of thunder inaugurated a new phase in the Doctor’s life. His absentmindedness had gained another dimension. The patient was gone and he did not even notice. He was relieved. Once again, he drifted away.

Sunderbans was harsh as expected. A span of three months, which rusted his ironical youth. The youth, which could have been utilized in, amassing as much as possible and establishing a happy materialistic family. Yes, it is true. He had a lover. A love-lust amalgamation. The girl too is a doctor. She preferred a branded hospital. Repulsion. The sole complication was one missed period, which was an outcome of an unprepared night. Anyway, He paid for the abortion. Being the only son of a competent stock-broker has its own set of pros(and cons). That was the only sin, he dared to commit. The last time he saw the girl was in the hospital, post-abortion. The mixed stare of disgust, detestation, disgrace and the most effective love. He camouflaged his share of emotions.

A phone ring helped the Doctor regain his senses. He refused to answer. Gulped in some water and started for his car. The swanking second-hand-decade-old Maruti 800.

After serving Sunderbans, he was transferred to Midnapore. A township where people know the market price of an M.D. This helped him earn a lot of respect. He transcended the hospital single-handedly. The amount of funds rose considerably. He refrained from getting addicted to extravagances. Thereby, he used to donate a lump sum portion of his salary and stuck to a bare minimum. It took four years and an ocean of compassion to reach the pedestal of a ‘demigod’.

The Doctor netted the ball. He was detached, in this forsaken land. Faraway from the maddening crowd. The patient rekindled some of his extinguished emotions. Today, he craved for a bit of recklessness. Felt the dash and balm of his lover’s stare. Beyond the veneer of vanity and economy, a girl wailed for him. A desperate crippled lover, whose feeble pleas were specious enough for this humanitarian to ignore. Today, he wanted to relish that love. The nincompoop father failing to recognize his son’s broadmindedness. The demigod’s final ride through the most intimate causeway of his mind manufactured a few tiny droplets, which trickled down his wrinkled cheek. The death of his mother happened when he was eight. He blamed the money-thirsty hounds who are better known as “doctors”. His father pledged to accumulate an immense fortune, which would last three generations. On a contrary, he did just the opposite. That incident shaped up his altruism and a voluntary visage. His stoic cocoon was now shedding. The cancer-inflicted patient has stirred up his forlorn spirit.

Next morn, another rendezvous with the same pessimistic patient. Uneasiness crept in. The ruddy eyes of the patient hinted at his insomnia. Their face-off would have been a bit more drastic if the patient wouldn’t have asked the most foolhardy question, “Just six months! “.

This statement was like a medium to attain a state of incredulous tears. The façade has evaporated. Just then, his father called. The infuriating 10 digits always led to a fit of supreme professionalism. Today, an unconventional zeal manifested the obscured-humanity in the otherwise stoned baritone.

“Hello father, I was about to give you a call….just to say…..I have six more months, not a second less”