Short Story :
The curse of salt
- Narendra Kohli
It
began several months ago. It was neither permanent nor continuous. Quite at
random, I felt breathless or had a sensation of my chest splitting apart. It
usually occurred when I quickened my pace. I would then stop dead in my tracks
or cautiously move my feet in measured steps. In a couple of minutes I would be
normal again.
Sometimes
I experienced the pain, even without walking fast. Whenever I had to catch a
bus or a train, I would begin fretting: What if the bus leaves earlier or the
train is over crowded? The tension would somehow filter down from my mind to my
chest. The sensation would be that of pins pricking all over, followed by a
sharp pain and the feeling of my chest bursting apart. I would pant for breath
as though I had just completed a cross country run. There would be trouble in
breathing as though my lungs were devoid of any air and yet were unable to
absorb a fresh intake. It reminded me of an absolutely empty train coming
straight from the yard to the platform. A crowd trying to enter it all at once
and everyone jammed at the door. I felt as though I would faint or collapse but
neither happened.
I
happened to casually mention it to my daughter-in-law one day. My effort was to
underplay it, but she was immediately worried. Nearly the whole day she hung
around the balcony, watching the street below, waiting for my son. All she came
in for was to serve me lunch or to check out that my chest was okay and hadn't
split apart or developed any punctures. The terrifies look in her eyes and the
bunched up end of her sari fisted in her palm made me almost feel as though she
half expected to see my chest torn apart, or holes in it from end to end in
which she would quickly stuff her pallu to clog
them up. Tch tch. Poor thing, she never had
the opportunity to do so.
When
my son returned in the evening, she blabbered
everything out to him on the staircase itself. He first came to my room and worriedly
enquired about my wellbeing. When I described my pain to him he was annoyed
that I hadn't told him earlier. He left to call the doctor.
In
fact, he called not one but many doctors. All of them examined me inside out,
knocked me up, felt me all over and then concluded that I had no ailment. It
was only my age that made me feel the way I did. They explained that advancing
age had a debilitating effect on the nerves of a man and any kind of mental or
physical exhaustion, tension caused these painful bouts. Since there was no
cure for old age, nothing could be done about my malady. Their prescription was
- keep away from brooding tension and physical exhaustion.
I
though about it a lot when I was alone. Do I really think so much? Do I worry,
or tire myself? Raking my brains about it gave me a dull headache. I felt I
never really had an opportunity to deliberately think or worry about something
or systematically tire myself physically. I have been one to always relax in
life. I finally concluded that perhaps one doesn't wish it, but with age these
things come naturally. I too couldn't find a cure for my condition.
That
day I visited the market close to our home. I had run out of cigarettes, so I
simply had to go. I couldn't expect my son or his wife to run this errand. I
climbed down the stairs, looked carefully on either side before crossing the
road to reach the shop. The shopkeeper immediately handed me a carton
containing ten packs of Gold Flake, all neatly packed in a box of
I
made the payment and turned back. All of a sudden I felt the familiar creep
into my chest accompanied by sweat-beads on my forehead and then my whole body
was drenched in perspiration. I thought that the pain would subside in a couple
of minutes, but it only intensified with time, like exhaled smoke from a
cigarette dispersing gradually in the air.
I
leaned on the counter of another shop and finally squat there. The shop owner
recognized me and accompanied with a couple of more of his ilk, dropped me
home.
My
son was away at work and my daughter-in-law who was alone got very flustered.
She made a call to the doctor immediately followed by another to my son's
office. The doctor came within five minutes and my son a close second. He
advised my son to shift me to a good hospital immediately. There was no time to
loose, he felt as I had had a heart attack and could have a failure any moment.
My
chest was ready to burst open and I too was puzzled as the pain had prolonged a
bit too much. But this wasn't the first time. On other occasions, the pain had
lasted for a couple of minutes. No one had diagnosed it as heart trouble then.
They had called it an old age complication. And now.... was it that one malady
went by different names or old age and heart trouble were synonyms for the same
affliction?
The
cab my son had come home in was waiting outside and I was bundled to the
hospital in it.
My
heart was sinking. I felt I was gradually loosing my senses. I was mobbed by a
group of doctors, like an assortment of children gathered to watch a monkey or
bear perform antics. They were examining, touching and prodding me. Several
machines were attached to my legs, arms and chest. And just as I felt my chest
would split open and I would die, they gave me an injection.
In
the night, when it was time for all to sleep, I woke up and saw that the doctor
was on his round. He told me that I was to be completely confined to my bed and
had a special contraption put around it to prevent me from disobeying him. The
pillow was taken away as I was to sleep without one. Sitting on the bed was
absolutely prohibited - the advice was total bed rest. Even the diet prescribed
was milk, that too skimmed . Salt fat and cigarettes
were absolutely no, no.
I
kept gaping at the doctor. I did not have a mirror, but I'm sure my mouth had
fallen open in astonishment. Reading my thoughts, the doctor said in a
consolatory tone, "Thank God, you reached the hospital in nick of time. A
delay of even a couple of minutes could have cost you your life. God save you
from a relapse now."
After
he left, I couldn't sleep a wink. Won't these people allow me to use the
toilet? They want me to lie down all the while and will give me a bed-pan. Ugh!
How filthy can anyone be. These rascals, pretending to
be clean yet cannot differentiate between the toilet and the bed.
After
three days of diet of only milk, I retched. Skimmed milk was served three times
a day. Apples and oranges came from home. I felt that I couldn't bear the sweet
taste of milk. My palate was craving for something salty.
I
felt quite ravenous - so much so that my intestines began rumbling agonizingly.
But the appearance of the nurse with the customary glass of milk,
killed my hunger instantaneously. Milk... more milk... I was nauseated.
It
was only after a month, I was permitted to get down from my bed and use the
toilet. I had never been so thrilled about going to the loo.
This made me hopeful of going home and tasting something salty.
The
moment I stepped on the floor, my feet wobbled dangerously and I sat back. I
scrutinized my body closely. I had grown extremely scrawny to the extent that
my feet could not bear the burden of my thin lean frame.
I
don't know what went on in my mind, but the moment I saw the doctor, I blew a
fuse. I felt like catching him by the scuff and slapping him hard. But my body
did not even budge. I spoke bitterly, “Keeping me on a starvation diet has made
me so weak, that my feet cannot bear the burden of my own body. Do you want to
kill me?"
The
doctor looked at me dispassionately and replied, "You will gradually regain
your strength." After a few days, I was able to take some steps leaning on
my bed for support. I had watched my son first sit then stand shakily when he
was learning to walk. My grandson had learned to walk similarly, only a year
ago. I would let him hold my finger and see him tread unsurely. I had come down
to his level and was learning to walk anew.
That
day they served me rice and curds. My teeth had forgotten chewing. The exercise
of masticating a couple of times made my jaw ache. I disliked the bland taste
of rice and curds and now this confounded jaw ache. I gave up the exercise
after a while and slipping my plate to the side.
The
next day, I was in pain again. My chest was bursting and I was drenched in
perspiration. My heart was sinking and the doctors mobbed me again. I also
spotted my son and daughter-in-law in the crowd. My grandson was there too. The
couple was crying and the child would first look at his mother and then at his
father.
The
doctors opined that there had been some lapse in the abstinence diet and so I
was back in the skimmed milk routine.
I
couldn't sit up. Even the ordeal of getting up to swallow pills made me pant
for breath.
Feigning
a friendly tone, I whispered to the doctor "Doc, why don't you kill me
with some medicine, instead of starving me like this?"
The
doctor burst out laughing. “We are on the right track. We are deliberately
making you weak and melting away your fat." he said.
That
evening when my son came to visit me, I pleaded to him "Take me
home."
"The
doctor does not agree to it," He replied.
"Don't
let him, but you take me along," I reiterated.
"You
are being treated here," he explained.
"These
people are gradually killing me," I whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
"They are melting my fat then they will melt my bones. They will not let
me return home alive. You needn't come here everyday. You can ask them when
you've got to come to collect my body."
He
was in tears. He held my hand in his. "Father please do not think like
this”, he pleaded. ”You will be fine. They are treating you and you've got to
understand. If I take you away against their wishes and you go through a
similar bout again, they are not likely to readmit you. This is the only good
hospital here. Small towns have a dearth of these." He went away.
I
thought about it a lot and concluded that my son was not likely to agree to my
viewpoint. He loved me too much and would like to treasure me as long as he
could. Something I did with my grandfather's watch - carefully put it away in
the closet. It did not work, but it was just lying there.
When
the doctor came in, someone from within me begged, "Doc, give me some
thing to eat."
I
did not recognize this person within me. Very pitiable.
My grandson use to simper in a similar manner whilst asking his mother for a
chocolate. But I was so old.
"What
will you have?" the doctor asked me.
"I'm
tired of drinking milk," I said and after that the stranger within me
continued, "Doctor give me some thing salty. Okay, give me a spoonful of
salt." The stranger's mouth began watering at the mere utterance of the
world salt.
"Salt
is poison for you," he warned, "It cannot be given to you. A slice of
plain bread and salt-less boiled vegetable is all that can be given."
Boiled
papaya and beans - I couldn't palate it even for two days. How on earth can
anyone regard these as decent edible vegetables... that to without a trace of
salt!
When
my son came in the evening, I exploded with anger. "You don't want to take
me home and want me to die here. They starve me. You want me to crave for every
morsel before I die. I will turn into a ghost, a real ghost."
My
son quietly watched me. And when I had cooled down after the monologue, he
began describing his day at the office.
After
he left, I became very restive. I felt as if I part of a rehearsal of a drama,
full of hustle and bustle, where amidst shouting repeated attempts were being
made to enact a perfect role.
On
seeing the doctor the stranger within me was alert again. Folding my palms and
assuming a very polite tone I said, "Doc, please have pity on me."
On
the bend of the road leading to the station, I had often come across an old man
sitting on a dirty cloth-piece. He had a long straggly beard, filthy mucous-eyes
and saliva oozing out from either corners of his mouth. He used to touch his
head in obeisance to the ground while whining," Give me one paisa O' baba."
I
felt as though the old man, dusting the dirt from his old cloth had stood up
and found a place within me. The same old man told the doctor "Don't
starve me to death. Give me something edible. I cannot eat this."
"Will
you have fish?" the doctor enquired.
"Fish." The very
suggestion brought saliva to my mouth! O, yes doctor! Fish."
The
doctor made a note on his pad and left me. I did the best to recall the taste
of fish. It was ages since I had tasted it. I couldn't get the taste back into
my mouth. But I knew it was very delicious.
"What
a hog am I" I tried to push the beggar from within me. If people find out
how much I think about food, what will they think about me... What sort of a father does my son have? I was
not able to sustain this thought for long. The fish had begun swimming in my
mind and that old beggar was once again comfortably seated within me. Sometimes
the fish swam on the surface and sometimes was concealed in the layers below.
Sometimes I could see its entire body and sometimes only the mouth. 'Only if
they could fry some fish pakoras,' I thought
to myself.
When
the nurse wheeled in the food trolley and placed the fish on my plate, I was
stunned. It was white bland, boiled and salt-less - as good as raw.
I
had read about sailors lost at sea compelled to have raw fish when they ran out
of food supplies. But I... I tried to gulp a piece...
then felt like asking the nurse to get me a tub of water; I'll rather make the
fish float in that... I dreamt of a floating fish the whole night.
The
next day there was a new nurse with the food trolley. I began preparing myself.
If she was even slightly skeptical, then the things would be messed up. But why
should she be suspicious? I looked carefully on the either side of my bed. No
one was looking. I took the plate lying near the foot of my bed hopped on to
adjacent bed. The patient from this bed had been discharged only this morning
and that had set me thinking...
The
nurse came near me, dragging the food trolley behind her and served me chapatis, salted boiled and mashed potatoes and
spicy keema. The moment she moved ahead I
slipped back to my bed. I did not touch the chapatis.
I scooped a spoonful of keema into my mouth
which had begun dripping with saliva. It was nearly two months since my tongue
had tasted the salt. And this had much more than that - a generous dash of
spices.
Suddenly
I had a slithering sensation of fear down my spine. If someone was to see the keema and salted potatoes on my plate, it would be
snatched away. I felt as though there was a savage beast within me with sharp
claws and fangs that were ready to tear open anyone. I was ready to kill anyone
who dared snatch my plate.
By
the time the new nurse finished her duty, she realized her mistake and I could
see her fiddling with the papers in her hand. She turned and briskly walked to
my bed and stood near it. The slimy lizard of fear that had been crawling on my
spine froze on my bone. I tightly clinched the plate in both my hands with all
the strength I had in me.
But
the nurse had moved beyond me; she wasn't snatching my plate. She was looking
stunned at the chart behind me which clearly said 'boiled.' My grip on the
plate eased a bit. I forced a smile on my face and whispered, "Sister,
don't be scared, I shan't breath a word to anyone." She came out of her
stupor and reiterated "Please don't tell anyone... please." I nodded
my head in agreement and she left.
Now
I was in no hurry. I looked at my plate. The keema
was over. I was enjoying the salted mashed potatoes. I recalled in my childhood
while having a chocolate, I used to ultimately just keep a bit in my mouth when
I realized that it would be over soon. As the mashed potatoes were on the verge
of getting over, I began to scoop less and less on the spoon and prolonged the
pleasure of eating it.
Today
I had smiled after many days. I felt like laughing aloud, running in the ward
and screaming to the doctors, 'All of you are insane.'
In
the evening the regular nurse was on duty again. She came with the trolley and
dumped boiled beans and several pieces of boiled fish on my plate.
"Sister! Please," I
pleaded. I felt as though the stranger within me had merged with my persona and
the two of us could not be separated.
"Sister
a bit of keema, for the change to my taste
buds."
"Oh
no, not for you," she said pulling the trolley ahead.
Exercising
great restrain, I prevented myself from throwing the plate at her.
I
had two new patients on either side of my bed now. In fact, I had struck a good
acquaintance with one to my right and mind had been working on a plan ever
since.
After
the nurse had left, I exclaimed loudly, 'So many things'. I observed that the
patient on my left heard me and was looking at my plate. "Would you like
to have some fish," I endearingly asked him with the best of my smiles.
Before he could mumble a reply, I got up from my bed and emptied three or four
pieces of fish on his plate
“O,
why did you do this," he said, “what will you have now?"
“I
have enough left here," I said.
He
did not heed and forcibly emptied a lot of cauliflower on to my plate.
The
cauliflower a deep shade of yellow on account of the seasoning with the
turmeric and spices was lying in my plate. I slurped my tongue hungrily and
swallowed all the saliva. I felt like literally falling at the feet of my neighbour and requesting him to give me some of his
vegetable everyday.
That
same evening my son took me home. At home, he told me that the doctors had been
thinking of discharging me for a long time but hadn't told me fearing that I
would pester him to expedite it.
I
was extremely happy to be home. At least I was free of the nagging staff. Even
a slight delay in lying back on the bed after having my medicines would elicit
a sharp order to comply, from the sister-in-charge on the other end.
At
home when I was served bland, boiled and unsalted vegetables for lunch my
temper shot up and I threw the plate. It clanged noisily on the floor before
breaking into pieces, scattering all the vegetables. I saw my daughter-in-law,
pressing a section of her left foot. Probably a piece of china had pierced her.
But I did not relent. I was so angry that had she been someone else, I would
have thrown the pieces of china or any other thing I could get hold of, at her.
"If
you wanted to give me this food why bring me home," I shouted, and lay
down trembling with rage. She did not say a word and called my son instead.
Seeing him I sat up again and he simply stared silently at me. I continued my tirade, "Instead of
leading a life of starvation, it is better to eat drink and die," I said.
"O
father , try and understand our predicament," he
answered with tears in his eyes, "How can we give you poison?"
They
left my room without giving me an opportunity to say anything. I lay down in a
fitful mood.
The
maid cleared the room and my daughter-in-law served me food once again. This
time on a steel plate so that I wouldn't break it.
I
realized that my son and my daughter-in-law were determined not to budge from
their stand. My temper, tantrum and any amount of bullying would not serve any
purpose. 'Friend...,' I said to myself, 'Use your brains...'
The
next day, after my son had left for his work and my daughter-in-law was busy
reading in her room, I called my grandson on the pretext of playing with him.
My grandson had not met me at all during my stay at the hospital. It looked as
though in the tension of my illness, his parents hadn't taken care of him. He
came to me with great longing.
"Who
want's to have a chocolate?” I said taking him in my lap.
“Babloo,"
he replied.
"Then,
dear Babloo, must run to the kitchen and fetch me
some salt." I put him down on the floor.
I
had my doubts how this three-year old could get hold of salt, but there was no
harm in trying. I waited for him to return.
He
came in with a pinch of salt in his tiny palm. With great efforts, I retrieved
it and then licked his palm greedily. I licked almost all the salt he gave me
with my fingers and whatever little was left, I wrapped up in a bit of paper in
hid it under my pillow.
"Babloo, where did you get this salt from," I enquired.
"Meena gave it to me,” he said.
Meena was the maid.
This
wasn't a bad modus operandi, it could work after all. I began thinking - If I
could bribe her with a couple of rupees, she might give me salty food and
cigarettes too - perhaps. Cigarettes....
"Chocolate,"
Babloo reminded me.
"Your
papa will get them from the market in the evening," I said bundling him
out of my room.
My
mind was preoccupied with a longing for cigarettes.
Babloo left the room in a sulk. He never
expected me to cheat him.
'Cigarettes'
- I thought. 'The day they took me to the hospital, I had bought a carton of
Gold Flake packets. They should be in my closet.'
I
locked my room and opened the closet. All the ten packs were lying right in
front. Matchsticks too. I took a pack out and my
cupboard which was forever open was locked up and the keys safely put away in
my pocket. My son couldn't snatch my cigarettes....
In
the evening I was smoking one when I heard my son come up to my room. I
immediately snuffed it out... Suddenly a bulb flashed in my mind... I relit the
cigarette and relaxing against the wall began puffing at it. He came to the
door, drew the curtain aside. How are you Fath...?
He
saw the cigarette, crossed in a trice, snatched it and put it out.
“Where
did you get this from," he indignantly asked.
It
did not take much effort. I comfortably said, “Your wife brought them for
me."
It
wasn't difficult to lie anymore. I had practiced it for long.
My
son left immediately. I sat in my room listening to quarrelling voices of the
couple. He was hollering and she was soft at first and gradually she got louder
and more strident. She was denying something repeatedly. And then I heard him
slap her. Everything was still after that.
Lying
on my cot, I smiled to myself. I knew my daughter-in-law too well. From
tomorrow I could expect salt n' spice vegetables and cigarettes too.
'My
son is a first class fool.' I thought to myself.
(Translated from
Hindi by SUCHITRA CHAUDHARY)
8