The White Napkin

It was the first thought that struck her as she woke up.

He was gone. And soon, this house with all its memories would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever.

She glanced at the empty wheel chair.

                                                                             

His half paralyzed body, sunken eyes, dark lips and an expression that remained suspended between despair and false hope– everything came alive for a moment.

She went outside in the garden. The red old hibiscus smiled back at her. The still delicate mango tree swayed gracefully, its soft green leaves rattled by a mild wind. She remembered how she had once planted the young sapling in the brown earth while he managed the watering can.

She stared at her house for a long time – a solo, white and blue, hut shaped bungalow in South Goa against the backdrop of Sahyadri Mountains. River Sal flowed at a walkable distance. The next house was around five hundred yards away. In this faraway world, one could exist as if he did not.

All this was set to fade away as she had already sold the place to a Gujrati businessman. Once he was gone, she did not have the heart to live there alone.

As she strolled up to the mango tree and ran her hands nostalgically over its stem, the events of last three months began to unfold in her mind like a fast paced movie.

The first time he had mentioned a combination of barbiturates and muscle relaxant to her, she could not understand. After all, she was not a doctor, he was.

A renowned orthopedist at Mumbai, he had met with a terrible car accident one dark night while returning from a social get-together. His wife died on the spot from a severe head injury. Both his legs were paralyzed and his right arm got badly mauled.

From thereon, he vegetated.

It was a fall from grace for a medical practioner of his stature. As someone who had spent all his life mending broken limbs, he had most of his own body shattered and rendered immobile.

Perched permanently on top of a wheel chair, he was always dependent on somebody or the other for his daily chores be it using the toilet, washing himself, eating or even going to bed.

Gradually, he became quite restless and irritable. He shouted and found faults with everyone around him.

‘Don’t think I am an idiot! I can do it better than you.’

Soon, they all got fed up and left.

That was the time his daughter decided to leave her studies and take care of him. She was merely sixteen at that time but her presence reassured him. He did not feel belittled by her efforts.

Quite mature for her years, it was her decision to move to Goa where she could keep her father away from the judging eyes of people.

The seclusion and the deep sea calmed him down. The ever present frown on his forehead slowly melted away and was replaced by a faint smile. But at the same time, an abysmal feeling of guilt secretly started eating into his guts.

As the young girl would push his wheel chair laboriously in the evenings along the blue waters of Cavelossim beach, he would stare at the distant horizon and remark, ‘My own life has no meaning but I have spoilt yours as well.’

On all such occasions, she would bend down and kiss him tenderly.

‘I love you papa.’

But his heart would ache every time he saw a girl her age walking with her boyfriend, hand in hand, laughing and kicking at the sea waves.

‘Oh God! Is she meant to slog at this damn wheelchair all her life?’

The torturous possibility would flash across his mind a thousand times.

Even though he rarely shared his innermost concerns with her, she knew what was troubling him. But she had learnt to live her life one day at a time – the future her father was worried about simply did not exist for her. However, she had started noticing a sudden tightening of muscles around his eyes which for some reasons frightened her.

She particularly remembered the day he had announced unceremoniously, ‘We have a guest tonight.’

‘Guest?’

‘Yes, an old friend. She is just curious to find out whether I am dead or alive.’

The friend in question was a graceful surgeon in her early fifties. They had studied medicine from the same institute. Melinda was a widow and settled at Mumbai. She had some property at Goa which she visited every now and then.

She arrived in time and shook his left hand warmly. She had a sour and sweet voice and spoke like a school principal.

‘So how are you tiger?’

‘Tiger?’ he laughed, may be, after a century. ‘I am no tiger now, just a poor lamb.’

‘And how are you, my pretty woman?’

‘I am fine aunty.’

‘Your father tells me that you are the most devoted daughter in the world.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I am. You can ask him if you like.’

They both turned towards the wheelchair.

‘Golden words are never repeated,’ he chuckled merrily.

‘Come on,’ Melinda threw up her hands in the air, ‘don’t be a snob.’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Aunty, tell me, what would you like to have?’

‘Wine,’ he butted in on her behalf, ‘red wine. Am I right madam?’

‘Yes sir.’

As she sipped her wine, she explained that she was there to attend a conference on Euthanasia.

‘Really?’ the pretty woman exclaimed, ‘I have heard about it before.’

‘Sure you have. It’s something that concerns each one of us.’

‘But it’s still illegal in India, isn’t it?’ he asked curiously.

She relaxed back in her chair. ‘That’s correct but the ethical dimension of the question is quite important. As per the dictionary definition, it is the practice of intentionally ending a life in order to relieve pain and suffering. The choice is generally exercised by the patients who are terminally ill.’

‘But aunty, who are we to decide whether a person should live or not? This life is nature’s gift to us, the way we have no control over the act of our birth, the act of dying is equally inevitable.’

The old woman appreciated the force of her argument with a nod. ‘But how justified we are in prolonging a man’s agony, knowing fully well that he may never recover?’

‘It’s very easy to say all this. But when that someone is your mother or father or a friend, you would keep your hopes alive till the very end. Won’t you?’

Her father interjected. ‘Ladies, that’s the right or wrong of it. But Melinda, I want to know how it is actually performed.’

‘Methods differ but the one I know about is where first an injection is given to render the patient comatose, followed by a second injection to stop the heart.’ 

‘And how does it actually work?’

Anybody could see that it was too basic a discussion between two experienced doctors.

‘The patient usually dies as a result of anoxemia caused by the muscle relaxant.’ 

The youngest participant in the discussion had by now realized that the discussion was being held solely for her benefit.

‘Would you have some more wine?’ her father asked Melinda warmly.

‘Sure.’

The conversation then drifted towards one Mrs. Molly Fernandez who had bought a cashew field nearby.

From that point onwards, whenever he glanced at her, his eyes had only one appeal.

She would immediately shift her gaze every time it happened.

She knew that she could not help him in this mission.

More than twelve years had passed since she had moved to Goa.

Every day she got up, she had only one goal – to keep him going.

She knew he was failing.

She also knew that she won’t be able to evade his plea for long.

It happened that evening.

She was pushing the wheelchair along the beach when a young boy waved at her. She went up to him and touched his red, chubby cheeks tenderly. The toddler beamed back at her, his hazel brown eyes full of wonder.

From that distance, she saw her father trying to pick up a white napkin that had slipped out of his hands. He could not. As he lugged at it again, the wheelchair toppled and he crashed into the silvery sand.

Horrified, she sprinted up to him and helped him back into the wheelchair.

He was breathless. His wrist had got scratched and a string of bright red droplets glistened on the top. A thin layer of tears marked his eyes.

That day, his sheer helplessness struck her quite bluntly.

That day, she could not evade his eyes.

She knew he won’t be able to pick up that napkin even if he carried on for another twenty years.

He sat there staring into the deep blue sea that seemed to stretch up to infinity.

Then, without turning, he caught hold of her hand and pressed it against his lips.

‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘Melinda would help you.’

What she received from her a week later were two small bottles and a syringe neatly packed inside a grey tin box.

If she gave this box to him, she would be assisting him.

She would help him end his suffering forever.

‘Are you being selfish?’ a part of her demanded.

After all, it was going to end her suffering also.

But all she could conclude was that her father was as dead that day as he would be a couple of years later and the white napkin that had slipped out of his hands at the beach, would always remain beyond his reach.

However, she lacked the courage.

As time passed, she willed herself into thinking that she had never received any such parcel. But one evening, as they were leaving for their customary walk, he reminded her.

‘Which box?’ she pretended, her voice cracking.

He just looked at her, an ocean of love brimming in his eyes.

As she pushed the wheelchair along the beach, golden sunlight from a setting sun surrounded them from all sides. The child with chubby cheeks was there again and waved at them energetically.

Soon, it turned dark.

It was a moonlit night. They were near a shack where a row of plastic tables had been arranged along the sea shore, each table showcasing a burning candle at the top protected by a glass cover. A soft romantic number played in the background. A small group of revelers danced around a bright bonfire some distance away, others sat on the tables.   

They moved beyond the shack and stopped.

The flickering candle lights were still visible, the music faintly audible.

She hugged him tightly and started crying like a small baby.

‘You can’t go like this,’ she sobbed, ‘I would be left all alone.’

He patted her back fondly. ‘I would always be with you my child, always.’

He wiped off her tears with his fingers and held her face between his hands.

‘Won’t you say good bye to your papa?’

She managed to smile through her tears.

‘Good bye papa. I’ll miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’

With hands trembling, he opened the grey tin box and took the first shot in his right arm.

The sea waves roared as if angry with the world at large.

As his eyes began to close, he took the second shot. Slowly, his head tilted to one side and he drifted into a deep sleep.

She turned the wheelchair and pushed it forward.

As they passed by the shack, a gallery of fireworks began to explode overhead. A large array of skyrockets rushed up and busted into multi colored flames, cracking loudly. The crowd clapped and hooted merrily, someone whistled.

It was celebration time.

Three months later, as she handed the keys of her bungalow to a fat Gujrati businessman and moved out, she saw Melinda approaching her from a distance.

‘You are a very courageous girl,’ she said, holding her hands.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and compassionate too.’

A hired van was parked at the gate.

The driver was busy loading her luggage into the boot.

As he lifted the folded wheelchair, he examined it with suspicion and scratched his face. ‘Do you really need it madam?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

As she slipped into the back seat, she glanced at her home one last time.

There, she saw her father, dressed in a white, luminous garment, standing near the mango tree, smiling and waving at her affectionately.

A solitary drop of tears ran down her cheeks.

She waved back at him and smiled.                    

He playfully flashed a white napkin at her which he had finally managed to pick up from the beach.