Insulin shot: a short story

Ma calls out for dinner.

That’s my cue. I open the refrigerator and reach for the tiny insulin glass bottle on the door panel. I grope through baba’s medicine box for a fresh syringe. It’s such a habit that I can literally do it without taking my eyes off the mobile screen.

I load the syringe with the exact quantity of the transparent medicine, with some help of the markings. Carefully, so as not to form bubbles. I give the needle a shake to let the extra drops fall. This I can’t do without looking for sure, so I restrain myself from checking the Instagram feed.

I walk to where baba is sitting, like every day, on his special reclining chair, enjoying the angry debate on TV…

But something’s wrong today. The TV is silent; the suited news anchor is speaking over everyone and the supers are spitting fire, but it’s all on mute. The look on my grandfather’s face is one of abject loss. His eyes are looking away, as if following some wayward thought. The TV seems on only on account of a habit half observed.

There are about ten of us in the same house but no one notices him because, well, old people.

“What’s up, baba?”

He looks up at me but it’s not like when someone is jolted from their thoughts and brought back to reality. He turns to look at me very gradually, and I see something frightening in his eyes. It’s hard to put down in words but the fuzzy warmth about him is gone. His eyes are vacant, drained and tired. I haven’t seen him in this shape in the seven years of our insulin-shot ritual.

*

My grandfather has been diabetic for more than 35 years now: a little more than twice my time in the world. As a kid I would watch mortified as he would fearlessly apply the injection on his bare stomach, ten minutes before the day’s last meal. I would run and hide in my room every time dinner was announced.

As I grew older, my fear turned to fascination. When I was about 10, I remember him calling out to me as he was about to take the shot. Nervously, I walked up to him and sat on his lap.

“Do you want to puncture my tummy today?” he asked me in his genial dada ji voice.

I whimpered at the idea but quickly recovered. Curiosity dictated that I nod. He handed me the syringe, showing me how to correctly hold it. He bared his fat belly and wiped the spot of the injection with a piece of cotton. Then he signaled me to go ahead.

I nervously brought the syringe closer to his belly; I think my hands trembled. He held my arm and guided it towards him. Slowly, the needle pierced his skin and I discharged the insulin. I looked up at him to gauge his pain but his beaming smile did not wane even a bit. I was awed.

This became a part of our routine. No sooner would ma, chachi or dadima call for dinner than I’d run to baba to ‘puncture his tummy’. It became our bonding session: those ten or so minutes between the injection and the dinner being served.

Baba generally had been a very self-motivated individual. He’d retired as a star journalist when no one else in the family saw any merit in the jhola-chhaap profession. All my uncles and aunts and distant cousins had gotten themselves involved in our family business, which functioned more like a clan now.

“Truth be told,” baba said during one of our insulin moments, “I’m sure they all hate my guts.” He looked over to where my dad and younger brother were, enjoying a cricket game on TV. “Can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual!”

We had a laugh about things that would have seemed so revolting outside of context. And I won’t say we always talked progressive and intellectual all the time; oh, we trash-talked a lot. Sometimes he would comment on the shortness of bua’s pants or ma’s closeness to chacha, which created doubts in his mind regarding her fidelity. “But that’s none of your business, and I am sure you are seeing things.”

“They called me the sharpest eye in the newsroom…”

He would often hold on rigidly to his opinions, like when we passionately debated on the subject of the existence of god. I’m a militant atheist and he considers himself a high-caste Brahmin, so a clash was imminent. We continued to debate all through dinner and up till bedtime, but he did not budge an inch from his standpoint.

But at the end of the day, we agreed that we had had a damn good argument. No one else would give us much notice. Only occasionally would someone look up from their TV screens or food plates and give an impervious glance. Nobody got us. And it’s been like this till date.

*

“Tell me?” I crouch down and pull up his shirt. He wipes his face with the back of his palms and looks at me, now with a restive manner. He appears like a man who has just about made a momentous decision.

“I want to tell you something really important.”

I let go of his shirt and let it fall. His voice is clear, stern and very serious; the kind that demands immediate and absolute attention.

“I am only telling you this because,” he pauses as he glances to the sides, then continues, “you’re the only one who will understand me and not freak out.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“As you know, I was in and out of hospital all of last week due to my breathing problems…”

He had been briefly hospitalized after a nasty asthma attack triggered by dust and pollution. For about 5 days, he had been under observation and I could not meet him for that duration. I had been busy with work and had not thought much about it. It had not been a particularly serious illness, so it was not a cause of any considerable distress.

“In those few days lying on my bed, with an oxygen mask plastered to my face and intravenous drips pierced under my skin, I had a spiritual revelation. I realized the frailty of my body. I haven’t felt any weaker and helpless before. For the first time in my life, I could feel myself getting older and sicker. I think a big part of my spirit died on the hospital bed when I was finally discharged.”

Another call for dinner from the kitchen interrupts him. My younger brother is engrossed in his mobile phone. Papa is nowhere to be seen, probably confabulating with a business buddy in a room inside. There is commotion and activity all around, but we are alone.

“You don’t need to feel so down, baba,” I console. “All these things come with age.”

“That’s what I am afraid of. I am afraid of turning into this incapacitated vegetable that will be as good as dead. I do not want to die slowly and painfully in some hospital room away from family, away from friends…away from you. Everything I’ve done in life has been on my own terms. I was once a young hopeful man like you, ready to make a dent on the world. And over the years, I have made quite a dent by doing what I always wanted. I have bravely faced thugs and exposed the wrongdoings of the rich and influential. I’ve fought fights with gusto and stood up for what I know to be right and fair. I have loved, I have failed and I have succeeded. I have lived all facets of my life and I have played all my roles as a man of God. My life’s targets have been achieved and I can now die with no regrets.”

I cannot bear to look at him anymore. He is no longer the listless wreck he was just moments ago. In the course of his speaking, his demeanor has changed and his face has gained color. His speech is clear, articulate and impassioned. He speaks like a man possessed, a hawkish debater who has found the flaw in the opposing argument. He is speaking with an intent that is scary for me as his granddaughter, which makes me look away and contemplate.

The news anchor barks soundlessly on primetime. My brother aggressively pokes the touchscreen of his smartphone, perhaps caught in a tense moment in a video game. The plates are being laid out on the dining table.

Baba holds me gently by the chin and lifts my head towards him. His face is serene and his eyes sparkle with a youthful charm; he’s made up his mind.

“I have lived every moment of my life on my term. I want to end it on my terms too. And I want your help with it.” He smiles enigmatically. Then he looks at the syringe in my hand, filled with the right dosage of insulin.

“I’ve already taken two extra doses of insulin before this, but only a third can make it potentially lethal. I want you to go ahead and give me what I want.”

The syringe drops from my hand and falls on the ground. I cannot believe this is happening. I pick it up; luckily, the needle is still intact and the liquid has not dripped.

“You are an intelligent young girl, uncorrupted by the cynicism and reasonability of adulthood. I know I can trust you to make the right choice. In case I die, I already have a suicide note saved and ready in the drafts folder of my email ID.”

I know the ID and password of his email account because I am the one who set it up for him.

“I leave the rest to you. If you’re logically convinced by my argument, you should go ahead and puncture your baba's belly, one last time.”

His argument is airtight, and I know the stubborn old man cannot be talked out of it. The weight of the decision trembles me. Dinner is served. Papa appears from an inside room, still on the phone. Chacha and chachi take their places at the dining table, oblivious of me and baba. The news anchor is out of breath.

The syringe with the lethal dose beckons me.

THE END