by Ranjit Kulkarni

“It’s you, again,” I sensed her and said to myself.

Well, I have to say, whatever I have to say, only to myself. Because no one else can hear me. Except spirits like you, who hover around for no reason and can’t do anything else, anyway.

That’s because I cannot speak. So there’s no question of hearing me. In fact, forget speaking, that’s the last thing I lost. Before that, I lost control over my hands and legs. I can’t move. Not even an inch. Not even my little finger.

Sometimes, I hear people say that they saw my little finger move. Or they saw me open my eyes. But I can’t be sure. Because I know I can’t move anything in my body on my own, even if I try hard. You know, people see what they want to see. I can’t see what they see. That’s because my eyes remain closed all the time. I can’t open my eyes. No movement of anything, hands, legs, even my neck, no eyes, no speech.

You might wonder if I am even alive. Or if I am also not a spirit like you. Not yet. I am still alive. Well, it depends on what is I and what is being alive. The opposite of alive is not dead. That’s what I have learnt. You may think it’s not much of a life. That’s true. But if you ask me, in all honesty, it’s not that bad.

I am all alone within this sick body, with no care in the world. I am not answerable to anyone. I have someone at my body’s service all the time. I don’t remember having so much freedom ever. Even when I had a fully functional body. I am having the time of my life. Within. They call it coma. Or some such state, I heard.

Heard. Yes, I can hear. That’s the only contact with the outside world I have. I can hear sounds in my vicinity. I wish I couldn’t, but unfortunately I can. How much ever I try not to, I have to hear. Sounds, of people, of things, and of people doing things, fall on my ears. And I have no choice but to hear them. Though no one thinks I can hear. Well, I don’t blame them. How will they know? Who will think that a sick body that can’t do anything else has ears that work?

I must tell you a secret. Even when I was not in coma, I used to eavesdrop on people. That is one habit I haven’t lost. But this is so much easier. No one even suspects that I am listening. So they keep talking whatever they want in front of me as if I am not there. And for good or bad, I hear everything.

This girl, sitting here, keeps telling them to talk in a soft voice or, sometimes, to shut up. Because she knows that I can hear. Whenever she cleans me, sponges me and…let me not get into the details. Whenever she does whatever else she still has to do because I have a body that is alive, she gets close to my ears. And she observes my reactions. So she knows that I can hear everything. She is my caregiver. There she is again. Sweet girl.

“What have you got today?” I ask when I hear the clanking of utensils close by. She can’t hear me, but she always replies and tells me.

“It’s carrot soup today for breakfast. And after a few hours, we have lunch. And guess what we will have for lunch? More carrot soup,” she says with a smile.

I smile within. When you are in coma, you run out of food options. There’s no menu card anyone presents to you. There’s soup and more soup. After carrot, it’s tomato. Then it’s corn. Then beetroot. Then something else after that. Not that it matters. Because I can’t taste anything. They put it in some tube they have fitted to my nose and, plunk, down it goes straight into my stomach. Who cares what they put in that tube? There’s no gulping and there’s no tasting.

I must tell you that we attach too much importance to food when we are not in coma. Just because we have a tongue that can taste things. I mean, there’s a whole industry that feeds you tasty stuff that, if you ask me now, your body doesn’t need.

I am telling you from a truly minimalistic food experience. All that your body needs to stay alive is soup. And some water. Six times a day. Every two or three hours. That’s it. I have got used to it by now. I have got rid of one hassle in my life. I don’t have to think about food anymore. Soup works, as long as it gets digested.

Digested. Yes, that’s important. Digestion is not such a trivial matter I must tell you. I took it for granted when I wasn’t in coma. No problem for the last fifty years that I can remember. Fifty years of filling my stomach with junk. I didn’t even know that the digestion was happening on its own. That’s one advantage of a fully functional body. I understood the importance of digestion only when it didn’t happen. It’s like everything else in life. You realise it’s value only when it’s not there. Soups are hassle-free. They are good for digestion. I realised that after I went into coma.

“So soup it is,” I say to myself.

“Yes, it’s soup again,” she says. The caregiver is quite efficient. She feeds me well in good time. And talks to me on and on. Even though she knows I can’t say a thing. Must be tough to have one-sided talks to people like me. I used to be the talkative one when I was not in coma. I told you she is a sweet girl – this caretaker.

All I would do is to ask her to change that goddamn music she plays when she is feeding me. For God’s sake, can you get rid of those devotional songs and put some lively cinema music? Just because I am old and my body is sick, don’t think my ears have suddenly developed a taste for those stupid bhajans!

I am sure it’s my husband who has told her to play them. He has always been the spiritual type. He has been pushing it down my unwilling and uninterested throat throughout my life. I used to tell him to put headphones and listen, rather than forcing the entire world to hear them along with him. But now my husband has a free hand, isn’t it? If he thinks it’s devotional music, devotional music it is. I have to tolerate whatever falls on my ears. And I must tell you that a lot falls on my ears other than the devotional music, which then seems tolerable. Especially the stuff from my big, extended family of relatives.

Poor hubby of mine! He has to keep explaining what happened to me to everyone who calls. I have heard this story of my cancer spreading to the brain. And then leading to stroke, leading to paralysis. And then leading to being bedridden, leading to coma. I must have heard this story with exact timelines, at least a hundred and eight times. Isn’t that the auspicious number?

My husband, the poor old man – God bless his soul – has a hearing problem. So he puts all calls on his cell phone speaker. And the relative yells into it, so that my husband can hear. Speak softly I say, even a woman in coma can hear it, I have, often, felt like telling them.

And then I hear some stupid relative in a desolate voice consoling him as if I am already dead. Well, for the most part that is true. My body is, more or less, done with this trip. But, for God’s sake, I can still hear everything. All those stupid old tales that they narrate to him from twenty or thirty years back. How they remember me when I was twenty! And how I always liked some chocolate hero of my times, and how they miss my talkative chatter.

When I was not in coma, nobody told me all these things. They said I am a useless chatterbox and a stupid fan of films behind my back. I tell you I wasted my life pandering to all these relatives. Let me tell you one thing. If you get to be young again in your next body and get caught up in this web of relatives, take my word. Change course. You don’t want to be in coma at the age of seventy-five listening again to these concocted tales from another set of stupid relatives.

“May God reduce her suffering,” they tell my husband. Well, how do I tell them I am not suffering? I am sleeping all alone, fully taken care of, with no one troubling me, for days on end, for the first time in my life.

“I am so sad that I can’t come and see her,” one long lost sister with one leg in the grave says. Can you please leave us alone? I felt like yelling back at her. Much like you have all these years? No need to take the trouble, I felt like telling her. But they didn’t listen to me when I was not in coma, so listening to me now – it’s out of question. Especially when I can’t say anything.

“What is the use of such a life?” they ask. I am sure my good-hearted husband has to nod his head for no reason. Well, what’s your problem, I would have told them.

By the way, it is not as if I am hanging on to this life in this body out of choice. A few days back, I almost thought this is the end of this coma. I got a call from someone who called himself a representative of God. Before I went into coma, I didn’t know even God had agents. But it looks like He has, I learnt. You learn new things only with experience.

The caller said I was on his list for a pickup in a day or two. He said he is sending a vehicle to pick me up soon. But it seems they had a sudden strike or a lockdown or something out there.

Yeah, that’s what he said. You can’t imagine how shocked I was. I thought such things happen only on earth. But even Heaven (or Hell – I don’t know yet where they are taking me) has such problems. So it turned out that the vehicle couldn’t reach me on time. So they had to turn back and now it’s postponed till things get better. And, so, I am stuck here for a while with this sick body. Let’s see how long it takes. I am hoping things return to normal as soon as possible.

***

“Now what was that?” I ask. I heard some sudden noise. But the caregiver isn’t listening to what I say. Well she can’t, so I don’t blame her. But there seems to be some ruckus here. I heard some noise, so I wonder what’s happening.

It looks like she has stepped out leaving me alone here. I can hear she is saying something to my husband. “Hubby dear, Hello, can someone please tell me what’s going on?” No one seems to be hearing me. How can they, of course? I am speaking to myself anyway. But I can hear he is on the phone.

“She was gasping for breath, though we had oxygen on. Now she has stopped breathing. We can’t get her pulse,” the caregiver told someone on the phone. After that, I couldn’t hear anything.

Well, I will wait to see, err hear, what happens next. As if I have any choice. It’s been silent for a while, by the way. Where is everyone? Looks like they have gone out somewhere.

I heard the doorbell. “Who is that? Can someone open the door please? Hello, it’s my house,” I shriek, but there’s no sound. I can hear some footsteps. They are getting louder. Now it seems someone is here. “Who is this guy? And what is he doing here?”

“Since when did she face breathing problems?” the new footsteps asked. I sense he was that doctor who fixed this tube on my nose and put me on a permanent soup diet. I am going to register his complaint with God, whenever I see Him.

“Since today morning,” I heard my caregiver say.

Then I don’t know what he did. But I heard the footsteps guy again after a few moments. “I am sorry,” he said. And then I heard some wailing sounds again.

I felt like telling my husband that I was still there. Why was he crying? I shouted aloud. But no one heard me. There was a long bout of silence. After a while I heard a few more footsteps.

“Hey! Wait, where are you taking it? Hey Hello, that’s my body. You can’t lift it and take it away. I am still here. Hey hello.. can someone hear me? I am here.. here.. look. up here… Why are you leaving without me?”

That’s when I felt a sharp jerk. Someone pulled me from behind. He was wearing a uniform and held me with a firm grasp. What did he grasp on me that I don’t remember. Because I didn’t have a hand. In fact, I didn’t have a body at all. But it seemed like I was drifting towards that man in a uniform. You must have gone through this before when you lost your body, right? Don’t they tell you who they are before grabbing you?

“This way, Madam,” he said. For the first time in my life, I felt as if I was floating in peace without any burden of that sick body. “They are taking your body away. But you are safe here, Madam. You have an allotted berth in this vehicle,” he said.

Aah, now I get it. My vehicle from God has reached. Looks like they have lifted their lockdown in Heaven. Or Hell. Or wherever. And looks like my coma is over. I am getting out of here. On to my next trip. Listen, I got to run. So long.

About the Author:

Ranjit Kulkarni spent 23 years telling stories in technology and management consulting after IIM Lucknow before writing real stories. His work, which includes stories, articles and novellas so far, have made people smile and think, though his wife and son don’t believe it. He lives in Bangalore India and loves ice-cream and chocolate, as everyone with a sound mind should. More details on him and his work can be accessed at https://www.ranjitkulkarni.com