Fucker

“I think you should inform your loved ones. There isn’t much time.”

Loved ones. Of late the anger and disgust rose up in him every time someone used the term. It wasn’t fair. Why should you be expected to love people only because they’re related to you? Especially when there are others far more worthy of that love. Or some semblance of it. Well, not love, maybe concern. Cousins, uncles, aunts, distant relatives, brother’s daughter’s husband’s friend, first cousins twice removed, second cousins thrice removed, slaughtered buffaloes once licked, hungry dogs twice patted, irksome pigeons thrice shot.

“Mr. Menon? Are you listening?”

“Huh? Uh…yes, I’ll inform the loved ones..”

“Are you alright? Why don’t you sit for a while? Have you eaten anything? You look pale. Have you slept? Your eyes are red.”

Fucking doctors. Presumptuous, patronising, over intrusive. All of them. His father had hoped for him to become a doctor. Well he could’ve bet his plaque filled arteries that the son would turn out to be a failure. A failure by his standards, anyway. ‘Siddharth Menon the Artist’ didn’t really give the old man a social hard-on. When his younger brother Tanmay had become a doctor, he’d seen his father walk around with a persistent, inconsequential erection of pride in gatherings. Like he wanted to jizz on people.

“Mr. Menon?”

“Yes, I’ll have a Maharaja Mac. No mayo.”

The doctor, despite of the prevailing melancholy seemed quite quick on the uptake which in this case, unfortunately for him, was non-existent.

“What do they say…err…heh heh..yes…do you want fries with that?”

“Sorry, doctor. I must have drifted off.”

“Oh. I thought you were…heh..never mind. I’d better be on my way then. You take care, Mr. Menon. Of yourself and him.”

“Yes, of course. I will. Thank you so much. Thank you for coming.”

He drove a fucking Volkswagen. Bastard. Which is probably why he charged so much for a house call.

He looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his fist. He hadn’t realised that he had clenched the prescription so tight.

Medicines. Money. He needed more money.

Glancing sideways at his studio, he thought of the unfinished paintings inside and the unending spray of expletives his agent always seemed to have at the ready, whenever he called to check on their progress.

He had to finish those abominations. He had no idea where he was heading with those. What was he thinking? Who would buy those dreadful creations?

“Saab, kapde hain?”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone shopping for clothes. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything other than toy with brushes and colours. Claudia. Maybe she knew. Maybe not. Maybe she didn’t care anymore. Maybe she did. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t care anymore. He couldn’t care about anything anymore.

Not because he was fed up. Mostly because he didn’t know how to. Like he’d forgotten how to. He’d stopped caring about everyone and everything. It was like he found new things to not care about. The list was an all pervasive one. It kept growing every day, feeding on his indifference.

“O saaab, kapde haiiiiin?”

“Haan, pehen to rakhhe hain, dikhta nahi hai kya?”

“He he he…Kya saab savere savere majaak karte ho. Kapde do na.”

“To ab nanga ghumoon main? Huh?”

“Arre saab istri karaane ke liye kapde maang raha hoon…aap bhi…”

“Nahi hain aaj. Kal aana.”

“Achha theek hai…chalta hoon.”

“Chalta to main bhi hoon, yeh dekho.”

Siddharth proceeded to prance around, lifting and planting one leg after the other carefully, as the dhobi walked away, shaking his head, muttering about westernization being the bane of dhobis the world over.

“Oye, badbad mat kar. I can hear you, asshole.”

People (of a certain age, disposition and generation) kept telling him not to wash his dirty linen in public. What else was he to do? He wouldn’t let his dhobi wash them. He couldn’t take care of cotton; linen was quite out of the question. Fucking idioms.

Medicines. Yes. Chemist shop. Time now? 10 am. 24 hour shop not necessary. Money? Necessary. Need to seat ass down in comfy sofa with a deep sigh? Very necessary.

The leather lazy boy was a gift. His gift to himself. His first gift to himself when people had stopped bothering to gift him anything. He let out a sigh. Well, it would have qualified as a sigh if it wasn’t for the phlegmy wheezing that turned his sigh into a morse code of sorts.

No. He won’t. He won’t shoot any irksome pigeons. They’re quite cute in that ‘if you take me by surprise I’ll act like a damsel trying to get away from a moustachioed henchman’ kind of way. Had anyone ever measured their IQs?

Must. Get. Medicines. Dammit.

Pulling himself out of the lazy boy, Siddharth forced himself to remember where the ironed clothes were. The doctor’s visit had drained him. Partly because of what his diagnosis was and partly because he couldn’t be conversational any more. Or social, for that matter. It took a while for the doctor’s words to sink in.

Loved ones…not much time…Fucker was about to die.

“Bhenchod…” he muttered. Head down, eyes closed, he started rubbing his forehead. It was only when the rubbing got too violent that he realised what he had to do. Walking over to the wash basin, he took a long look at the haggard face that stared back at him. His eyes were moist. He splashed water on his face. Lots of it. He kept splashing until guilt gnawed at him.

“Fucker’s gonna die…fuck…fuck…FUCK!! FUCK!!”

He loved Fucker. He loved him to bits. For the last 10 years, he’d been the only companion sharing his life, his space, his moods, his bouts of depression, his nonsensical talks and his love. Walking over to the rug in the living room, he knelt beside Fucker, whose breathing had already become shallow. Or was he imagining it?

Fucker looked up at him and ventured a feeble attempt at wagging his tail. The food in his bowl was untouched. His eyes seemed apologetic; as though he was sorry he couldn’t get up and play. Siddharth’s knees buckled under the overwhelming ache that washed over him. He lay beside Fucker on the rug. Caressing his head, he cried. He cried like he’d never cried in the last ten years.