“I am fighting so much all at once, Samar. I have moments in a day when I am crushed thinking about all the what-ifs where you don’t return to me. Please don’t add onto them. For now, please don’t add onto them,” she broke down. “Please,” she sobbed, her tears too flowing down the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t cry, I can’t do anything to stop it…”
“You can,” her voice was breaking between tears. The vibrations of her body were stilling what little life remained in his face.
“Amaal, don’t cry…”
“Don’t push me then, accept me. Please, accept me. Whatever this will become, it will become with us together. Please, accept that,” she pressed her mouth over his, just for a second, and pulled back. Their eyes met. “Please, Samar, I will not ask you for anything else.”
“Not even to stay if I have to go?”
Her face crumpled. More tears made their way down her cheeks. The cheeks he hadn’t held enough. The cheeks he hadn’t kissed enough. The dimple he hadn’t pressed enough. Amaal shivered with a hiccup, but proved what a fighter he had loved when she nodded.
“Kiss me.”
She closed the small space between them and took his mouth into hers.
————————————————————
The moment he had asked Amaal to let him go if the time came, Samar had made up his mind to stay. He would not let a time come when she would have to make this decision again, even though he had prepared her for it.
After that, something shifted inside him.
He did not go into surgeries thinking this might be the last.
He went in planning for what would be the next graft and how long it would take.
That changed how his doctors approached him. From treating him like a fragile patient, they began to engage with him as they were supposed to from the get-go — like a patient who was also a peer. His grafts were discussed in depth with him, his reports were shared with him, he began to see gaps in his own recovery and work towards filling them, actively keeping himself ready and positive, bearing the pain with lowered painkillers on his chart because that would mean faster healing for his kidneys.
He began to move his ankles and wrists on his own, keeping himself on the line of movement as they let him sit up slowly, then sit on the edge of the bed as days passed. Pain was a constant reminder of his mortality, but there was a bigger reminder that sat in front of him thrice a day for three hours every day. The reminder of his immortality. How death could be cheated. How end could be turned into a pause. How something new could be started, despite everything.
Amaal helped him with a sip of water, then held his bandaged arm as he lay down on his back. They had grafted his back first and it had healed enough for him to be able to lie down on it again. Samar hadn’t seen what it looked like, but he felt the reduced sensation, as if numb, even when not on painkillers. They told him that would be a toss up, either numb or a gradual return of 50-70% sensation. He did not linger on it. He wasn’t a man to linger on looks or feel. But he thought about Amaal, and what kind of a man she deserved. A man who looked good, who felt her touch just as deeply.
“Good?” She asked, her hands still clasping his bandaged elbow that he was unable to feel. Samar nodded.
“What’s going on outside today?”
“Summer is in full swing in Srinagar, tourists are creating a happy pandemonium, and Badamwari has opened up for a Summer Fair. My team is in conversation with the Film Institute of Pune to screen the oldest originals of Guru Dutt from their archives on Dal. But there is some ideological friction. They are left-leaning, and looking down upon us, especially after how some of their fraternity members keep criticising you guys for strengthening the Indian army in Kashmir. But I’m going to keep at it. Atharva and I have worked too hard for this to be shelved.” Amaal smiled.
“Aaj ki taza khabar samapt?[136]”
Her mouth dropped open. “You cracked a joke? Are you going to die soon?”
Samar held back the chuckle. It was painful if he let go. She was making it incredibly difficult to hold on.
“And Iram?” He asked.
Her face fell. She shook her head. “Atharva is quietly doing something behind the scenes but nobody knows. He wouldn’t tell me either.”
“To keep plausible deniability intact.”
Her brows drew together.
“Yathaarth?”
Two tender curves touched her eyebrows. “He has been home for two weeks and has already doubled in size. He still looks like an alien though. Begumjaan started calling him Arth and I think it’s very cute. Can you believe Atharva is a Dad? ATHARVA! He has been the party Dad since forever. And now look. He is already getting him started on his old songs. Ada was complaining to me while downloading new old songs on her phone,” Amaal laughed. “He has Atharva’s eyes, all grey. Want to see?”
Amaal tucked her hand inside the pocket of her scrubs and came out with her mobile. “My gallery has never been so full of my own photos. When Iram comes, I will…” she stopped. Her eyebrows wobbled.
