Identity Crisis.

Identity crisis.

I woke up coughing. That should have been my first warning, because I am blessed with a peculiar immunity to common colds. I coughed up a gigantic clod of phlegm, the kind which Amrit is perpetually spitting into the nearest gutter. Amrit chain smokes. He knows it will kill him some day, perhaps sooner than later. He does not care, or if he does, has never showed a sign. I washed my face and looked into the mirror. The eyes which met mine registered shock. Hello stranger. The man who stared at me from the mirror had deep sunken eyes, a skin stretched almost taut over his forehead and cheeks and a spider web of veins below. This was not me. I was about fifteen years younger. I was plump in the way of overfed adolescent Bengalis, which not even three years of hostel food and ganja could remove.

By the time I had collected my wits, of whatever substituted for them these days, I had also managed to notice that this was not my room, this was not my bed, and that alien face also belonged to an alien body. Introspect. That was the greatest lesson which my father had tried to teach me, one which I only turned to when really stoned. I had just begun tracing out the events of last night when the door creaked open. This was another surprise, at the hostel; the door was usually banged open by my roommate Aniket, a horribly exuberant morning person.

The girl who shuffled in was obviously not Aniket. She carried in a tray of; I assume food gingerly, almost as if treading on eggshells. In a moment of insane abstraction, I noticed that she had the most beautiful, delicately boned hands I had ever seen. Then reality kicked in. That sari! I have only seen the sari worn this way by my grandmother and in period movies. She put the tray down and said, ‘eat something Kakababu, the doctor will arrive in a moment’. More confusion. I was saved from having to make any sort of reply by another coughing fit. This time what I spat into the basin was laced with pink. The girl looked concerned, but not surprised. Why?

I sat back and tried to remember last night. The Part II results had been declared. Far from the first class which everyone at home had expected me to bring home, I had failed. The everyone at home did not include me. I retained enough sense to recognize that I would probably bomb the exams. One usually does not do great on exams with God knows how much ganja inside one’s head. Ankit and Amrit had both scraped though. Aniket had even got a high second class. For a while, they had just stood around not quite knowing what to say. Then I said, ‘fuck it, let’s get stoned’. And we did. Like usual. Like always. In a moment of horrible clarity I saw what lay ahead. My father’s quiet disappointment; he never shouted at me. He would just tell me to try one more time and leave for work with his tiffin in that pathetic imitation leather bag, its strap shiny where it had scraped his shoulder for what, ten years? My mother would cry for a bit, but only late at night when no one could see her. I would spend the next six months running around the University asking for a re-evaluation. Nothing would change. I would then spend another six months applying for the exams as a private candidate. My friends would move on, get jobs, and move out, whatever. Relatives would at first, commiserate, then laugh. That job at the factory, assured to the eldest son of whoever completed thirty years of service would go to someone else, perhaps a fresh graduate. And in that moment of clarity, I did not wish to live this life anymore.

Someone shuffled in. I looked up to see an old man, obviously a doctor. Why obviously? That big rexin case, although, the only place I have ever seen it is in movies. And do doctors make house calls anymore? He took my pulse and measured my temperature. I was ordered to open my mouth and say ‘Aaaaaa’ I did. He pulled out a really antiquated looking stethoscope and listened to my laboured breathing. I was about to ask him where I was when he straightened up and said, ‘Bimal Babu, you have never been one to show fear. Your TB is in its final stage’.