I first met him when he was admitted in the little hospital room buried deep in the corner of the long corridors of Baby Memorial Hospital. I stared at the 50 year old man curled up in fetus position, his bulging eyes stared back at me from the two dark hollows that spread underneath them.
He was terribly upset, and as soon as the caretaker left the room, his about to explode stomach and the brownish maroon hernia that had usurped his belly button, rose from the bed and slothed till the table.
“They don’t want to make it nicely for me, all kanjoos. Whose money it is? Mine only no?” He asked as he poured some milk from the thermos into the little white cup he had received as a complimentary gift from a Mc Donalds in Dubai, back when he didn’t have to visit the hospital almost every 2 weeks. The shaky spoon scooped up a large heap of Horlicks and drowned itself into the milk.
He slowly released the pink rubber band settled around the Marie biscuit, “You want one?”
“No, I ate big breakfast.”
He took one biscuit and handed me the packet, I tied it back as he inched towards his bed again, one swollen foot at a time.
“Wash that cup and keep, and you see that white bottle? bring that and come here.”
After a cup dripping with water was placed back on the table, I took the tiny bottle with the shiny transparent liquid.
“Massage my legs strongly, skin is itching because it is dry” he said as his fingers danced above his thigh, imitating a scratch. The tube that pierced the top of his hand danced along, and I felt my hand tighten into a fist at the sight.
As my palms skid across his legs drenched in coconut oil, I stared at his closing eyelids, he seemed awfully at peace for a man with a nagging wife and crumbling debts.