As her pain increased, so did the urgency of her request. It came in a form that chilled him to the bone.

‘Throw me down. Just throw me down,’ she whimpered. They lived on the fourteenth floor.

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Mother,’ he said. She continued whimpering, moving her head from side to side on the pillow, flailing her arms about, pushing her feet against the blanket, doing anything at all, with whatever strength that remained in her body, just to distract herself from the pain. But there could be no distraction, for it was that kind of pain that was now beyond the reach of any painkiller.

She thought bitterly: the real painkiller would be the instant death upon contact with the ground. She begged again, ‘Carry me to the balcony. You can do it easily. You’re a strong young man. Nobody will see you in the darkness.’ The bedside clock showed 5.30 a.m. ‘Go on, do this last favour for your mother!’ And he could only say again, ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ which was not even a mild rebuke but a ready-made answer, always uttered gently, always an affirmation of utmost love and devotion, for he would take care of her till the very end. He had already resigned from his job; he didn’t care if the savings would be soon depleted.

He was glad when she fell asleep at last, though it would only be a little while before she woke up and started the agonized moaning again. It gave him time to take a quick drive to the vet’s, to see how Surv was doing. The vet had said it would be a simple operation and the dog should be home in a day or two.

But he was greeted with bad news. The operation was not successful and the dog was in great pain. The vet suggested putting it to sleep. He said fiercely, ‘No,’ feeling the tug of that marvelous fifteen-year bond, from the time he had picked it up, as a mere puppy, from a monsoon drain. It had been near death, but had recovered very quickly, under his care. ‘You are a survivor,’ he said affectionately and named it accordingly.

In the car on the way home, Surv was in a bad state. It was too weak to make any noise. It merely looked at him with large, sad eyes. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘I understand.’ He reversed his car and returned to the vet’s, where he said, ‘You’re sure there will be no pain?’ ‘None at all,’ said the vet. ‘It’s the work of a minute.’ Surv died peacefully in his arms.

‘Where have you been all this while?’ she moaned, as soon as he walked into her room. She dismissed the maid with a feeble hand. He ignored her question, steeling himself for the other one which came soon enough, now as heart-rending accusation: ‘How can you bear to see your mother suffer like this? Have you no heart at all?’ It was anger and self-pity by turns. ‘If only I could get up, walk, do it myself, and not have to depend on anybody!’ Once she had actually tried to get out of bed and been restrained by the maid who shouted for him to come quickly.

Words being useless, he resorted to the tenderest of actions to reassure her of his love, stroking her face, smoothing her hair, rubbing her feet, until she fell asleep again.

In a dream, she too had died peacefully in his arms, the doctor putting away the syringe and saying, ‘I told you it would be the work of a minute.’

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...