Decay

 Having lived an austere life, Ambika Prasad had decided against a grand, expensive death. An image formed in his mind, of Dr Udayan Sikdar's specialists crowded around a bar, waiting for his hard-earned money to make its way into their fat pockets. He breathed in a lungful of the vigorous morning air. The sweet shops of the neighbourhood were opening as he walked past them, the wafting aroma of the cardamom-laden milky tea gently brewing in vats. He crossed the road in front of Kuheli, that pink expressionless concrete giant of a movie hall. He started walking across the field towards the rental buildings, where he stayed at a one-room flat on the ground floor.

Ambika Prasad returned a man free of all doubt. He had lived alone all his working life. Now that he was old enough to die, he would do so without a fuss. He was not going to deprive his flesh and blood so that fat doctors could get fatter. He looked around his flat, a spartan room with a toilet adjoined. He slept without a mattress, on a narrow wooden cot at the corner. His other worldly possession, a portable black-and-white television, stood on a wooden stool facing the bed, pressed against the opposite wall. 

Ambika Prasad had one child from his marriage. Like a swift but short-flowing river, his wife had delivered their son on the tenth month of their marriage and dried up. Shivnath was a village schoolteacher, with his own family, he had always lived with his mother. 

He considered telling his wife and son about the diagnosis. They would turn up within the next few days, but so would half the village, trailing behind them. Relatives he barely remembered would crowd all around, wailing at regular intervals about his imminent demise. At other times, they'd inquire about the local movie shows as he rushed about arranging for their food and rest. 

Pulling out the kerosene stove from under the cot, Ambika Prasad started kneading the dough to make chapatis for his lunch. It was best to die alone, he thought to himself. 

Later, as he was halfway through his meal, a knock sounded on the door. Soumen, from the same floor, was waiting outside. He came in without being asked and perched himself on the cot. Ambika Prasad sat down on the handspun rug on the floor and continued with his meal. 

"So, my missus sent me to ask after you, Ambika-ji," Soumen said, dragging out the last word. He was leaning forward, his hands clasping each other, elbows resting on his thighs. "You know, with all the groaning and coughing of late, every night."

"I'm fine. Went to the doctor this morning," Ambika Prasad replied.

"Oh! So what is it? The chest?"

"No, the stomach."

Soumen started laughing. He was tall and swarthy, always wore his shirts with a few buttons open. Not good with money, he drove a jeep, repairing roads. A larger presence than life had made plans for. Ambika Prasad waited for the generous boom of his voice to subside.

"Your stomach you say," Soumen said, wiping the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. "Look what you're eating."

A neat stack of round chapatis sat on the stainless steel plate, flanked by a mound of crisp fried potatoes, onions and green chillies. A long, fat red chilli, its insides pickled with a glut of spices, curved like a lazy serpent at the side. It trailed a rill of mustard oil, adding to the pungency hovering in the room.