Fiction
Sangeeta is selling the last bit of her gold – a couple
of bangles, a small necklace and our wedding ring – for the money to pay my
hospital bill. One microbial virus has eaten up all that we saved so far. The hospital
gave us more bills than medicines. “There’s no medicine,” the nurse said
sullenly when I dared to give voice to my apprehensions. “You need oxygen,” she
added mercifully.
And the oxygen cost us all our savings.
A few kilometres away from where I’m lying on a hospital
bed waiting for Sangeeta to come with the money for my oxygen stands the
tallest statue in the world, the Statue of Unity. There are no hospitals
anywhere near that statue. My home lay there in Kevadia before the statue came
like a monster swallowing our homes. Crunch, crunch, crunch! The statue ate up
our homes. Where our village stood, today stands Sardar Patel’s foot. In fact,
our village stood just where one of his big toes stands.
We are proud of course. Proud of that toe for which we
sacrificed our village. Proud of an ancient civilisation for which our Prime
Minister is sacrificing himself.
“It was predicted that India would be the most
affected country from corona all over the world,” Prime Minister told us
sometime back. “But we are exporting vaccines to developed countries.” Patriotism
surged in my veins like a furious drug. I raised my fist in the air with a
violent energy and hailed my country’s greatness which was upheld by my Prime
Minister.
Oxygen is killing us. One lakh rupees for breath is
beyond us even if Sangeeta manages to sell even our hut.
Am I worth it?
When was it that I shouted for Shamshan? “If a
kabristan is built in a village, a shamshan should also be constructed there,”
Prime Minister said and we all shouted like mad furies, “Shamshan! Shamshan!”
There is shamshan all over the country today. Prime
Minister’s dream is fulfilled. Parking lots and gardens have become shamshans. We
are a nation of shamshans.
Don’t sell yourself, Sangeeta. I’m liberating you from
me. I’m disconnecting my oxygen.
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