“Number 33 negative!”
The woman declared and slipped a piece of paper through the narrow slit on the polythene sheet that separated the two makeshift cabins. The sheet must have been a clear, transparent sheet at one point. Now it’s murky. It is now a canvas painted with disinfectant sprays and dust. A few tears, a few ink spots. The sheet has clearly withered a lot. Yet it is there, standing tall, with a promise to protect the ones around it. Although the promise is kind of vague, the sheet is giving its best.
“Number 33. Manash Baruah!” the man yelled from the cabin.
“Hi, yes. Sorry.”
The man passed him the slip and signaled that he can leave. Antigen negative.
The taxi was waiting at the exit of the airport. He pulled his bags till the taxi and apologized profusely for the flight delay.
Finally he is at Jorhat. It’s time to execute the plan he has been hatching. Time is the essence. He must not fret. The only constraint now is the round-the-clock curfew. Still the medical shops are open. A ray of hope.
He particularly found it difficult to execute the plan in Pune. A father’s love for his daughter sometimes comes as a barrier. He also has a few friends here who have medical shops. He reiterated the plan within his mind. He made a mental note of the challenges: unavailability of alcohol, restricted people movement, and very few shops are open.
Something must be worked out.
His mother’s first death anniversary is still a week away. He needs to first fix the medicines for his father. The father has not been taking his medications regularly. He pulled down a translucent plastic bag from the top of his father’s wardrobe. As he opened that Pandora’s box, he saw at least a dozen strips of antidepressants. His eyes lit up. Will these do, or will Xanax + Nitrosun + alcohol a better bet? He considered briefly.
He has already done his homework. Taking about 100 mg of Nitrazepam would give him a fair amount of boost. As he continue and the concentration grows in his blood, he would feel the high, and enough madness to punch anyone on the face, until they die. As the ‘nitro’ works its magic, he’ll unleash the lethal combination of alcohol and Alprazolam in his blood. He still needs to work out the exact minimum quantities. He will then bump up those numbers just to be sure. He doesn’t want to end up in a limbo.
He searched the old table drawers for his father’s prescription writing pads. He used to scribble prescriptions on these pads in his childhood. He found one pad.
Dr. Sukanta Baruah. MBBS. Assam Medical College. Regn no…
Sadly, the pages look too old to write any prescription on it.
Time to act. He called his sister.
“Dad must have thrown the medicines you had given. Do one thing, get a few signed blank prescriptions when you come. I’ll ask Bubu to fill these when needed and get Dad’s medicines. It’s very difficult to get otherwise.”
“But why blank, I can write the prescription without a date.”
“OK fine. Then get your prescription pad and the stamp. Maybe you can write a tablet for me too. I’m not sleeping well of late and this backache is killing me.”
The next day she arrived. He eyed her bag.
After a round of tea and laughter, she excused herself to freshen up and rest. He stealthily opened her bag. His legs shook as he tore a few blank pages off her pad and stamped them.
Dr. Sumon Baruah. MBBS, MD, DM. Assistant professor, Assam Medical College. Regn no….
He folded the pages and kept them in his bag. Operation mukti commences.
This post does not promote self harm in any manner. If you are suffering, you are not alone. Reach out and seek help!