A Cigarette After Ages

He was a man who sang tunes rather than symphonies. His idea of life was governed by his childhood, which was spent in humble settings with minimal resources. His mother made a point to teach him the important things of life - he knew how to spend money, but he also knew he should not spend money without good reason; he knew how to be happy, but he also knew a poker face would take him more places than evident pleasure ever would; he knew how to live, but he also knew it was more of a priority to stay alive. 

He was the first person in the family to go to college. His success in life allowed him to wear a decent coat on his way to the hospital. It was brown and worn by use, yet it retained a dull elegance which complemented his demeanour. The pain in his chest had persisted over the weekend, even after the doctor prescribed him some medicines. With reluctance, both parties came to the conclusion he needed to undergo an x-ray of his lungs along with other tests. He was on his way to retrieve the reports. The doctor would already have them on his desk, and could be found collecting his thoughts on how to break the news to him when he arrived at his chamber. 

He waited for his turn for five minutes. There were other people seated in the waiting area, but his name was put down for an appointment at six in the evening the previous week after undergoing tests in the same hospital. He whistled a tune to himself as he sat there. It was a pleasant melody which took his mind off the uneasiness. He hoped repeating the tune would make him remember which artist had sung it. And doing so seemed to please a kid in his mother’s arms, who had been crying for as long as the man had sat there in silence. 

The receptionist waved to the man when the incumbent patient took her leave. He got up and made his way through the door. 

“Good evening, doctor,” the man said, with a smile on his face. It did not possess the usual sense of humour which lurked beneath his mannerisms. 

“Good evening.” The doctor gestured towards the empty chair which the previous patient had not deemed to be replaced in its proper position. The man sat down on it, and pulled it forward to where it should be. 

“What do my results say?” 

The doctor looked at the report kept on top of the pile to his right. He picked it up, slid his reading glasses down to the tip of his nose, and read it once again to verify what he was about to say. 

Once he did, there was silence for a while. After a few more exchanges, the doctor explained what would happen once he walked out of the clinic. He suggested the possible ways of dealing with it, but left the final choice up to him. A new prescription was written down for the man in the same illegible handwriting. Once all was said and done, he got up and bid the doctor goodbye for a few days over which he would think about the matter. 

He was almost out of the room when he turned back and walked to where he was sitting. He put the chair back in its proper place. Then, he turned around once more and left. 

The child who sat outside with his mother had started to cry again. He fell silent when the man walked out, and looked at him with an optimism in his eyes. He had taken a liking to the unfamiliar tune. Yet, the man neither looked at him nor cared to whistle the tune - it would be the farthest thing away from his mind at the moment. Once he left without ceremony, the child started crying again. 

As the man walked down the corridor of the hospital and then down the stairs, it came to him as a distant noise which he could not place. He descended down the stairs and exited through the only entrance available to the public. 

It was a Saturday afternoon. The wards of the hospital were occupied as always, but once he saw the streets again, the presence of people had subsided. He stood next to the wall of the hospital for a while, looking at whatever was left of the sky amidst the buildings and skyscrapers of the city. 

“Good evening sir,” someone said. The man looked to his right. The security guard in charge of the entry was the one who had spoken. He held a cigarette in his hand as he said the words. When the man turned towards him, he nodded. And smoked. 

“Those aren’t good for you,” the diagnosed man said. 

“The packaging makes that clear enough, I guess,” the guard said. “But a bloke can’t help his habits.” 

The man nodded at both the man’s words, as well as the few stars visible in a sky which was losing its dusk. 

“A relative in there?” the guard asked after releasing another puff of smoke. 

“No, it’s me.” 

“You’re on both feet, so I guess things have worked out well?” 

“I’ve got inoperable lung cancer.” 

The guard fell silent. He tried to put out the cigarette, despite most of it remaining. He failed to do so. He resorted to throwing it on the ground and putting it out with his right foot. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Me too.” 

Silence fell over the two of them. The man did not think of words to speak, for the night seemed to be beautiful. The guard could not think of words to speak, which made him keep quiet too. 

After a while, the man spoke again - “My father is the most prolific smoker you would ever encounter. I’m the only sibling in the family who does not smoke. Whenever my family meets for dinner, we have more smoke than oxygen in the room. Three of my brothers and two of my sisters. I suppose my lungs have done heavy lifting over the years even as a passive smoker.” 

“You’ve never smoked yourself?” 

“I’ve smoked just enough to know how to do so, but I haven’t touched a cigarette for the longest time. Probably haven’t had as many in my life as there are left in the box of your pocket.” 

The guard looked down at his pants. A half-open box of cigarettes did indeed peek out of his pocket. He felt guilty, and pushed it back inside. 

“My father is in his eighties and as healthy as ever. He’ll probably die because of a heated brawl at a bar rather than cancer. On the other hand, my lungs have given up on me. If that isn’t ironic…” 

The guard felt pensive about the man’s situation. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” 

The man laughed. “No need to be, young man. There’s nothing one can do about fate.” 

The evening traffic had picked up again while they were talking. The relatives of patients filtered into and out of the hospital gate, while the cars and buses outside moved along, oblivious to the structure for the most part. There was only so much suffering one had the time to empathise with, after all. 

“Could I have a cigarette?” the man asked. 

The guard looked at him, not sure he had heard correctly. “A cigarette?” 

“Ah, come on. I’m going to die no matter what. I don’t think I’ll opt for chemotherapy when there is no light on the other side of the tunnel. There’s no harm in a smoke.” 

Both knew there was, but the guard treated it as a kind of a dying wish. He took out the pack from his pocket, and gave one of the two remaining ones to him. He took the other for himself. 

He reached to his pocket once more and flipped open the lighter before putting it in front of the tips of both their cigarettes. The diagnosed man was slightly pleased when he realised he had not forgotten how to smoke. 

He stood next to the guard for some time. When he was finally done, he threw the cigarette to the ground. The guard was done with his one too. The young smoker looked at his empty pack of cigarettes, staring at what looked like its warning label. 

The man placed his hand on the young guard’s shoulder. “You know what’s the best for you,” he said with a smile. “I hope you do it.” 

The man started his walk down the road when the guard threw the pack into the trash bin kept next to the hospital door. “Goodbye,” he said out loud enough for the man to turn around and smile at him. “Until next time, of course”, the guard added. 

“Perhaps,” the man said. Then, he started walking again. 

He reached a crossing soon, from where he walked to the other side of the road and hailed a cab to take himself home. He wore the same poker face he always did. It was a force of habit, which came with the advantage of concealing what he thought from others. All the while, he had held onto the medical file in his hand. 

It took ten minutes to reach home. He paid his fare as well as a generous tip to the driver, who thanked him and went on his way. The man nodded at his own night watchman before entering the building. The stairs of his humble residence were narrower. He reached the third floor, slightly out of breath, feeling a slight pain in his chest once more. He rang the doorbell to his apartment with his free hand. In a few more moments, his wife was at the door. She wore an anxious look on her face. 

“How did the appointment go?” 

The man nodded reassuringly, with a smile on his face. “May I get a glass of water?” 

The wife walked over to the kitchen with anxious footsteps. She came back a moment later. The man had taken off his coat, and was going through the file which contained his report as well as his prescriptions. She sat beside him, peeked at the illegible handwriting, and when she could make neither head nor tail of what was written, she kept down the glass of water on the table in front of them. “Well?” she asked. 

The man reached for the glass to take a sip from it. Once he was done, he kept it back on the table. Then, he looked at his wife and said - “The doctor said the muscles around my chest have suffered a minor tear. The diagnosis means I need to cut back on the squash. My body must have reacted to one of the more strenuous rallies. He’s prescribed me to either stay with these medicines or switch to the prescribed alternative when they run out tomorrow. We’ll see.” 

His wife sighed with relief. “A muscle injury. For a moment, I was fearing much worse.” 

The man smiled at her, and gave her as comfortable a hug as one could in his condition. “It is bad though - with the squash club out of the equation, you’ll have to tolerate me for a few extra hours on the weekends now.” 

His wife laughed. “It’s going to be the challenge of a lifetime,” she said. 

Having spent a few more moments in silent embrace with her, the man finally spoke - “But I guess it wasn’t all that bad. For instance, I smoked a cigarette after ages.”