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Malignant Genes

Sangeetha G

    He sat on the wooden bench outside the doctor’s room, waiting for his turn. Parts of the armrest and the backrest, where the bench was in constant touch with human skin, had become smooth. Having been clutched by anxious hands for years, the armrest was glistening smooth. Ramachandran was familiar with every single detail of the straight, wavy, and interlocked wood grain pattern of the bench. The bench had been the most dreadful image in his life for the past few years.
    The technician in the laboratory in her stained white coat came out of the lab. Without glancing at the patients waiting for their call, she walked hurriedly into the doctor’s room with a set of papers.
    “One of the reports would be mine,” Ramachandran imagined as his heart throbbed vigorously and his body started sweating profusely. His son, Krishnan got him a tall glass of water. Ramachandran held the glass in his hand and looked at the wrinkled back of the palm. “When did my hand shrivel up like this?” he wondered. Krishnan wrapped his arm around his shoulder and held him tight, though that gesture was not reassuring enough.
    He had imagined this scene hundreds of times ever since he waited for his mother’s report five years back. “Cancer is in her pancreas. It might spread much faster than we imagine,” the doctor had told him then.
    He had seen his mother moving gradually towards death every passing day. He remembered the trips to the local chemist to procure morphine for her. She was nothing but pain in a human structure. Her painful cries, tears flowing down the sides of her eyes, and the smell of death in her room kept haunting him.
    Those were the times when Ramachandran had started imagining the scene – he sitting on the bench, waiting for his report. “After all, the disease runs in the family. Else how could have my mother got it after my grandfather?” he tried to shoo away the thought. But it would come back, again and again, more powerfully and agonizingly.
    The wooden bench outside the doctor’s room not just haunted him in his thoughts, but it did not leave him alone in his sleep either.
    The doctor’s bell rang and the attendant called out his name. Ramachandran thought his heart would jump out of his mouth if he opened it. While taking each step, he thought he would fall. Krishnan held his hand tightly as they sat in front of the doctor. The doctor went through the report and looked up. His facial muscles became tight as he kept observing the anxious faces of the persons sitting in front of him and analyzing their mental strength. “It is not pleasant news. You have a malignant growth in your prostate,” he said without bringing the word 'cancer’ into the conversation. The doctor’s face became more relaxed after breaking the news and he kept on talking about the treatment. But Ramachandran did not hear anything after the first two lines.
    The painful cries of his mother kept on ringing in his ears. He remembered the brown color bottle of morphine and he could once again smell the stink of death. Way back home, he set his thoughts free. Like little imps they poked him and troubled him. He had no control over them and the way they were bothering him.
    At home, he did not talk to his wife nor did she have the courage to utter anything about the disease. She hid her tears from him. He walked into his room and took a shower. The family sat around the table and had dinner. None of them spoke about the hospital trip. They tried to behave as if they were living a normal day. He went back to his room and lay on the bed.
    The next morning, his son woke up late after staying awake for a long time past midnight. He had been thinking about the moment when his fears about his father became real. He wished to erase that moment from his life. He made morning tea and walked to his father’s room. By then, Ramachandran had gone, leaving his body hanging from the ceiling. The eyes were bulging out, tongue was protruding and the neck was strained and tilted. Krishnan cried aloud, dropping the tea all over his body.
    People kept coming the whole day, some stayed back while some left. By evening, the cremation was over. As the neighbors gradually started leaving, the son heard one of them say, “It runs in the family. In the previous generation and the generation before some of the family members have committed suicide. In this generation, he was destined for this extreme step. I feel pity for his son.”
    At night, the son received a call from the hospital. “There has been a goof-up. The samples were mislabeled. Your father’s biopsy report is negative. Please accept our apologies,” the nurse’s voice came from the other end. He disconnected the phone. He told himself, “It is nobody’s fault. It is our destiny. After all, suicide runs in the family, no one can ever escape it.” His heart started throbbing fast and he saw a looped rope hanging from the ceiling of his room, waiting for him

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