I hate waking up like this. I hate waking up to this.
Feverish, but with
no fever. An overwhelming sense of fatigue that weighs on my limbs. Head groggy,
from a night of drinking? Or did a fever just lift? My mouth nearly always blanched
dry. A tongue that registers barely any taste, save for the nauseating sourness
left by a pill reluctant to go down the gullet.
My ears begin
ringing again, and I begin an early morning ritual of extravagantly opening and
closing my jaw hoping to ‘pop’. Whenever the ringing rises to the wheezing of Short-Wave
radio, a jiggling index finger in that ear is the only tuner I have available;
there’s indeed very little of self-help that’s not been attempted.
There is no respite
from any of this, it has been so for so many months now. It is like the pain-laced
stupor that welcomes one waking from surgery. For me, it marks every morning.
These might as well
be symptoms of sunstroke. But the only bit of sun I am ever allowed is the few hours
in the prison yard.
I have a few weeks to
go on my sentence. Not that I care. There’s nothing much on the outside for a tax
fraud pushing sixty, all worldly possessions now with the State, all relations probably
sucking off better endowed teats. I have not become bitter over time, only too realistic.
For there is no human condition more ‘real’ than imprisonment. I may one day be
free of these walls but will never not shudder at the clinking of a damned lock.
Prison takes away your freedom but for a while, it shreds your humanity
forever.
For me, it also
took a swing at my immunity. Six months ago, the virus hit. The symptoms were
roughly fever, cough, cough, cough blood then die in pain. It was hell at the
Cantonment Prison; infected prisoners and infected guards in the same sick-bay
or even cells, others in the corridors or wherever you could prop a pillow. The
Chief Warden was replaced twice, Guards came and went. Some dropped while on
duty. Nobody wept for them, of course. Sadly, many of ours endured the same
Fate. Though it is rumored the only guy on death-row is still alive and well. Word
was that it was worse on the outside. But then, the inside is the only world we
are expected to know.
We had pills,
inhalants and injections mandatorily prescribed. Or randomly, who knows. Blood
tests, or at least samples collected, almost daily. Nobody dared ask what and
wherefor. It’s a prison. To the outside world this might not be news, but it
sure wasn’t something we were used to. These are places where humans are left
to die for want of a torniquet. Prisoners failing to live was not an overall
concern. It was the contagion that mattered. If it were a fire, they would have
just left us to char.
Three months into
the mayhem they carted me away. By then, the administrators had it much under
control. Guards didn’t drop dead as much as cough up a baby for a few weeks. Or
so I hoped. Very few returned to work though. For us inmates, the badly
infected ones were being shunted out. For further tests, or something to that
effect, we were told. I am all for science. Finally, the virus caught up with
me. I had a few brushes earlier, but when it had me at last, I ran a fever that
drove me to delirium. I really don’t remember much of it. I later learned that
I had passed out with the first set of medications they put me on.
It is a lot less
prison-like in this place. Lot more white-coats queueing up to take samples, peeking
into my ear, checking for pulse and, of course, more of the meds. Just no
fellow inmates. It is just me in quarters more than twice the one I left
behind. Food is decent, as in, clean. I still cannot taste anything to save my
life. One of the scour marks left by that fleeing organism. Nowadays chewing
followed by swallowing has become a chore. I can’t complain, apart from the
incessant rattling inside of me I wake up to.
I sat up. It’s time
to eat. It might be a chore, but it got to be done. Meals are seldom served at the
prisoner’s convenience. I
got rid of the prison tee which was reeking of sweat. I pull on another from
the clothesline. Less prison-like or not, Guards generally don’t take kindly to
‘improper attire’, and I wouldn’t want to be denied food, or worse.
The surly,
hook-nosed guard is nowhere to be seen. He should have been on duty
overnight. I am pretty sure I heard his voice and the muffled thump as he let
in the day shift.
I hear a familiar
shuffle approaching. This would be an easier day, if not a bit of fun.
Here comes my man. He's from
the plains, like my wife. Has the drawl, and the marked lack of irony, who
knows, maybe they are related. Were related. He had gotten himself married a
month or two ago and has been putting on the pounds. The other guards tease him
a lot; 'is she getting you pregnant' and so on. He can't keep a straight face,
now that it is a blob, and scowls and rants at them. What an oaf. Just what his
friends want to hear, and they hoot and holler at every shift change.
Even so, he is kind to me. The
only one who addresses me by name. Almost with respect. Maybe because I'm
older. I'm older than the whole lot of them, but then, prisoners are never
extended the courtesies of the outside.
I hear the shutter
creak, and that ruddy face present itself. He always seems on tiptoe. Starting
off with that wide-eyed look past me as he scanned around the room. Then his
gaze finally nestled on me, with a wonderment as if he found an emu in a dingo’s
cage. It’s the same with him. He would never have lasted a week back at
Cantonment.
“Umm. I heard
something”. He began. Seemingly ill at ease. Did he catch the virus? He
normally starts with a sheepish “Good Morning”, like a kid in class.
“You had two weeks
left, correct”?
I felt myself
catching my breath. That is never a question to be answered. That never need to
be a question. Only a prisoner, only one who ever did time, would realize the
nightmare it portends. The only measure, an ever-reducing timeline, a countdown
if I may, that a human in here need be aware of. Every breathing second.
I found myself
standing. I said nothing. I couldn’t. He continued, as if I just agreed to his.
“They say they cannot
let you go. Not that you are ill. It is something else. They say it is in your
blood”.
I must have said
something or grunted. He repeated, “That’s what they said. The blood results
have come back”.
He looked at me,
almost smiled, then abruptly averted his gaze. He is a nervous kid. More
jangling of the key bunch.
I really didn't
know what to say. I always knew freedom held no promise. I have no one to go
back to. But now I would be held here for no reason other than that I survived?
There were rumors back at Cantt, of “extensions”. They just tack on a few more weeks
or months. For science.
He put the tray down
and kept looking away. Same jangling of the keys. I had once told him to act
more 'guard-like', you know, soldierly. He should be running a store or running
errands. This kind of soldiering is not for him. Always the kid who forgets
homework and can't muster any interesting excuse.
“They say you can't
get the disease”. He paused, then looked up. There was a pained expression I
never seen before. “I mean, you can get the disease, but not get sick. As in
bad sick, the not die kind”.
“They want to keep
you. I tried asking why, but the new Deputy shooed me away. He said the HQ is sending a
truck full of doctors and equipment. I must start making camp for them”.
“I'm sorry”.
He quickly turned
and stepped out. Then slammed and locked the outer gate in a few
quick jolts. Probably the first time he managed it without a fumble.
I left the tray and
its covered contents in the slot and picked up the water cup. These are sealed
and fancy these days, no more plastic tumblers. I must have taken a large gulp,
and almost choked. They should go easy on the chlorination. At least they’re doing
that properly.
It tasted. After all this time. How I missed the taste of water.
