The Taste of Water

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.