Page 197 of A King's Oath

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Samarth opened his eyes to darkness. The reflections playing out on his ceiling were still there. He wasn’t alone in bed. He glanced to his left and Papa was stretched out beside him, one arm over his eyes, the other on his chest, fast asleep. He glanced to his right and Rajmata was sitting up, half curled over him, her eyes closed. His head was half on her thigh. It did not feel wrong. Or like he was a weight on her. Tears came to his eyes. He did not remember what he had done all night but he knew she had been here. That she was still here.

He wasn’t ashamed as a 34-year-old when his eye leaked. He was just grateful that none of them were awake to see it.

He started to move his head off her thigh to ease her but she came awake. He shut his eyes and let his head slide off her lap, hoping she would go back to sleep. Her hand came under his head just before it hit his pillow and pulled it back on her lap. Samarth drank down the rest of his tears. He kept his eyes closed, his body loose, his breathing laboured.

“Tara,” Papa called out softly.

“He is still warm.”

A pause, then a rattle of the temperature gun.

“It was 105 an hour ago. Now it is down to 103 but that’s still high.”

“And BP?”

His arm was lifted and a cuff tightened around his bicep. The cuff contracted and expanded.

“107 by 61,” Rajmata said. “Should we call Haren saheb?” Her hand landed on his forehead. “Sid, should we take him to the hospital?”

“Take two more readings.”

“But it’s low…”

“Tara, take two more. It’ll average out.”

More contractions, more expansions.

Papa’s hand landed under his jaw.

“He said Samarth’s blood pressure falls and that’s worse than if it rises… Sid, let’s just take him, please. Call Haren saheb…”

“He had this same pattern last night. Let’s wait until morning.”

Silence. Rajmata’s hand pushed his hair back and wiped the sweat from his brow. The rattle of steel and ice. And a cold cloth was pasted on his forehead. He wanted to wake up and ask them both to stop, tell them that he was ok, but his eyes wouldn’t open fully again. His muscles didn’t seem in his own control.

“I am scared, Sid.”

“He’ll be fine, Tara. He is young and in his prime.”

“Don’t give me that!” She whispered. “Jyoti ben’s 30-year-old son went away in dengue yesterday. Young, healthy and in his… prime.”

“They didn’t start treatment on time. He was severely dehydrated, wouldn’t listen to the doctor…”

“Samarth hasn’t finished even this 2-litre bottle.”

“He will finish it. Let him wake up. You made him drink two glasses already.”

Her hand patted his forehead again. Two taps, then one, then two again. Like some lullaby but only in beats. Samarth relaxed, trailing towards deep sleep.

“Now you understand what I meant?” Papa’s voice pulled him back out.

“About what?”

“About parents never having a happily ever after.”

A tired chuckle.

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