Mr. Francis will be dead in two days, but
you can’t tell by looking at him. He’s spread out
on the single bed with his face turned to the wall. His form looks peaceful, except for the loudness of his breathing occasionally. It’s a rough rumble, like something is blocked deep in his chest or throat. 

You wouldn’t think he’d live to a thousand, but surely not until Sunday. 

It was past 10 p.m., and the chatter in the passage outside has reduced. A figure is curled on a mattress on the floor behind the counter, with a wrapper covering it whole. 

Uma, Mr. Francis’ wife, walks slowly, cautiously, to the counter.

“Nurse. Nurse.”

A mumbled response.

“Please, can you come and suck the phlegm out of his throat? His breathing is blocked again.”

The sleeping figure readjusts and sighs loudly. She drags herself up, every movement slow and flowy.  She follows Uma, taking steps that’d rather be going backwards, like a cow being dragged to the slaughterhouse.

“What’s the problem?” she asks at a distance from the bed.

“His breathing. It’s like his throat is blocked again.”

Mr. Francis has late-stage pharyngeal cancer, and surgery was done to remove his larynx. A stoma sits in the middle of his neck, where he breathes, held in place by a white strap that goes around his neck.

He can no longer speak. The only sound he makes now is the irregular, startling breathing that sounds like the neigh of a sick horse.

“He’s okay. Just allow him to sleep.”

Without waiting another second, the nurse returns to her sleeping corner.

Uma pulls her seat closer to his bed, bends to sit, then stands up halfway. She leans over him, running her hands over his body, praying. She was praying minutes before. She prayed yesterday and will pray after he’s dead in two days.

“It’s how God wants it. He doesn’t want me to keep suffering.” 

She calls on God to cancel the plans of the demons, the devil, and his agents who want to snatch him away and cut his life short. The evil eyes from the village roaming around for his soul aren’t forgotten. She asks for confusion in their midst and for their plans to backfire.

His breathing gets louder, and more frequent. She returns to the sleeping figure.

“Nurse. Nurse. Nurse!”

A grumble. A mumble. Three sighs.

“Please come and check him. He is breathing
very fast.”

The sleeping figure follows her to the bed again.

“What’s wrong with his breathing?”

“It’s fast. He’s breathing fast.”

She shoves him, “Mr. Francis. Mr. Francis. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Naturally, he doesn’t respond, as he 
hasn’t since his surgery weeks ago. He doesn’t even wake.

“How else do you want him to breathe? His breathing is okay. Allow him to sleep. He is okay.”

She returns to her corner, and Uma continues hovering over him. 

His breathing is now as loud as the neigh of a healthy horse. It sounds like it’s coming from deep within, a distance inside his body, travelling through vessels and organs, arriving sore and angry from the journey it has had to make. 

They come in quicker succession now, faster than the snores of the middle-aged patient caregiver two beds away.

The sleeping figure returns. She shoves him harder and calls his name, louder with every unanswered call.

“Mr. Francis! Mr. Francis!!” 

His wife joins, but he still doesn’t wake. She presses her palms hard on his chest, over and over. Things begin to happen quickly, in succession and in parallel, some not waiting for the previous to complete before beginning. 

Someone runs out and comes back with a hospital warder and another nurse. The crowd around his bed grows. A doctor and lab technician join.

A ventilator is pushed into his face. Blood is drawn. A drip line with normal saline is connected. Another drip line is connected to his other hand. Needles. Readings. The doctor is drawing the fluid from one of the drips and injecting it into him while it’s still running. A pulse oximeter is clipped to his finger. His blood pressure is checked again and again, with the machine's robotic voice repeating, “Low. Low.”

An oxygen tank is rolled in. Another follows when the first runs out, its tubes quickly connected to his nose.

Everything is in a frenzy. The sleeping figure fits right in, gliding with urgency.

Someone removes the oxygen tubes from his nose and connects them to the stoma in his neck. 

It all comes to a boil and begins to sizzle out. His eyes are open and searching the room, and Uma’s prayer gets less desperate.

The next day, the nurse on duty examines him with a scowl.

“Hmmmm. Please, not on my shift oh.”

She makes a call, and he’s transferred to the emergency ward, the oxygen tank wheeled alongside him.

Firs thing the next morning, Uma comes back to the ward and tells their bed neighbour that he is gone.

“It’s how God wants it. He doesn’t want me to keep suffering.”