Fourteenth Breath

Fourteenth Breath

Jul 12, 2025

Bopa Rai woke up fresh, yet anchored to the memory of drowning. For days, he had been navigating the murky depths of a delirium others could only watch from the shore. To the doctors, it was hepatic encephalopathy, a brain poisoned by ammonia from a liver that had finally surrendered. They spoke in hushed tones of medications and portocaval shunts, of buying time and hoping the system would correct itself.

For Bopa, it was an eternity of military service played on a loop. He saw the faces of friends lost to the chaos of combat, their leaving sometimes a quiet transfer, other times a sudden, violent erasure, experienced death again and again, not just his own, but theirs. He knew its every flavour, from the reckless miscalculation of a drunk driver to the cold surprise of a knife in a brawl. He’d died so many times from alcoholism he felt he’d written the book on it.

But this time was different. This time, he was a prisoner in his own head, and the clarity he awoke with felt like a final, cruel joke.

---

Anathema

A raw, desperate thirst clawed at his throat. He saw his regimental officer, a steadfast presence by his bed, and croaked, “Surjeet… a scotch. On the rocks.”

Before the officer could even move, a figure in a white coat intercepted the request. The Doctor, who had been hovering nearby, stepped forward, his face a mask of clinical disapproval. “Absolutely not, Colonel. For you, alcohol is no longer a drink. It is poison.” He admonished Bopa with a sternness that left no room for debate, then turned his gaze to the regimental officer. “And you, Sir. Please leave. The patient needs rest, not temptation.” Surjeet, his hand instinctively hovering over the hip flask in his pocket, gave Bopa a look of shared defeat and walked out.

Minutes later, Bopa’s wife called. Her voice, a familiar tempest of concern and frustration, crackled over the line, another lecture he was too weary to absorb.

Fifteen minutes later, Bopa Rai died. His last wish, a simple comfort against the coming void, was left unfulfilled. His death was an anathema—a cursed, sterile end he never wanted. Outside, Surjeet took a long swig from his flask and made a soldier’s vow: he would never, ever die in a hospital.

---

Cost of Immortality

To don a new body was like changing into fresh clothes after a long, dirty patrol. A sudden, jarring consciousness. This time, Bopa thought, he would keep it simple. The life of a Jawan—anonymous, uncomplicated, with few to mourn him. But the first sensation that flooded his new existence was that old, familiar ghost: thirst.

He found himself standing outside a recruiting office. Conveniently, just a few doors down, a sign for a whiskey bar glowed like a beacon. He went in. The burn of the first drink was a baptism, washing away the memory of the hospital’s sterile denial. Refreshed and resolute, he walked into the recruiting office. He professed to have no education, his mouth filled with a betel nut paan to mask the smell of whiskey and project an air of rural simplicity. It worked. He was in.

---

Shabuddin’s Tale

Around that time, his friend from a life he’d just left, Colonel Shabuddin, had a fainting spell. The subsequent workup—an and an echocardiogram—delivered a stark diagnosis: Hypertrophic Obstructive Cardiomyopathy (). The doctor explained it in blunt terms: a thickening of the heart muscle was obstructing blood flow from the left ventricle into the aorta. It was a bottleneck at the very source of life.

“What are my chances, doc?” Shabuddin asked, his voice steady.

“Nothing to worry about for now,” the doctor replied, a little too breezily. “Statistically, you have a good 10-20 years. The mean age of death for this condition is 65-70. By then, who knows? Medical science is always advancing. Cardiac transplantation is always an option down the line.”

Shabuddin heard the words, but his mind snagged on a different thought. Transplantation. Hospitals. Machines. A horrible choice. He remembered his friend Bopa’s undignified end and the vow their friend Surjeet had made. He hardened his heart and made the same vow for himself.

---

The Doctor of Dehradun

Life as a Jawan did not suit the old soul in the new body. Bopa Rai was not blessed with a cow-like innocence; he possessed a pig-like insolence. He asked too many questions. He challenged the logic of orders and was not content with the simple faith of military scripture. His superiors, exasperated but recognizing a sharp intellect, pushed him toward education.

From a Jawan to a Medical Cadet

Driven by a desire to understand the mechanics of the life and death he had so intimately known, he took the medical entrance exam. He passed with flying colours and earned a place at the Armed Forces Medical College (AFMC). Years passed. The Jawan became a Captain. Captain Bopa Rai, M.D., was posted to the Clement Town Cantonment in Dehradun.

One afternoon, an old soldier, now frail but with an unmistakable officer’s bearing, came to his office. He was accompanied by a younger man, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Signals corps. It was Shabuddin, now 70 years old, with his son.

“Son, please wait outside,” Shabuddin said, his voice raspy with age.

Once they were alone, he launched into a precise, almost detached explanation of his . Then, his tone shifted. “Do you remember your last posting, Bopa?” he asked, his eyes locking onto the doctor’s. “The one in the military hospital? Your final fifteen minutes?”

Remembrance of lost past

The question hit Bopa like a physical blow. The sterile smell of the ward, the doctor’s stern face, the unquenched, burning thirst—it all came rushing back, a memory from a body long turned to dust. He was awash in the remembrances of a lost past. He simply nodded, his professional composure momentarily shattered.

“They wouldn’t let you have a final drink,” Shabuddin continued, his voice low and intense. “Anathema.” He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver hip flask, taking a small, deliberate sip. “Doctors have told me that once cardiac failure starts, it’s not reversible. But they won’t let it be the end. I’ll be ventilated, kept alive by machines. A prolonged indignity.”

Bopa Rai smiled, a sad, knowing smile. He understood the request before it was spoken.

“I need your word, Bopa. As an officer, not as a doctor. When my time comes, don’t let them cart me to a hospital.”

Bopa looked at the old man, a friend from another life asking for the ultimate favour. He picked up the phone and called his Commanding Officer, Colonel Surjeet. He explained the situation, the history, the vow. There was a long pause on the other end. “Alright, Rai,” Surjeet said finally. “But for God’s sake, be careful.”

Bopa hung up and looked at Shabuddin. He gave his word.

---

The Final Reckoning

And so, months later, it came to pass. Shabuddin was brought to the cantonment clinic, not a hospital, in a comatose state. Bopa went to work.

The was damning, showing the peaked T-waves of severe hyperkalemia. His blood work screamed metabolic acidosis. His kidneys were failing, his brain was hypoxic—multi-organ failure was in full cascade. Six hours at the most, Bopa thought, his mind a cold, analytical machine.

Shabuddin’s son stood beside him, his face etched with a grief that was already turning to dread. “When?” he asked. He explained the house full of relatives, a gaggle of mourners gathered for a vigil, all of them aware of Shabuddin’s oath.

For the benefit of the audience that might trickle in, Bopa arranged a token oxygen mask over Shabuddin’s face and set up an line with a saline drip running at a rate that would do neither harm nor good. It was a performance.

At 8 PM, another confirmed the inevitable decline. The son asked again, his voice cracking, “How soon, Doctor?”

Euthanasia

Bopa took a deep breath. “It’s impossible to tell the exact time,” he began, the textbook answer falling from his lips. Then, he lowered his voice, shifting from doctor to co-conspirator. “However… if a specific time is a convenience, it can be arranged. His heart is already struggling under a massive potassium load. A cardiac overload, induced via the drip, would be quick. We could help the potassium along its way. His heart would simply stop. Asystole.”

He looked the son directly in the eye. “It would be an act of assistance. Otherwise, we wait a few more hours for the same result.”

The son stared at his father’s still form, then back at Bopa. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

At 01:00 AM, Captain Bopa Rai signed the death certificate.

Time of Death: 01:00.

Cause of Death: Cardiac Arrest.

Antecedent Cause: Hypertrophic Obstructive Cardiomyopathy.

The promise was kept.

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