The Lost Pulse


Here I am, right next to him. His beautiful face was a treat to watch even with those fresh gashes and wounds. His lips were still kissable with all those deep chaps on them.

I would do anything for this man, who is now on the hospital bed, fighting for life. With Oxygen mask around his face, this guy still is the most handsome guy to me, more than just handsome, this guy is the most beautiful man by heart.

The pulse monitor next to him beeping, I watch the pulse lines fluttering every now and then, up and down, again up and again down.

Our relationship had ups and downs as well and I wanted it to be flat and smooth with no obstacles.

Little was I aware, a relationship with flat and plain flow isn’t really one.

I can see his forehead badly injured and wounded with surgical mask and beneath his forehead were those eyes, those deep eyes that spoke many unspoken words by him.

But now, those very eyes, closed, are searching for a way to make out of this trauma and fight for a way to live.

There is this tiny tear that started dripping from the corner of his closed eye and it was enough to tell me he doesn’t want to leave me. That he isn’t ready to leave this world.

He knew that we are going to get married, he was all happy about it, he went on to shop the best jewellery for me under his budget and then unfortunately our happiness didn’t last long.

And I feel responsible, I feel responsible for what happened to him today.

Had I not pointed out the mannequin with the most amazing bridal designer Saree in the shopping mall that we daily cross on our way home, had I not asked him to buy that for our wedding, he wouldn’t have taken the pain to go alone to the mall and buy the Saree and gift it for our wedding and surprise me.

Had I not asked him, he wouldn’t have met with accident on the way home.
I now have the Saree in my hand, so elegant even in it worst state, the pallu torn, the embroidery smudged with his blood stains.

I still remember, he was on call that day, when he was coming home to surprise me with the Saree.

“Hey Doll, don’t go anywhere, I have a surprise for you. Stay home, will be there in 10 minutes.”

He hung up. Ten minutes turned into hours but he didn’t show up, my calls remained unanswered.

And here I am, on my knees next to his bed in the hospital, wishing I could take my words back. Praying for him to come back alive and tie the three knots round my neck and make me his.

But he started losing his breathe, he was struggling, his body shaking, and the pulse monitor next to me beeping.

The nurse hurried out to call the doc, I was just there helpless, I was just there with so much will in heart to pull him out of this but unsure how.

The doc arrived, checked his condition and after a few minutes he just said the most horrifying words to me.

“I am sorry, he is in his last minutes. We can’t help it.”
He whisked out of the room.

Tears started rolling down my cheeks, but I didn’t want to cry.

Because he asked me not to, yes, this man has taught me how to stay strong, but this man never taught me how to live without him.

He and I are the most craziest of couples. I sketch and he writes. People would often ask us, how would we survive with just art in life and no money.

He used to laugh them off, saying art is the essence of life. He was the one who taught me how to focus on passion, and when I first held the pencil to sketch and was not confident enough to draw a line, he always got my back.

“This isn’t my thing. Passion isn’t enough to master an art, “ I said.
“Dear love, passion alone is enough.”
He would motivate.

I watch the rise and fall of his pulse lines on the monitor going flat. There is no deviation of the flow of lines.

I looked at him, the tear that dripped from his eyes has finally made its way till the end of the jaw and fell off.

I watched at the pulse monitor again, the lines flat and the device beeping continuously.

His words hit me hard. I recollected those very words that made me what I am today, the country’s most sought after artist.

“You are an amazing artist. Trust me.”
He said.
“Yes, look at all your sketches, you are capable to bend any line the way you wish to see, add beauty to them with your thoughts.”
“I doubt that.”
He held my face in his hands and said,
“You girl, I tell you, have the most amazing gift of blending any line into the curve you wish to and bring the life out of it. You are an amazing artist.”
He kissed me good night.

Now I watch the flat lines on the pulse monitor and wish I could just manipulate them. I wish I could just make those flat pulse lines to the most beautiful curves and add life to his dead heart.

But the fact is I couldn’t. He lied to me. He lied to me that I can blend any line the way I wish to see it for I couldn’t change his life line.

© The Heartbroken Quill


10 thoughts on “The Lost Pulse

  1. A well written piece of work. Any genuine writer will not leave this unnoticed without surrendering his mind to embark on every footstep of the emotions felt by the woman there.
    Nevertheless, a proof that a writer is on the right path.

    Liked by 1 person

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