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You have every symptom in the book. They must be having so much fun. She kept weeping and mumbling in sobs till the time they reached home. Grammatical mistakes are still bearable, but 'spelling' mistakes? Chi ama i libri sceglie Kobo e inMondadori. Oct 24, Arpan Rathod rated it really liked it.
A little later the bottles had been popped open. Dushyant—who had graduated just a few months back—was mentor to these kids. He knew the exact proportions for deathly cocktails and the people who would have a steady supply of highly potent weed even during a nuclear holocaust.
He knew how to get out of trouble. But more than that, he knew how to get into trouble. Like he had the night before, when he passed out only to wake up in a hospital bed. He waited restlessly for the nurse to come in and tell him what the hell was going on. I need to get the fuck out of here, he thought. On other occasions, he would just jerk off the needles that punctured his hand and walk right out of the ward, but there were too many of them this time and he wanted to know what was wrong, if anything.
He was not scared, just concerned if it was serious enough for his mother to start crying and his father to start shouting at him for being irresponsible, disgraceful and a blot on the family name. What family name? He is a bloody head-clerk at the MCD, he said to himself.
He never got the flawed definitions of honour and family name. His head hurt and he thought he could do without the nonsense his parents always put him through. While he wallowed in self-pity and cursed the hospital, the door opened and a girl— short and fair—entered the room. She had big eyes—like the schoolgirls in Japanese cartoons—and looked like a confused kid in a candy shop with gold coins in both her palms, not knowing what to buy.
But instead, her palms were clasped around the handlebars of her crutches. Her legs buckled at the knees and seemed to have no strength at all to bear the weight of her tiny five-foot-two frame. But you know, I could have been a doctor. And then pulled it away. You should get a second opinion. Not a long wait, just two and half hours! Hope to see you again. I might pick this room. I am here for some tests, but they need to admit me for a little bit. Pihu just smiled and walked slowly towards the exit.
I need to get the fuck out of here, he said to himself. It was four. The nurse had come and drawn some blood and given him zero answers. Why am I here? When can I go? Did you tell my parents?
Did you? What the fuck is going on? She nodded to his questions unthinkingly, and told him the doctor would see him in a little while. He swore at her. In Hindi. Cursing came as second nature to him … His sentences often started and ended with abuses, most of which had been improvised and perfected over the course of years that had passed by. The first time he had hurled abuse was when he was in the eighth standard.
Not too clever, but ever since that day, bhenchod became a way of life. It replaced emotions, feelings and entire situations, depending on how it was being said by him. He had no visitors. He had no friends really. In the four years and the few extra months he had spent in the college, he had made drinking buddies, smoking buddies, getting- fucked-upwith buddies, but none who would come to see him in the hospital.
Had it been six months before, some of them might have come. But now everyone who had graduated with him was either working or waiting for their offer letters.
So days before college ended, he rented a flat just outside college and started to live like he was still studying—in his fifth year of engineering. Dushyant was about to doze off when a doctor—presumably in his mid-thirties— entered the room. I am just okay. When can I fucking go now? Are you fucking kidding me? You have the wrong patient, Doctor.
I came here yesterday. Is everyone here an incompetent fool? Get me out of these things! And confusion. Well, these are common symptoms for hepatic encephalopathy. You have every symptom in the book.
I have what? And three days back, you had a seizure and passed out. And the confusion was not a symptom of the hepatic whatever he had, but what the doctor had just said. Not unless you have to undergo some drastic medical procedure which requires them to be around. I have some other patients to look into, who are not killing themselves.
I will check on you later today. Hepatic encephalopathy is a very lazy disease—somnolence and acting stupid being the main symptoms. You have already done with being stupid, so I guess there is just one left. Go, sleep. Frantically, Dushyant called his friend to confirm if what the doctor had said was true. It was. This is seriously fucked up, he thought.
A few search results popped up and he read through them hurriedly. Combing through the labyrinth of medical words and terminologies, he knew where his problem came from—his excessive drinking.
He was right, but he was into all kinds of stuff and the more he read up on the disease the more he realized that he was at fault. A few sentences stood out and he lay there breathing heavily and cursing everything that he had ingested in the last five years, but still wanting some more of it at that moment.
Ideally, he would have loved a couple of large shots of vodka mixed with a few shots, big shots, of tequila. If worst came to worst, a cigarette. Dushyant had never been an addict, and unlike addicts who thought they could kick the habit any time, he could actually do so.
Or so he thought. Soon, sleep took over and he closed his eyes, wondering if he would wake up again. What he had read circled his head for the entire time that he slept.
Those with severe encephalopathy stages 3 and 4 are at risk of obstructing their airway due to decreased protective reflexes such as the gag reflex. This can lead to respiratory arrest. Intubation of the airway is often necessary to prevent life-threatening complications e.
Are they going to cut my throat open? If encephalopathy develops in acute liver failure, it indicates that a liver transplant may be required. Where would I get that! Even in his sleep, he wanted to get hammered. He walked the hallways of GKL Hospital with a confidence not seen in doctors three decades older and much wiser. His peers said he was arrogant because he belonged to a family of remarkable doctors and extraordinary businessmen. He just knew he was that good.
Had he been one, he would have worked in the chain of hospitals his father had amassed in the last twenty years. He would have been sitting pretty in a corner office with a few brilliant doctors working under him, doing whatever he would have asked them to.
He had earned every bit of the reputation that he had got himself in the last three years. His sincere good looks—he stood at six feet, had short hair and wore expensive rimless spectacles—and savage drive to succeed had helped. Guys like him make their own lives hell and come here with diseases which I have no intentions to diagnose or treat.
He was, after all, a rare genius. A guy who cracks a competitive exam to a good engineering college only to drink and smoke himself to death. Should he live? Or should the people who die on the streets be given that chance? Did your parents tell you what not to do?
And when did that stop? When you got through medical school in Delhi and they had no idea what you were studying and how much you should score? The hospital mails them details of every case I work on here and they keep telling me what to do. The patient coughs up blood, my dad calls; a seizure, my mom calls; and someone slips into a coma, my sister calls! The worst part is—they are never right! Pretty standard case.
The good thing is that the girl is like you, only younger. She got admitted into medical school last year, found something wrong with her hands and diagnosed it herself. Anyway, he always felt something was wrong with Zarah. She was way too reserved for the way she looked.
At five feet seven, she towered above even a few male doctors. Neither did her chocolate-coloured exotic skin, which was smooth and velvety. Maybe Brazil. Or Chile. Or Uruguay. Some place not India. Usually, the prettier female doctors were outspoken; Zarah, on the other hand, was reserved.
It was intriguing. Maybe she was a perfect case for his mother, the acclaimed psychiatrist. We will admit her to the hospital in a day or two. Age He had expected it. When he had first heard about the case, he had felt the same thing. She is just nineteen. Have you heard about Stephen Hawking? He was diagnosed at the age of twenty-one. Doctors said he had three years. It has been forty years since then. His disease was progressing slowly. She was diagnosed one year back and she might not make it through the next three months.
There is no cure, right? I am on the research panel trying to find one. Clearly, Zarah was stunned and her face contorted to signify the pity she felt for the nineteen-year-old dying girl. Zarah had studied to be in the noble profession and save lives and get people healthy, but she never really had the heart to overlook the pain of sick people in the first place. It reminded her of her own angst. She felt sorry for Pihu, and for the bastard who lay in the room with a damaged liver.
Her lips curved into an embarrassed smile. She looked around and hoped nobody had seen it. Examinations were around the corner and everyone was stressed out and high on caffeine. Pihu was high on anticipation. She had finished the course. Pihu had smiled, shaken hands and hugged. She knew it was just the beginning. School never offered her the opportunity to bury herself in course books the way she had always wanted to.
The course was never a challenge. The entrance examinations were a necessary evil. She knew she would sail through. When news broke out in her hometown that her AIR All India Rank was third, cunning pot-bellied owners of coaching institutes had flocked to her place, wanting her to advertise their highly qualified staff and fully airconditioned classrooms with a picture of their most illustrious student—Pihu Malhotra.
A few days later, she was in the local newspapers. Hers had just taken root. These were the first set of exams in her college. She had the book Human Anatomy open in front of her. She had read it twice. She itched to read something else.
Her eyes had been on the book on pathology lying on the side. A second-year student was sleeping on it. You spent all the time with us. When did you get the time? Pihu knew that. Venugopal and Pihu were destined to be friends after the first roll call in their class of students.
Venugopal where P stood for something unpronounceable for north Indians. Kind of what it means for two engineering students to have the first peg of whisky together. Other than that, they were very similar. Middle-class families, dads in government service, mothers as housewives and CBSE toppers of their own regions. In a parallel universe where north and south Indians got along, it was a match made in heaven. In the past three months, they had become the best of friends.
They never kept anything from each other. Simple people with simple desires. They had nothing to hide. They had never partied, never smoked, never drank. Neither of them had stayed out of their houses after eight. They never felt the need to. Which ones? General Pharmacology. A few others. Why would you? Ever since the time I was a little kid.
At first, I thought I liked the candy my paediatrician gave me! But slowly, it became an obsession. I used to fake illnesses as a kid so I could go to the clinic and hear the doctor talk about various medicines and cures. You will be a great doctor. You could have taught me. I am struggling here. Pihu always thought of Venugopal as a sweet, well-mannered guy. He was from Chennai, Tamil Nadu, and barely spoke any Hindi.
Pihu had spent the first few weeks forcing him to talk in Hindi and laughing her head off. Somewhere between the lectures on human lungs and lymph nodes, Pihu knew she had found a friend for life.
Their bond strengthened over countless meals of butter chicken and shitty sambar, and arguments about which tasted better. Fear clouded her mind. A million possibilities battled each other and she cried. It stems from the paranoia one suffers from after obsessing over different symptoms throughout the day. She had left the examination hall thirty minutes before the scheduled time.
She knew all the answers. She had wanted to write them. The pen was in her hand, and the answers in her head. But her hands had cramped. There was something wrong with her hands. She had tried moving her hand in vain. After struggling with intermittent pain and the lack of sensation for half an hour, she had started to write. She had written three beautiful answers when the pain and the lack of sensation came back.
She had tears in her eyes. Every page from every medical book she had read came rushing back to her mind. Her head hurt. Tears streamed down her face.
Half an hour before the exam ended, she left the hall, tears in her eyes and strange cramps in both her hands.
Venugopal had been calling her for quite some time now. Pihu had disconnected all calls till she asked him to join her in the library.
You did well, right? Everything you taught me was perfect! It was like you knew the questions beforehand. You are teaching me everything from now on!
Were you nervous? I knew the answers. The librarian asked them to be silent. Venugopal looked puzzled. He took her hand in his palms and applied pressure at a few points. He asked her if she had any sensation in her hand. She picked up a pencil from her neatly arranged geometry box. She tried to write her name on the piece of paper in front of her. Venugopal watched in horror as she scribbled. It was hardly legible.
It looked like she was using the wrong hand. She cried. It could be something as simple as Vitamin C deficiency.
There are cases reported where Vitamin C deficiency causes paralysis. She looked at her hand. Pale and useless. Stop being so negative! Maybe Venugopal is right. All the possible causes for the symptom started to shadow her mind. She was freaking out, her tears were uncontrollable. What was it? Nerve injury? Spina bifida? Multiple sclerosis? All of a sudden, it looked as if she could have every disease she had read about till now. The deadlier the disease, the more convinced she was about its possibility.
Sleep evaded her that night as she looked up every possible cause of her problem. By next morning, she had a list of eighty-nine possible causes. She scheduled herself for a plethora of blood tests the next day. Venugopal had a horrendous next exam. They narrowed it down to twenty types of blood tests and visited a pathology lab at night, rather late for them. Pihu waited for him outside his examination hall the next day with her blood test results in hand.
Her blood work was clean, eliminating eighty-eight possible causes. There were no tests left to be done. Go out, Venu! The exams just got over.
Go out and party with the guys. You have to be positive. I am sure of what I have, Venu. See a doctor. She knew he was going through denial. A certain part of her was going through the same. Except for this call, she had not stopped crying since the time she discovered what she was afflicted with. She had cursed the unfair balance of nature. What she had was not something she deserved.
She had cried and pored over the reports again and again, hoping there would be a mistake. She wished she was wrong in her self-diagnosis.
She could be. Her eyes watered up. She heard the flipping of papers from the other side. The signal is cracking up. I hope I am wrong about this. She sighed. The tears returned and they never stopped during the three hours it took for her to reach her home from the college hostel. All her dreams washed away in an instant. Once home, she stood in front of her parents, complaining about the strange sensations in her right arm.
Her mother started to ask her about the examinations. Dad asked her if she was eating right. It took her an hour to make them take the cramps and the loss of sensation in her hand seriously. Her mom suggested stress. Dad suggested infection. She insisted on seeing a doctor. Her dad smiled at the irony. Pihu knew what he was thinking about. He had imagined her as a doctor.
Something that Pihu knew would never happen. I hope I am wrong, she sighed. On the way to the hospital, she tried to be her chirpy self, even though all she wanted to do was cry.
Maybe she was wrong. The doctor in the hospital asked her a few questions and prescribed her some blood tests. Back home, she fished out every research paper and every document ever written about the disease. Looking through various reports she found a research team in a hospital in Delhi which specialized in stem cell research and developing experimental new drugs for the disease.
She found the email ID of one of the doctors on the team— Arman Kashyap, supposedly a genius, and shot across an email giving him the details of her disease. She was desperate. That night, when she was done reading about her disease and had cried enough to make herself tired, Venugopal called again. He had been texting her constantly.
Pihu knew for sure he had been doing some reading on the disease too. Did he order all the blood tests? Did he guess anything? Any alternative causes? Differential diagnosis? I know they will be clean. We did the tests just once. And these government pathological labs make mistakes all the time. Where did you go? Apex Hospital?
He had checked and rechecked the reports; Pihu was sure of that. She had promised herself that she would be strong and not cry. She had read about the suffering of people who had the same disease as hers, and she felt terrible. Having read horrendous accounts of how patients lose control of their body as it slowly rots away, she started to question the fairness of it all. Why me?
Of all people! She cursed the mirror in front of her for it was lying. Her insides were rotting away, slowly, bit by bit. You know that! She was alone in this. She had to get used to it. Things only became worse the next morning. Her denial had given way to acceptance, and the acceptance of her condition depressed her. A little later, they were in the car, negotiating the early-morning traffic to the hospital. Pihu sat on the back seat, wondering if the doctor had any inkling of what was wrong with her.
She hoped he would. The anticipation of the pain her parents would go through was getting unbearable. He was smiling. Pihu remained expressionless as she looked at all the branded merchandise—pens, diaries, clocks and notepads—from the big pharmaceutical companies. Her father absent-mindedly played with a plastic model of the human brain. Difficulty in breathing? I would have made such a good doctor. She tried not to buckle and weep. Her parents were still distracted. She felt sorry for them.
The doctor looked at her parents and started to ask them about their families. They are still alive? She knew he was yet to make any sense of it. But he had a hunch about what Pihu had. Nothing major. Pihu smiled back at him. Does he know? Why is he smiling? She is a medical student, you know.
Lots of pressure, big books, late nights, you know? Pihu , on one side is a brilliant medical student who self-diagnosed ALS ,one which was diagnosed for Stephen Hawking.
She counts every extra breath as blessing. Arman's eye. Arman is portrayed as a genius , one who knew he was gifted. On other Hand , Dushyant is a self spoiled , intelligent brat who was brought to hospital after passing out in a drinking session a night ago.
He drink himself to death after his girlfriend left him. Later coming to hospital , he found himself being fitted with Dr. Zarah , had joined the hospital as intrern under Arman , and was struggling from her dark past , a cripple relationship with her parents especially her Dad.
Dushyant too was given up by his parents. Their Love story realise that sometimes if we are broken then someone damaged suits us well. Till the Last Breath Oct 31, Sundeep Supertramp rated it it was amazing Shelves: I am not a big fan of Durjoy Datta. I have read a few of his books - You were my crush, oh yes I am single. They were a disaster. Then came his book, If its not forever. I didnt want to read it. But the title of the book made me read it. I wasnt disappointed.
It had love stories with travelling.
A perfect blend. The 'my kind' book. So I was in a quandary, whether to read it or not. The name seemed interesting. The cover, it is not that great. But as they say, 'Never judge a book by its cover'.
A I am not a big fan of Durjoy Datta. And plot seemed convincing. It gave the impression of drama. And, I hate dramas or literature. Within a week after the book was out, it was in my hands. I just completed reading Jeffery Archer's Twist in the Tale.
After reading a few short stories with twisting ends at its best, I was ready to take on a boring read. That is what I had in my about this book.
The book in my hand seemed alien to me. I didn't see many books with white covers. The front cover blended with the papers inside. Also, the book was very light for a pages book. A riffle through the pages told that the paper was very light weighted - indicated low or high quality, I don't know. I started reading it. Arman is a doctor; Dushyant is a patient, who is at the brink of his mortality, admitted in Arman's hospital. Pihu is young, normal medicine student.
But fate doesn't play fair with her. She is affected by a deadly To read the whole review, follow the link below Oct 23, Saniya Huseini rated it it was amazing. This boooook was breath taking Armaan d knight having shining armour Pihu d chubby ever smiling gal full of lyf Dushyant an addicted guy who loved his girlfriend bt treated her lyk animal Zarah who was an unexpected gal till d end an unflinching character throughout d book Mar 06, Krishna Kumar rated it liked it.
Read this Durjoy's book. It is good. I wonder how come a guy of 24 or 25 years have successfully written 9 novels, thats mind blowing. I really admire your writing and dedication in it. I have read three of your books and two of them were good. You know, CB sucks when yours are compared with him. You have an unique writing skill. I understood she is going Read this Durjoy's book.
I understood she is going to be a donor to him, when his kidney needed replacement and she is going to die Apr 30, Aparna rated it it was amazing Shelves: Touched the core of my heart Till My Last Breath is a book that would go straight to your heart and bring tears to your eyes. All the characters of the book are beautifully depicted you feel you've known them for ages.
The story was so well written that I lived every page of the book and felt every emotion This was my first book of Durjoy Datta and I am sure as hell gonna read his other books. Dec 07, Charushi rated it really liked it.
Now I know that being a writer is not about writing mushy love stories, its about accepting the reality and creating a world of imagination in the reader's mind. Sep 06, Shivani rated it it was ok. I liked the concept of the book- An overachiever diagnosed with ALS. A drunkard devoid of love. In fact, the story was very realistically set. The author described well the struggles of the protagonists to come to terms with their fates.
I even loved the character Dushyant, despite what is made of him. But somehow, I felt like it was dragged. The 10 chapters in between seemed like a struggle to me. And the editing, oh the editing was horrible. Grammatical mistakes are still bearable, but 'spelli I liked the concept of the book- An overachiever diagnosed with ALS. Grammatical mistakes are still bearable, but 'spelling' mistakes? Jeez, that's unforgivable. Anyhow, Pihu's character makes me want to puke in some parts and hug in some.
I didn't enjoy hers and Dr. Arman's romance much. I'd liked Zarah's and Dushyant's a lot though. Venky was an odd yet fun addition.
In a nutshell, it was a bet for me. I liked Dushyant more than Pihu, contrary to what was supposed to be. There were constant ups and downs; The story was not so consistent.
However, the ending was very touching. I felt the world stop for a second after I read the last line. So maybe the story doesn't progress so well, but the ending sure leaves you overwhelmed. PS- I don't recommend this book to all the Grey's Anatomy's fans out there. Want Medical Drama? Watch reruns instead. Jun 27, Rishabh Bhoj rated it it was amazing.
My second review on Durjoy's book. The story is worth reading hence I'm here to make a remark. First of all this is one of the very few books which doesn't involve sex. The story is about two patients in room no. Will they be able to make it? Will their efforts to save the person they hold dearest to their hearts pay off? That's what the story is all about. The s My second review on Durjoy's book.
The story has some beautiful moments. Pihu is exceptionally cute, so is Zara and Kajal. Dushyant is abrasive, stubborn and learns his lesson the hard way. Arman is stern and strict but changes as the novel progresses and the truth behind is facade is also revealed. This poignant tale of love, endeavors to save your loved ones, takes you on a journey that will touch your heart.
By the time the you finish reading the book, you'll realize what it really means to be alive. Apr 18, Bookish Devil rated it it was amazing. I Am Me. Ram Sundaram. Tim Bennett. Wish In One Hand. Jill Barton. Murder, Suicide or Natural Causes? Richard Reason II. Six Dead Spots. Gregor Xane.
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You can remove the unavailable item s now or we'll automatically remove it at Checkout. Remove FREE. Unavailable for purchase. Continue shopping Checkout Continue shopping. Chi ama i libri sceglie Kobo e inMondadori. Back to Romance. Till the Last Breath. Buy the eBook Price: Get RS. You are in the India store Not in India? Choose Store. Two patients are admitted to room no.
One is a brilliant nineteen-year-old medical student, suffering from an incurable, fatal disease. She counts every extra breath as a blessing. The other is a twenty-five-year-old drug addict whose organs are slowly giving up.