Chapter 1

He walks over the low barricade outside All India Institute of Medical Sciences, ignoring the many eyes that inevitably pause on him before passing by. He walks as smooth as the wind that is absent on the May afternoon. Holding a big bunch of white daisies with both hands, as if holding on for life, he heads towards the place he hates the most in the world. His short uncombed hair looks even browner in the glistening sun, his cheeks red because of the stinging heat. Wearing black-framed spectacles, balanced a little lower on the nose than usual, he walks on, continuing to make heads turn.

The guard at the entrance of AIIMS salutes him. He returns the gesture with a weak smile, which vanishes as soon as he walks past. He’s quite used to the chemical-like smell of a hospital, he almost expects it, but detests it still. There is a faint sound of a woman howling. He is used to that as well. Expressionless, he slowly goes further and further down the long curving corridor. There are ill people, about a handful, lying down on nothing but a sheet, on both sides of the narrow extension of the first floor. There are no beds vacant for them, for, either they don’t have enough money to bribe the ward-boys, or they don’t have a politician’s approach. They wait helplessly—for death. Inside the biggest hospital of the country.

His long walk ends just before Ward 139, at Dr. Shantanu Malhotra’s room; where the doctor is busily writing a case study.
"Hi doctor," Mark greets the familiar head in a very low pitch.
Dr. Malhotra’s pen stops and, with an effort, he looks up. There is no sign of greeting on his face; he just stares at the eyes staring back at him blankly.
"What?" he asks the doctor anxiously, trying his best to keep the fading smile on.
"She’s no more," he hears Dr. Malhotra’s voice, strangely in the distance, as if coming from far, very far, away. "I’m sorry," the doctor says heavily.
Mark wants to move, but he is unable to. The white daisies in his hands start to shiver. He can feel his eyes beginning to moist. He knows if he opens his mouth to say anything, anything at all, he will burst out into tears.
"Can I… is she still…" he chokes.
"Yes," says Dr. Malhotra, still staring at him, "go on in."

Mark looks down on his feet, pleading them to move. His continuous shivering seems to block all possibilities of movement, yet he somehow manages to lift his feet. He must take those few dreadful steps.

Looking through the small glass portion of the door, he can see Uncle Cedric, her father, on far side of the bed, hugging her 12-year-old sister Denise. He opens the door. Aunty Dianne, sitting on the bed by her head, starts crying louder after seeing the daisies in Mark’s hand.
Uncle Cedric takes Denise by her hand and walks up to him. "I’m sorry," he says in a broken voice, putting a hand on his shoulder. Mark isn’t looking, cannot look, anywhere else but at her. At her stillness.

Uncle Cedric walks out with Denise, signalling his wife to follow. Mark waits for the door to close behind them before walking up to the bed, and sits beside her. His glazed eyes stare at her closed motionless ones, hoping they would open, that they would move, even if a flick of the lashes…
He wants to touch her, but realizes his hands are sweaty from grasping the polythene-wrapped stems of the daisies that he still holds. He puts the flowers down on the glass table, beside the vase that is already full of fresh white daisies. Wiping his palms on his jeans, he touches her cheek with the back of his hand. His hands tremble. Her face is cold—too cold. He gets up and sits on the chair next to the bed, near a window. Outside, birds chirp happily and cars honk maddeningly… but he cannot hear. He cannot think. He doesn’t want to.

"Daisy…" he says softly, as if calling out to her, as if she hears. His eyes well up once again, and, finally, tears spill over. "Daisy…" He takes off his spectacles and keeps them on the bed, and with hands covering his face, cries silently.

Abruptly, he wipes the tears off his cheeks with his shoulders—a new determination clear in his eyes. "I’ll break the promise Daisy," he mumbles, "I promise, I’ll break the promise."
He gets up and bends down to kiss Daisy’s forehead.

The door opens behind him, and Uncle Cedric walks back in. "Mark," he calls out, with concern in his voice. Mark puts his spectacles on again before turning around. Aunty Dianne and Denise walk in too. With swollen red eyes, all three stare at him. He feels nothing. He has become numb.
"The funeral is tomorrow. We’ll take her back by the early morning Shatabdi," Uncle Cedric says, hoping to get a reaction from Mark. But there is still no movement. "When are you going back?" he asks, trying again, but gets no reply.
Mark lowers his head and starts walking towards the door.
"Mark…" Uncle Cedric calls out. Aunty Dianne and Denise follow Mark tensely with their eyes.
"Mark!" Uncle Cedric’s voice was a little louder than before as Mark walks out. They go out after him.

As if he’s forgotten his own name, Mark walks back down the same long curving, narrow corridor. Their eyes follow him till he disappears somewhere in the curve.