A staunch odor of murky bottles engulfs the studio apartment. Four moderately built men dressed in white lift the body of Rahul, a forgotten superstar. From his hand, dangles a pair of earphones, still playing his favorite track. It, in fact, is the only track on his playlist.
"Rush him to the emergency, immediately," says a doctor, smoking a sleek, black cigarette in the restricted area.
Rahul has to be operated upon. Alcohol abuse led to liver poisoning, and the only surgeon available at this hour is Doctor Kabir Singh. He drops the cigarette in the middle of the hallway, right in front of the ICU and crushes it with his unpolished, worn out shoe. He is not to be misunderstood for an unkempt person. He is just having a lazy Sunday.
The surgery goes on forever. The hospital authorities haven't the slightest of ideas concerning who is to be informed upon Rahul's status. 24 hours seems like an entire lustreless winter and Rahul's eyes flicker open, expectantly.
"Is she here? Aarohi?" his voice is barely audible.
"Right now, all that you have got to worry about is yourself," the angry nurse rants at the careless superstar.
Dr. Kabir Singh waves her off and walks towards Rahul with heavy footsteps. At the foot of the bed, he stands, examining the once tall and muscular Rahul. He looks pale and fragile, with droopy eyes, making him appear 10 years older. Kabir offers Rahul his trademark cigarette.
"I don't smoke. It harms my lungs"
Kabir chuckles "like abusing your liver is doing you any good. "
"that is none of your business," a barely audible Rahul tries to argue with Kabir.
"will you ever get over her?" Kabir asked, lighting the cigarette with a glass lighter. It reminds him of Preethi. She had gifted it to him so he would stop smoking every time he lights the cigarette with fire. But his lungs are anyway on the verge of dying, like his heart.
"I said that it is none of your business, didn't I?" Rahul raises his voice higher than he is currently capable of.
"I'm not some sort of a Gandhi but let me tell you something. Fucking with your life will not bring another person back. Your career, your lost fame, all of it can be brought back. Hold yourself together," without uttering another word, he walks away, with the cigarette gritted between his teeth, and tears jerking in the cup of his eyes.
Rahul's anesthesia kicks in again, and he drifts into another deep slumber. Six months pass by. Rahul is no more the forgotten superstar. His tours are sold out, and he has been busy signing record labels.
Miles away from Delhi at a tombstone stands Preethi, with flowers in her hand. Kabir has smoked himself to death. In Rahul, he had seen himself but did not have a third person perspective towards his life. He only wished for a Kabir Singh at the right time.
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General FictionIt is always easy for us to give advice- ask someone to stop doing something, or asking them to get their life together. But when it comes to us, we fail. All the time. Such is the story of a smoker Kabir Singh, and an alcoholic Rahul. Who's idea li...
