Free Rajmahal by Kamalini Sengupta

deep breath. “Tell me. What do you worry about most these days? What were you talking about a short while ago?”
    â€œI was talking about getting senile,” said Myrna promptly. “Getting senile, forgetful, incontinent, all those things. And I said I wouldn’t like to live if that happened. If I were to get senile.”
    â€œAnd . . . ?” Jack prompted, hope surging back at her coherent reply.
    â€œAnd what?”
    â€œYou said something else as well . . . ”
    â€œI, I don’t remember! Oh my god, it’s started . . . Jack! It’s started!” Myrna’s voice was dry, hands up at her throat.
    â€œThere’s no sign of it at all,” said Jack, taking her hands and clasping them again. “Your mind, at the moment, is as clear as a bell.” He willed himself to sound confident.
    â€œThen what was it I said? What was it?”
    â€œJust this, my darling. You said, “What if I become senile and don’t realize it .” That’s what you said . . . ”
    â€œYes. I remember,” Myrna whispered. “I remember. But that’s true, isn’t it? It’s true. If I become senile I’ll never know, will I?”
    â€œAnd I? Have you thought about me in the same predicament?” Jack added gently.
    â€œOf course I have. I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to look after you. I’m not so strong, you know that! You know I have angina . . . ”

    â€œI’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you exactly what, Myrna.” Jack’s voice became thinner, the tremor in it increasing. “Look. It’s hardly likely that we’ll both go down the hill at the same time, is it? Tell me,” he urged, “is that likely?”
    â€œI suppose not, no, I suppose not.”
    â€œWell. In that case, the answer’s clear.” His grip on her arthritic hands became painful. Myrna snatched them away.
    â€œI’ll make the arrangements, and I’ll show you what I plan.” Pausing. “We’ll have to promise, solemnly and honestly, to help each other, Myrna.” Pause. “And the one who remains normal, in control, will have to promise to help out, by, by . . . ” He came to a standstill.
    â€œBy what? What are you going on about, Jack Strachey?”
    â€œBy helping the other to end it all!” blurted out Jack.
    â€œTo what?”
    â€œTo, end it all!”
    â€œYou don’t mean . . . ”
    Myrna’s mouth had fallen open, her face was contorted. “But that’s murder !” Her voice was thin and tremulous too, like Jack’s. “How do I know you won’t murder me? You, you evil man! I’m going home before you murder me. I don’t care if you stay on here. I’m going to, to Martin! Oh you evil man . . . ”
    The ghosts were equally distraught. “Oh what is to happen?” they muttered.
    Jack tried to embrace her again but Myrna pushed him off in an extravagant gesture of panic, dislodging the delicate arrangement of her hairnet. Her hair fluffed out exposing bare pink patches. She struggled to get up but fell back heavily. She talked on, demented, incoherent, continuing to struggle on her seat. Jack stared at her aghast, and swallowed fearfully. A refrain went through his head, “Murder evil, murder evil.” Listening to her and looking at her, his face slowly suffused with blood. “But where is she trying to go? Where can she go?”

    The light from the veranda haloed Myrna’s white, blow-away hair. It was yet another languishing day. Myrna sat in a chair with the television on in front of her, talking, incessantly. Jack sat next to her, paying attention to the TV and responding with practiced fluency. Today, instead of saying
anything abrasive or accusing she was reminiscing, recollecting the early days of style and splendor. Jack gave up watching the TV to listen to her.
    â€œWho would have thought men