The ghost who talks: A story that is on its last legs

My humour is dead. It died a dishonourable death. I didn’t have a story idea. It rankles so much that I am forced to knock on the door of the disreputable Professor Ku T for one.

The man is known for his knack of making up stories, conjuring them on a whim and throwing them in your face with that snide smirk on his face that pronounces you a dunce without actually saying it. He is the most disliked person on the planet.

I knock on his door. It comes open instantly. He smiles. He knows. He asks. I say ‘yes.’ The room smells of rum. He reeks of it. He sits on the only chair in the room. I am forced to stand before him like a schoolboy. He pours himself a shot of rum, a stiff one. I wish he will become one but I know that is wishful thinking.

Then he tells me the story I couldn’t come up with. Here’s it in as many words... “There’s this guy enjoying life. He turned it into a sport. And right when he was getting the feeling he was on the top of the world, in comes the bolt from the blue, a prick and the drop of blood stood out, dark on his fingertip. A blob that was absorbed and a moment later appeared as a number on the screen: 455. The poor fellow was a diabetic. His boss told him the next day, ‘I don’t envy you.’

“Two months later, he felt the first stabs of pain on both his legs. He walked painfully into the doctor’s cabin. Doc stood behind his table, a broad smile on his face. Docs are like that. They don’t understand that what people with ailments want is not a smile but a helping hand, like helping the sorry figure with painful legs into a chair, lay him prone on the examining table and do a thorough examination...

“But then how can a doc know what to do unless you tell him what troubles you. The painful fellow finally conveys to the doctor what troubles him. Doc examines him on the examining table. A few tests are carried out. X-rays reveal the horrible truth. ‘Both your legs are gangrenous,’ doc pronounces. ‘I recommend amputation from the hip or
you are dead within six months, at the most seven.’

“The poor painful fellow wouldn’t let anyone amputate his legs. He attempts suicide twice in the two months that follow. Both times he fails. The police register two attempt-to-suicide cases against him. He is presented before a judge, a judge with a stern face, who berates him for trying to take a life even if the life was his own. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ the judge finally pronounces and sentences him to — amputation!

“The poor painful fellow is lead away, to the hospital where he tells the beautiful nurse how he wished she had been born when he was a young man and how he would have wooed her no end and how both would have ended up in bed, not the sort he was now bound to but the king-sized one in his bedroom... she listens to his rant with a vacant smile on her vacant face. That evening he asks the doc what would be done with his amputated legs? Doc gives him a pat on the back. ‘Incinerate them, you don’t have to worry.’

“He thinks of that the entire night. He would undergo two cremations, one in a few days when they mercilessly cut off his legs and another when he would finally pop off, for good. He prays fervently. In the morning they find him lifeless with a smile on his face. The cremation takes place in the evening. God had answered his prayers.”

With that Prof Ku T ends the story, saying ‘There young fella, there’s your story.’ I am dumbfounded. ‘What sort of story is this?’ I ask him. ‘This is BS, load of crap. I thought you were better than this. My parrot has better stories to tell than the one you just told me. You’re pathetic.’

Prof Ku T looks at me with a painful look on his face. He stands up, says: “Son, I think my blood sugar level has hit the ceiling, and my legs pain like hell. I will not let anyone amputate them, to hell with the judge and cops and the doc. Now, scram you little runt. Out of my door, GO’.

I scram.

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