A cure to aging was invented, and it came in the form of a small pill that was reasonably affordable and with minimal side effects.
It was nicknamed the bitter pill, because of a side effect where it messed up your saliva and made it taste overwhelmingly acrid.
A secondary treatment to deaden your tastebuds was almost always taken alongside it. It was an expensive procedure, and for some it was too much compared to the hundred dollars spent for the pill.
I was one of those who could not afford the secondary treatment. My hometown in India was very poor, and I used all of my family’s savings getting the single pill shipped to us from China. I didn’t hesitate when the pill finally arrived. The sooner I took it the better the odds that my body would find a comfortable equilibrium.
I really should have waited. I could have savoured one last meal cooked by my mother, or the sweetness of a fresh mango, or the clean refreshing taste of water.
I could hardly swallow a thing in that first week. Even as mother brought out a great platter of my favourite pastries, I only managed two choke down two bites before I left the table. I wanted to eat so badly, my stomach called to me for food, but I couldn’t get anything inside me.
I went to the doctor, hoping that he could do something for me. He said that there were three options I could take. I already knew about the first, going into the city and getting the surgical treatment at the hospital. The second treatment was a daily medication that would suppress my saliva grand production and leave me with a terribly dry mouth that smelled terrible and needed regular careful watering. I couldn’t take that option even if I wanted to, the pills would cost four fifths of my weekly pay. The third treatment was simple. All of my meals would be eaten from a tube, avoiding any swallowing or tasting entirely.
It was the only option I had. So I started sucking up all my food from that tube. I stopped eating with the rest of the family at the table at all, much to my mother’s disappointment. I promised to her that I would only be doing this until I had enough money to get myself treated.
I had no idea how long that would take. It had been eight years since I took that pill. I hadn’t aged a day since the moment I opened the envelope and sent myself into a new era in my lifespan. I was trying to save money, but work was very hard to come by, and whatever I did make was going to my Father’s medical bills. I had begged him to take out a lone and get the treatment for himself, but after seeing what it had done to me he refused to ever take the pill.
He died on my thirty-ninth birthday. I cried bitter tears for the needless loss. I cursed the man I respected so highly for his stubborn refusal to give up tasting food to spend another lifetime with his son. I spoke with my Mother about this, and she told me that she didn’t want to linger in this world for countless years without my father, suffering as I was.
Suffering. That was the word she’d used. I told her that it wasn’t suffering, that it was enduring temporary hardship in the hope for a day where the impermanent discomfort gave way for eternal life.
I had this discussion with her for years upon years.
She died when I was fifty-seven, still looking like a man less than half my age.
I was still a poor man. Jobs were harder to come by than when I began this stage of my life, and getting a job in Europe or America seemed less likely than ever. I dragged my way through the countless days. I stopped keeping track of my own age, and before I knew it I was a hundred years old. A weekly guaranteed income had been passed for those under a century old, a way to support the young few among us. I actually applied for it, and that was when I realized just how old I was.
I hadn’t tasted food in as long as I could remember. The idea of taste itself was only the faintest memory.
Even those memories will someday die.
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