by Durjoy Datta
‘You can tell me,’ Dushyant pressed again.
‘I tried telling my father …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘What did he say? Didn’t he do anything?’ Dushyant almost bellowed, the Anger Vein in his forehead now far more prominent.
‘He didn’t believe me.’
‘He didn’t believe you? That you got raped? Why the fuck? How can that be?’ Dushyant clutched her hand and jerked her around, almost as if it was not Zarah in front of him, but the men who had raped her. ‘There are tests, aren’t there?’
‘I didn’t tell him I was raped. I told him I was manhandled … Molested.’
‘Why? Umm … but still …’ Dushyant struggled with his words. He grappled in the dark to come up with an explanation as to why her father didn’t believe her and why she had to lie. He also wondered if Kajal had told anybody what had happened that night.
‘He refused to believe me and said I was imagining things,’ Zarah said, her voice steeled now. ‘I didn’t know what to tell him.’
‘And you have not talked about it to anyone?’ Dushyant still pressed on, looking for answers, trying to make sense out of this ridiculous atrocity.
‘You’re the first person I have told this to,’ she confessed.
Why? Dushyant felt burdened by the truth. All of a sudden, he felt accountable for what had happened to Zarah fifteen years ago. He started to imagine a lonely little girl being ravaged by two big army generals as she screamed powerlessly in agony. He felt vomit rising to his throat.
‘What about them? The men who …’ Dushyant asked, hoping for the worst.
‘One of them died in action a year later. The other had an accident at home and slipped into a coma. He was taken off the ventilator recently and he died too,’ she said with air of triumph.
‘I hope it was painful,’ Dushyant spluttered.
‘You sound angry,’ she said.
‘Obviously, I am! Who wouldn’t be?’
‘I have hated men ever since. I am scared in their presence. I loathe touching them and I wish they never come near me,’ Zarah said and shifted in her place.
All men are the same, Dushyant thought, as the memories of the night when he had forced himself on Kajal came rushing forth.
‘Your father should have supported you. This is simply unacceptable … Oh, is that why you don’t get along with your parents?’
‘Just my dad,’ she corrected.
‘Don’t you think he has the right to know? Or you have the right to tell him?’ he interrogated.
‘What good would that do?’ she responded, her face contorting to show she didn’t care, even if she did.
‘You never know. I mean I don’t know why your father did what he did, but you need to tell him where he was wrong. He should have been there and he was not,’ he said.
‘I don’t think that will help. I am over it,’ she clarified.
‘You are over it? You’re close to tears, Zarah,’ he said.
‘I am not—’ she said and was reduced to a puddle of tears. Before Dushyant could say anything she wrapped herself around him and started to sob profusely. Dushyant ran his hands on her back in an attempt to soothe her and make it better, all the while wondering if she was repulsed by his touch too. He, too, was a rapist after all.
‘I think I need to go,’ she whimpered.
‘No, you don’t,’ he said, his hands locking firmly around her. ‘I think you should stay here … with me.’
‘Seriously—’
‘I am not letting you go,’ he interrupted.
‘I need some fresh air. Let’s go for a drive?’ she suggested, trying hard not to cry any longer.
Dushyant nodded. As they rode the elevator down to the last floor of the hospital, Dushyant felt a throbbing, piercing pain in his lower abdomen. He winced in pain and looked the other way.
‘Are you okay?’ Zarah asked.
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ he said, smiling.
He needed another smoke, he thought. She checked out in the staff register and they walked to the doctors’ parking lot.
‘Nice car,’ he muttered. His abdomen throbbed. He really needed the pain meds.
‘If that’s a joke, it’s not funny,’ she said. A smile crept behind the unyielding tears.
They climbed into the car and she put it in gear. As they hit the main road, the tears dried up in the wind sweeping in through the open car windows.
‘So are you going to tell him?’ he asked. The pain intensified and it reached his lower back. It felt like his insides were being ground in a blender. He started sweating, his hands became clammy and even the cool air didn’t help.
‘I am not telling him anything,’ she replied, ‘I don’t see the point.’
‘But there is one … You need to understand that. What’s the harm anyway? You say you are over it, right? The people who did it are dead. You don’t get along with your dad even now. I think you should tell him,’ he grumbled. The pain was piercing and he felt his body getting warmer, trying to fight the pain off. Blood rushed to his face and he felt like his eyes would pop out. It felt like someone had got hold of his body and was scrunching and twisting it over and over again.
‘Dushyant?’ Zarah said. ‘Are you okay? You look flushed …’
‘I am fine,’ he replied. He felt like he would pass out any moment.
‘You don’t look fine,’ she said and put her hand on his forehead. ‘You are burning up!’
He opened his mouth to say something but a flood of his insides filled his oesophagus and he vomited furiously. He opened the door of the car and slumped on the pavement. His back shook uncontrollably and he started to puke blood and half-digested food all over. Zarah bent over and patted his back to give him some relief but his body still shook hysterically. There was blood all over. After he was done and his eyes rolled over as if he was dead, Zarah somehow got him back inside the car and drove back to the hospital as fast as she could. Three ward boys were waiting with a stretcher at the main door of the hospital. They rushed him to the ICU while Zarah frantically checked in and put on her doctor’s coat. She ran to the operation room where she noticed that Dushyant had already undergone a seizure and the doctors were cutting a hole in his throat to help him breathe. Dushyant’s body fought involuntarily against the knife which pierced his throat. Zarah stood there, stunned and traumatized, as the doctors pushed a breathing pipe inside his throat. Not able to take it any more, she slipped out of the room and almost fainted on the bench outside.
Dushyant, though half dead, could see her leave the room before he passed out from the pain.
18
Arman Kashyap
Arman kicked in his sleep when his phone rang. It was the first time in weeks that he was back in his apartment and an uninvited phone call was the last thing he wanted. It rang for the fifth time and he had to pick it up. The patient from room no. 509 had had a seizure and his kidneys were failing. He had puked blood and a hole had had to be punched through his throat to keep him from choking to death. Fuck.
After what had happened in that room with Pihu’s friends and Dushyant, he wouldn’t have cared if Dushyant lived or died. He was a burning pain in the ass anyway. Mindlessly, he stepped into the shower and washed up. As the water ran down his body, he realized he had gained considerable weight over the last few years. He wasn’t the young, athletic charmer any more. His body, once as hard as granite, was now slowly withering away, his eyes were sunken and fine lines of tiredness from long hours in the hospital showed on his face. He stood in front of the mirror and wondered how his parents still looked so young. The answer was clear as it was always—making money as a doctor was easier than going out there and making a difference.
He sat in his gleaming blue BMW—one of the few gifts he was showered with on his last birthday—and zipped through the early-morning traffic, reaching the hospital in fifteen minutes. He noticed Zarah’s car parked rather awkwardly in the parking lot. He checked in at th
e reception and headed straight for his office. On his way, he crossed the surgery room Dushyant was in and stepped in for a bit to see what had gone wrong. His eyebrows knitted. He put two and two together.
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ he bellowed as soon he stepped into his office. Zarah was startled out of her slumber, the pattern of the table mat imprinted on her face.
‘What?’
‘Do I need to tell you what? You almost killed him. First you make him smoke, then you take him out on a drive? WHAT were you thinking, trying to pull off something like that?’ he interrogated.
‘I am—’
‘If it were not me, you would have lost your job! You almost killed somebody last night,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t even know if you are capable of grasping the concept of being a doctor and not making patients bleed to death. Do you get that? There are rules and regulations that you need to follow. How hard is that to understand for you? I don’t know what you fucking share with a useless, half-dead man, but whatever it is, it shouldn’t mess up his treatment. I will NOT have his blood on my hands!’
‘I am sorry.’
‘But what the hell were you thinking? A patient has to stay in the hospital till he or she is discharged—how hard is that to understand?’ he said, banging his fist on the table.
Zarah’s lips quivered and Arman could see her hands shaking in fear. Though Arman never respected rules and regulations himself, the understanding and repercussions of breaking them had to be grasped to the full. Something that the young doctor, Zarah, didn’t understand. The girl in front of him just looked down at her knees and mumbled something indecipherable.
‘Can you speak up?’ he asked.
‘As if you follow all the rules …’ she muttered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know you’re about to run an experimental treatment on Pihu, aren’t you?’
The blood from Arman’s face drained away and he stared at Zarah in horror. How does she know?
‘Who told you?’ Arman queried.
‘No one did,’ the girl looked straight into his eyes and answered. ‘I am not stupid. I saw the reports and the frequent tests you have been doing on the girl. Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me, sir. I am sure you have something in mind.’ Her voice was now strong and resolute. ‘Yes, I did something unasked for last night and I am really sorry about it. I will make sure it never happens again. And that patient means a lot to me, just like Pihu does to you. I will do anything to make him live. I am sorry to have let you down.’
‘I don’t think he has much time left,’ Arman mumbled.
‘He doesn’t? What makes you say that?’ Zarah pried like a restless relative. Arman didn’t have the heart to tell her, especially since his opinion was based more on experience and instinct than a study of hard facts and test results.
‘His whole body is shutting down. His liver has suffered irreversible damage and now it’s his kidneys. He is weaker than we thought he was. Just because he doesn’t cry out in pain doesn’t mean there isn’t any. He might need a transplant which he won’t get due to his alcohol and drug-ridden past. I don’t see him getting out of here alive,’ he explained.
‘But he was getting better—’
‘We just treated the symptoms. His body is a battlefield of diseases and tumours, and we can’t treat everything. Any drastic treatments will kill him sooner than you can imagine. And we can’t really transplant every living cell in his body,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to save him, though I have been wrong before.’
Arman, even with his tough exterior, never quite got used to delivering bad news to anybody. Not even fellow doctors. He knew about the bond Zarah and Dushyant had grown to share and it crushed him to tell her this. Also, the fact that Dushyant had been recovering steadily over the last few days gave everyone—Arman, Zarah and Pihu—hope that it was just a matter of time before he would swagger out of the hospital with a joint on his lips.
‘We can’t remove the tumours?’ she posed.
‘From a kidney that’s already dying out?’
‘What are our options?’ she pressed on.
‘We can apply for transplants for a new kidney and possibly a liver if it deteriorates further but given the time that he has left, I don’t think we can get any,’ he explained.
‘I will fill out the application,’ she said. ‘How much time do we have left?’
‘Not more than three to four weeks,’ Arman replied. He had no words to soothe the pain of the young doctor who he knew would take this death seriously. Doctors never forget the first deaths they encounter. They stay with them, reminding them of their responsibility and fallibility.
Conversation died out after a while and he left the room. He had Pihu’s test results on his mind. His steps quickened as he hastily headed to the research facility of the hospital to chart out a medicinal routine for the dying girl. She had less time than Dushyant did.
19
Pihu Malhotra
Pihu’s eyes were immovably set on the other bed in her room, partly because she was in denial and partly because she felt sorry for Dushyant’s pitiable state. The number of drips and the monitors monitoring his vital stats had increased. He wasn’t breathing on his own but through a pipe that fit into a nozzle in his throat. His body struggled and writhed in pain with every breath and he looked tormented. It had been almost two weeks since the incident—when he puked blood—and he had hardly been awake after that. Now, he got up, took the medicines, whined and moaned and went back to sleep. Sometimes she noticed Dushyant looking at her, trying to say something but nothing ever made sense. His speech was reduced to long-drawn-out mumbles and painful groans.
Only yesterday, she had mustered up the courage to ask Arman if Dushyant was going to be all right. She was stunned to learn he was dying. He was just fine, wasn’t he? Her gaze shifted to her own legs which were being examined by Dr Zarah and a couple of more people she had seen for the first time. The medicinal routine had started and she was sick of swallowing twenty pills a day. It had been easy at first but slowly it was becoming tougher. The pills started to depress her and every time she had to take one, the bad aftertaste at the back of her tongue served as a reminder of what she had.
‘Can you feel them?’ one of them asked.
‘Pihu?’ Zarah said to catch her attention.
‘I can’t,’ she mumbled as they kept creeping up her leg. She could see their hands mould, prick and knead her legs but she couldn’t feel them in the way she used to. Now, her legs were just extensions of her body that she could neither move nor feel any sensation in. She felt helpless, defeated, as she saw the shock and horror in her mother’s eyes. The disease was progressing faster than it should have.
Later that day, she tried walking to the bathroom and found it hard to do so, even with the crutches. Her strength was draining out. Since her every need was catered to in the hospital, she had not realized how tough daily chores had become for her. Walking was a problem, getting in and out of clothes was a real pain, and she was a lot slower at eating her meals. To prevent exhaustion from chewing, her meals now consisted of mashed food that had to be reheated at least twice in the course of every meal. Her jaws hurt like crap after every meal.
Pihu knew that she would soon start to choke on her food and require help to bathe and to relieve herself and to even pick up a book. Given the special condition, she knew it could come sooner than expected. She kept the book on cancer aside and picked up Tuesdays with Morrie, the book on the real-life account of someone who had died of ALS. It wasn’t the first time she was reading the book and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. The book gave her the strength to carry on and to keep the spirit to fight alive in her.
Later that night, Arman came to visit Pihu. Her mother was sleeping and her father had gone home for the day. Arman woke her up and she smiled groggily at him. His presence in the room always shook something deep inside her, a feeling that she had never encountered before, a warm
, fuzzy feeling that smelled of chocolate … and home. It was as if every cell in her body responded to his being in the vicinity. He sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand in his. As he clutched it, Pihu felt the loss of power in her hands. She couldn’t clutch it as hard as she would have liked to.
‘How are you feeling today?’ Arman asked.
‘Pretty shitty,’ she answered shyly. ‘I am slowly losing all my strength.’
‘Tell me more,’ he replied.
‘My bench press is down to 200 pounds and I don’t think I can compete in the Delhi marathon this year,’ she said in all seriousness. Arman chuckled. She laughed.
Pihu told him about her loss of strength and coordination, about how she could no longer use the fork or the knife to pierce or cut through food, about how she felt that she would not be able to walk, even with a crutch, for long and how sometimes she had trouble breathing. Most ALS patients die because their diaphragm muscles are too weak to support breathing and they suffocate to death. She asked Arman if that was the way she would die. Arman comforted her and told her whatever he knew about the disease—which was everything there was to know.
All of a sudden, Pihu started to cry a little. Arman put his hands around her and comforted her and she kept sobbing softly in his arms. The crying went on for an inordinately long period of time. When she looked at the clock that hung on the wall just opposite to her bed, she noticed that she had been crying for the past thirty minutes, twenty-five of which had been in Arman’s warm embrace. She tried to stop but couldn’t. Thinking of the horrors that were yet to come, she did not want to live any longer. If she were to die sleeping, her lungs screaming for a few last breaths, she would rather die now.
‘Are you okay now?’ Arman inquired as she stopped crying.
She felt embarrassed and said, ‘I am sorry.’
‘You don’t have to be. I thought you knew that heightened emotions are a symptom of this disease. Patients continue to laugh or cry for longer periods of time because of the degeneration of brain cells which control these emotions,’ he clarified.
