The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Her hands trembled a little at the thought of meeting Rohit.

  Before Vishal or she could knock, the door was opened by a slight, balding man, who looked to be in his seventies or thereabouts. He was dressed in brown trousers and a cream bush shirt. He stared at Vinita for a moment, his small eyes behind the glasses appraising her thoroughly, from head to toe. The look was perhaps no more than one second more than was considered polite when a man looked at a woman, but it was a piercing glance nonetheless. The blood rushed to her face.

  “Namaste,” he said finally, joining his hands in greeting. “I’m Shashi Barve. Please come in.” He held the door wide open.

  Returning the namaste, she and Vishal crossed the threshold into the drawing room. “My sister, Vinita Patil,” said Vishal, introducing her to Barve.

  It was a cool, sparsely decorated room with whitewashed walls and a gray slate floor. A simple black vinyl couch was backed against one wall, a sturdy coffee table separating it from two chairs placed against the opposite wall. Blue and white print cushions and matching curtains on the window provided the only splashes of color. But it all looked scrupulously clean.

  What captured Vinita’s eye were the photographs monopolizing two of the walls. Mr. Barve was everywhere: flanked by politicians, shaking hands with dignitaries, accepting an award, wearing a garland of red and white roses and smiling broadly, leading what looked like a rally, holding a picket sign.

  In person he looked harmless enough—smaller than the men surrounding him. But every one of the pictures was a clear indication of his serious involvement in politics.

  Vishal was right. Barve appeared to be a fanatical activist. Something about the intensity of the sentiment behind the photos and the sharp, dark eyes that continued to assess her made her uneasy. This was the man who had raised Rohit. Had he instilled the same radical spirit in his son?

  She glanced again at Shashi Barve, taking in more details as he motioned to them to sit down. He had a narrow gray mustache. Not exactly the larger-than-life, charismatic community leader she’d pictured. He looked anything but inspiring.

  Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a woman: obviously Mrs. Barve. She was slim, slightly taller than her husband—a bit unusual in their culture. Maybe Barve wasn’t the typical macho Indian man who had issues about marrying a woman taller than he. But then he was a hero in his own right.

  Dressed in a soft, powder blue sari that made her face seem ashen, the woman looked like her son’s illness had taken its toll on her. She was probably in her late sixties, but looked older. The large red bindi, the dot on her forehead, stood in deep contrast to the paleness of her skin. Her mostly gray hair was pulled back in a neat braid that reached her waist. A simple woman—living in a simple house.

  “My wife, Meenal,” said Barve, and motioned once again for them to sit.

  More namastes followed before they all settled down, Vishal sitting beside Vinita on the sofa, and the Barves occupying the chairs.

  Vinita compared herself to the other woman’s austere getup. Her own shoulder-length hair, the touch of lipstick, and the green, pear-shaped bindi with a gold outline to match her green sari and matching blouse suddenly seemed fussy and out of place. She tried to put it out of her mind and smiled at the woman—Rohit’s mother.

  Barve wasted no time coming to the point. “Mrs. Patil, I am told you are willing to help Rohit?” he asked, looking directly at Vinita.

  “Yes, sir,” murmured Vinita, her hands in a tight clasp. Somehow sir seemed like the right way to address him. He looked old enough to be her father. “I’m hoping I’m a suitable donor.”

  She could feel Meenal Barve’s eyes boring into her. A mother being protective of her son was something Vinita could understand. But she wasn’t sure if the watchful eyes were judging her for her more fashionable ways, her past indiscretions, or assessing her value as a potential savior.

  “As you probably know, my wife and I were both tested and declared incompatible,” Barve said.

  Vinita nodded. “Vishal mentioned it to me.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed, making Vinita shift in her seat. “Can I…may I meet Rohit…if he’s here?” she asked finally, unable to stand one more second of the tension in the room.

  “No,” replied Meenal Barve.

  Vinita’s head snapped up. “Oh?” Had she come all this way just to have Rohit’s adoptive mother toss her out even before she could utter her son’s name? Anger sparked. What did they take her for—a robot to be harvested for bone marrow and then sent home? Without ever being given a chance to see or meet her son?

  “He is in the hospital,” the woman explained. “He has a bronchial infection.”

  Vinita’s temper skidded to a halt. She took a slow breath. “When did the infection occur?” She wondered how serious his condition was. Was she too late in coming to his aid?

  “He was admitted yesterday.”

  “Will I be allowed to see him?”

  Both the Barves nodded in unison, albeit reluctantly. Barve looked at his wristwatch. “A bit early. Visiting hours start at nine o’clock.” He glanced at his wife. “Why don’t you prepare some tea, Meenal?”

  Vinita was getting reading to say no thanks to the tea, but refrained. Her stomach might be in knots, but she needed these people on her side. Refusing refreshment in an Indian home was considered rude, and she couldn’t afford to antagonize them. She observed Meenal Barve stand up and walk away to comply with her husband’s request.

  Her brother and Mr. Barve managed to keep up a polite conversation while the tea was being made. Eventually Vishal asked about Rohit’s health problems. Vinita remained mostly quiet, absorbing the facts.

  “Rohit’s sickness was a complete shock,” explained Mr. Barve.

  “Any idea what may have caused it?” Vishal queried cautiously.

  Barve shook his head. “Could be anything—his chemistry experiments, the water in Palgaum, the electric power plant. Maybe it is genetic, like his juvenile diabetes.”

  “Rohit has diabetes?” Vinita asked, her stomach plunging. Her poor son.

  “Since he was a young boy.”

  Could it be genetic? Vinita wondered. Was there a predisposition to blood cancer as well as diabetes in her ancestry? But no one in her immediate family had leukemia or diabetes. Could it be Som Kori’s genes, then?

  “Exactly when was the leukemia diagnosed?” asked Vishal, voicing one of her own questions.

  “Two years ago, when Rohit started to get a low fever almost every night. Then his leg started to become painful. Only after that did he go to the doctor.” He explained to Vinita and Vishal some of the tests and treatments that had been tried so far. “They have tried different types of chemotherapy. They have even tried experimental medicines that have not yet been approved.”

  “Really? Then how did you manage to acquire the drugs?” Vinita asked.

  “The black market, of course,” he said, without batting an eyelash. “They didn’t work, anyway. Nothing did.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “In fact, his diabetes got worse every time he was treated with chemo.”

  Vinita wondered how much they’d paid for the medication. The very term black market implied prohibitive prices.

  Several minutes later, Mrs. Barve appeared with a tray of four scalding cups of potent-looking tea, dark brown and thick. “Rohit never told us he was not feeling well,” she said, joining in the conversation. “It was when his fever came daily and his pain became unbearable that we found out.” She put the tray down. “He told us only last year about the leukemia, when we forced him to talk.” Her eyes had begun to glisten with tears.

  Vinita was tempted to reach across the table and touch the woman’s hand, offer some comfort. But she accepted a cup of tea instead. Mothers often blamed themselves for their children’s illnesses. She knew it firsthand. Arya rarely told Girish and her about such things because they’d worry and fuss ov
er her. But how could the Barves not have seen the obvious signs? “Didn’t you guess anything was wrong?”

  Mrs. Barve shook her head. “Not in the beginning. He has his own flat—quarters provided by the college. We don’t see him daily. Maybe once a week. Mostly Sundays.” She handed Vishal a cup. “Sometimes not even that.”

  “He has his friends’ circle, his own interests,” added Barve. “Staying with parents means lack of freedom for the younger generation.”

  “I understand.” Vinita was familiar with that, too. Arya had moved out of their house to go to college at eighteen and never really moved back with them. Besides, the Barves were even older than her and Girish. They must have been approaching middle age when they’d adopted Rohit. The generation gap was so much wider.

  “Rohit can be very independent and stubborn sometimes.”

  It sounded familiar. Now that trait was definitely genetic. Wasn’t that what her family said about her? What she herself said about Arya? “What kind of treatment are they giving him right now?” she asked, wondering how much these people were willing to share with her. So far they’d been quite forthcoming.

  “Everything possible has already been done,” replied Barve, sipping from his cup. “The only thing left is a transplant.”

  They talked a little while longer, until the strong, sweet tea was gone and the clock read nine o’clock. Then they all climbed into Vishal’s car because the Barves didn’t own one, and drove to the hospital. Vinita and Meenal Barve sat side by side in the backseat, the awkwardness still lingering despite the earlier icebreaker.

  When they arrived at the hospital, Palgaum Medical Center, Vinita stared in awe. The brick building with its spacious parking lot and clearly marked signs was quite impressive. While she was growing up, there were a number of small private clinics that could hold no more than a dozen beds, but proudly called themselves hospitals.

  This could match any medium-sized American or European hospital. Even as she admired the modern facility, the tension was mounting inside her. The urge to confess to Vishal and the Barves that she’d made a mistake and needed to go home was creeping up on her, but she quickly suppressed it. She wasn’t a coward.

  They walked through the double glass doors and Barve ushered them into a reception area with a high ceiling and marble-tile floor. He stopped at the front desk and whispered something to the receptionist, then led them down a long corridor. The man had a quick stride, and Vinita hurried to keep up.

  Her heartbeat climbed a notch higher. She was about to meet her son. She adjusted her shoulder bag and wiped her perspiring hands on a handkerchief. The tea she’d forced herself to drink was beginning to churn in her stomach. Or maybe it was the butterflies, flying in tight circles.

  Stopping at one of the many open doors, Barve entered, motioning to the rest of them to follow him. She glanced at Vishal. He seemed calm. He gave her elbow a brief, reassuring squeeze and propelled her forward.

  Ignoring the dry feeling in her mouth, she stepped inside, head held high. She was not going to let the moment make a nervous wreck out of her.

  The room was small, with cream walls and one window. Dark green curtains were pulled aside to let the sun in. The bed sat in the center, monopolizing most of the space. An intravenous pole stood next to a night table on one side of the bed, and a wooden chair sat on the other. A single light fixture and fan hung from the ceiling.

  After the quick survey of the room, her eyes fixed themselves on the man reclined against a pillow—her reason for coming here. He had set aside the magazine he was reading and was looking directly at them.

  Her heart did a quick flip and settled back into her chest with a thump.

  She stared at him—drinking in every detail. If she could, she would have cupped his face in her hands and studied his eyes, run her thumbs over the planes, the sharp cheekbones, the length of his nose, the contours of his square jaw, and even counted his eyelashes. But it was out of the question. And gawking wasn’t polite, so she quickly looked away.

  For a moment it was like seeing a young Som Kori all over again. It appeared that Vishal had deliberately downplayed the resemblance. The likeness to Som was quite remarkable. The arresting gold-brown eyes, the low-slung eyebrows that looked like a perpetual frown, the full lower lip, the angry movie-hero look: all Kori traits. His dark hair was short and spiky. His cheeks and chin bore a shadow of stubble.

  But the tip-tilted nose that hinted at arrogance—that was hers. She suppressed the urge to chuckle. Of all her features, he’d inherited that one? But he was a handsome boy nonetheless. At least in that, Vishal was right.

  Since Rohit was covered with a sheet below the waist, it was hard to judge precisely how tall he was. He had on a green hospital gown with short sleeves, so his shoulders and arms were visible. They were wide. His hands were large. She was glad he wasn’t small boned like her.

  The name Rohit meant the color red. It suited him. It was an auspicious color.

  They went through another round of introductions.

  Rohit didn’t bother greeting either Vishal or her when they both said hello and smiled. There was no reciprocating friendliness in the eyes that measured her first, then Vishal—very briefly. He’d obviously been told to expect them. He didn’t seem particularly irritated or displeased—just disinterested. She and Vishal could very well have been the bedpan or the slippers tucked under his bed.

  On the other hand, his gaze warmed noticeably when it descended on his parents.

  Mrs. Barve moved to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, beta?” she asked. Maybe it was her way of easing the tension in the room.

  “About the same,” he replied, smiling faintly at his mother.

  “They are trying a new antibiotic?”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied. The lopsided smile, too, was slightly reminiscent of Som, giving Vinita her first mild pinprick of envy for Meenal Barve. The emotion surprised her. She didn’t know this young man; she didn’t even know of his existence until recently.

  “Then perhaps that will help, Rohit.” His father beamed, clearly trying to boost Rohit’s spirits.

  “We’ll see.” Rohit didn’t sound optimistic. His voice was nothing like Som Kori’s. In fact, it was a lot like Vinita’s late father’s and a bit like Vishal’s. Strange how certain characteristics trickled down through the generations. There was so much Shelke in him.

  And thank God for that voice. If he’d inherited Som’s voice, half of Palgaum would have guessed Rohit’s parentage.

  “Did the doctor say anything about the transplant?” Mrs. Barve smoothed his cover sheet.

  “No,” Rohit said sharply, like he didn’t want to pursue it further.

  “But he knows Mrs. Patil is here for that purpose only,” pressed Barve.

  “I didn’t want to discuss it with him,” Rohit said.

  “Why?” his mother demanded.

  Rohit glanced at Vinita and Vishal, once again his eyes registering very little emotion. “Because I’m on the list of bone marrow recipients. It could be a long wait. Why discuss it now?”

  Barve looked at Vinita for an instant before returning his attention to Rohit. “But this is your…birth mother.”

  “I heard.”

  “She has come here from the United States to find out if she is a suitable donor, and—”

  “Heard that, too,” Rohit interrupted.

  “She is willing to give you her bone marrow immediately. No waiting, you see.”

  “I’d prefer to wait.”

  “But there may be no need to wait,” Vishal interjected, taking the words out of Vinita’s mouth.

  Rohit turned toward her for a second. “You wasted your time coming here, Mrs. Patil.”

  “Please don’t say that,” Vinita murmured.

  “Why don’t you just go back to the United States?”

  Vinita paused for a beat. “I…can’t.”

  “Why not?” A muscle flexed in his jaw.
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  “I’d like to at least try to help.”

  “Really?” He lifted one dark eyebrow that was so much like Som’s it made Vinita swallow hard.

  Thankfully Vishal jumped in to defend her. “Look, Rohit, my sister and I understand how you feel, but you have to look at it rationally.”

  Rohit waved them away with one hand. “No, thank you.”

  “No other donor will be as good a match as your biological mother,” Vishal persisted.

  “Not interested,” retorted Rohit.

  “But, Rohit—” protested his father, clearly beginning to get annoyed.

  “I don’t want to hear more, Papa.”

  “You will hear!” Mr. Barve’s voice sounded like a whip cracking.

  Vinita stared at the older man. The fearless political leader was emerging from behind the seemingly harmless image. Rohit must have recognized the change, too, because his hard expression eased a bit. Was he used to such sternness from his father?

  “Mr. Shelke is right,” continued Barve, his tone softening. “You need a donor, Rohit. You need one immediately—not next year, not two years from now.”

  Rohit was silent for a moment or two while the four people standing around him stared at him in anticipation. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, reasonable fashion. “I have a perfectly good mother. I don’t need another. I don’t want her bone marrow…or anything else.”

  Vinita opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. She turned around and headed for the door, choking on a sob.

  Chapter 22

  Vinita stumbled out of the room and down the corridor, blinded by tears. She nearly collided with a nurse coming from the opposite direction, wheeling a trolley. But she managed to dodge both the nurse and the trolley in the nick of time.