The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  He heard the sounds of his mother setting the table for dinner—the clang of stainless steel thalis, spoons, water tumblers. A variety of fiery hot pickles and chutneys would sit in the center of the table. What used to make his hungry stomach rumble with anticipation now managed to nauseate him. He rubbed a hand over his roiling belly.

  His father was seated on the sofa, watching the evening news on television.

  Shashi turned his head when he heard Rohit’s footsteps, studying his son for a second. “How are you feeling?” he asked. There was no lingering anger or resentment from his earlier argument with his wife.

  “Better. I slept a little,” replied Rohit, and sat down in one of the chairs.

  “Took your insulin?”

  “Yes.” He kept his eyes on the TV. He didn’t want his father to guess he’d overheard some of the conversation behind the bedroom door.

  The local Palgaum news segment came on, instantly capturing Rohit’s attention. Plastered across the screen were the graffiti-covered wall and broken windows of Som Kori’s office. The bold black-and-white sign was hanging crooked. KORI ENTERPRISES. So this was what his mother was accusing his father of instigating.

  He glanced across at his father, who sat in stoical silence. The expression on his lined face was benign, that of a retired man who lived a quiet, uncomplicated life.

  It was hard to tell with certainty if the old man was responsible for this latest round of violence.

  Chapter 25

  Vinita gaped at the doctor. “What?” He’d just dropped a bombshell by informing her that she couldn’t donate her bone marrow to Rohit. And the reason sounded preposterous. What in God’s name was he talking about?

  “That’s right, Mrs. Patil,” he repeated. “You have malaria.” Dr. Panchal was a heavy man with a balding pate and small, round eyes. He shifted in his chair, making it groan. He seemed so businesslike, so distant—almost robotic in his movements.

  “Malaria?” she whispered, her heart taking a dive. “But…but how?”

  “Malaria is endemic in these parts,” he calmly reminded her. “You have the symptoms, don’t you?”

  “I guess so.” She racked her brain for a logical answer to the puzzle. Granted, there were mosquitoes all over India. Palgaum had more than its share of the pesky insects as well. She had bites all over her body to prove it.

  “Most permanent residents develop immunity to the carrier mosquito,” the doctor explained. “But you’ve been living in a different country for many years.”

  “Is it fatal?” Had she come all the way to Palgaum only to die?

  He shook his head. “You have the vivax variety and not the dangerous falciparum. It is easily treatable.” He managed to crack a wry smile. “Didn’t you talk to your physician about antimalarial drugs before you left the U.S.?”

  “No…I didn’t.” The thought hadn’t even crossed Vinita’s mind. She had never gotten immunized for her past visits to India, either. She hadn’t imagined a disease like malaria would ever attack her. How stupid was that?

  She hated the thought of being so sick. No wonder she’d been suffering from chills, headaches, and fever the last couple of days. She’d denied it, fought it with aspirin, but nothing had helped. Now she knew why, hard as it was to comprehend.

  She and Vishal were seated across from the doctor’s desk in his overcrowded office. It was obvious he was a very busy hematologist-oncologist. Back when she and Vishal were growing up, there were no specialties called hematology or oncology, let alone a specialist in both in their town. Apparently now there were loads of people suffering from all sorts of cancer.

  “But what about after she recovers?” Vishal countered, sounding as incredulous as Vinita. “She can become a donor in a week or two, right?”

  The doctor shook his melon-shaped head. “Even after she makes a complete recovery, assuming she does, she’ll have to wait more than a year to be tested again as a donor.”

  “Oh no!” Vinita’s eyes opened wide when a thought struck her. “Is it contagious? Could I have given it to Rohit when I visited him?” She’d been in denial that she was ill when she’d visited him. The need to see Rohit and make him accept her had been uppermost, to the point of obliterating common sense.

  “No. It’s not contagious,” the doctor replied.

  “Thank God!” Nonetheless, all her hopes about saving her son vanished in that instant. She’d had such dreams—that he’d become healthy again—that they’d stay in touch after she returned to the U.S. Perhaps he could visit her in the future, meet Arya…maybe even meet Girish.

  There was so much catching up to do. She wanted to know everything about Rohit. She wanted him to go back to his job, get married, have a family.

  It had been a pleasant dream. Now, as the doctor explained the facts, her spirits sagged. Her fever was rising, too. She could feel it. It seemed to climb in the late afternoons and peak in the evenings. The nightly chills were the worst. She’d managed to hide them from her family as much as she could, but Sayee and her mother had been questioning her about her listlessness and lack of appetite.

  Vinita glanced at her brother. He was frowning, probably having the same thoughts she was. She’d undertaken a long, expensive trip to offer herself as a donor, taken uncompensated leave, and she’d paid for the donor tests from her own pocket. But now she was being told all of it was for naught.

  She gave herself a minute to mull over the doctor’s words. “You’re sure it’s not just some ordinary virus?”

  Dr. Panchal got up from his chair, making it clear he wasn’t amused by her question. The meeting was over. He was a busy man, with a roomful of patients waiting their turn outside the door. “Positive, Mrs. Patil. You’ll need to get treatment immediately.” He pinned her with a bland look. “Our lab here is as efficient as any in the U.S.”

  “I know it is. It’s just that…Never mind.” Vinita reluctantly stood up. “So what do we do now?”

  “We can hope that someone new joins the donor registry and turns out to be a match,” was the doctor’s matter-of-fact reply. He walked toward the closed door and grasped the doorknob, Vishal following on his heels.

  “Rohit may have to wait forever,” murmured Vinita.

  “We can only hope for the best,” was the doctor’s brisk reply.

  “Thank you for your time, Dr. Panchal,” said Vishal, nudging Vinita toward the exit. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  The doctor nodded in acknowledgment and held the door open for Vinita and Vishal to pass. “If we hear anything from the registry, my office will contact you immediately.”

  He had to be kidding, reflected Vinita. What registry? There was practically no registry to speak of. This was the end of the road, then. It seemed so pointless now, all this frenzied activity, excitement, submitting herself to so many tests.

  She staggered out of the office and followed Vishal to his car. He immediately turned to her with a cutting rebuke. “Damn it, Vini, why didn’t you tell me you were so sick?”

  “I didn’t think it was anything serious, Vishal,” she replied in her defense. She settled into the passenger seat and waited till her brother slid behind the wheel. “Besides, Panchal could be wrong, couldn’t he?” Deep down, she knew he was right.

  “Panchal is the best around. He was trained in the States—some prestigious teaching hospital in Boston, I believe.”

  “Maybe he’s right,” she mumbled, winding the pallu of her sari around her shoulders to ward off the chill.

  “How could you not know you’re sick?” He studied her closely for a moment. “Look at you. The car feels so damn hot, and you seem to be cold.”

  “That’s because I’m angry and frustrated. I never expected—”

  “Stop being a fool. Malaria can be fatal.” He put a hand to her forehead, his frown deepening. “You’re burning up.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was right. She was feeling pretty awful.

  “I’m taking you to Dr. Desai right now,�
�� announced Vishal, making the decision arbitrarily—as usual.

  But she didn’t bother to argue. He was right. She was very ill and needed help.

  They drove to the doctor’s office in silence.

  Chapter 26

  The next three days were hell. Vinita spent them in bed, alternating between chills and hot sweats, depending on whether her fever was rising or falling. She’d never experienced such high fever in her entire life.

  Sayee fussed over her like a mother hen, clucking and insisting on bringing her meals to the bedroom on a tray.

  Not that Vinita was eating or drinking much of anything. The constant nausea and vomiting, side effects of the prescription drug called chloroquine, made her turn away from the sight and smell of food. She’d been surviving mostly on soft drinks. Frequent trips to the bathroom left her weak and hurrying back to bed.

  The only good thing about her illness was that her mother came to sit beside her bed often, to offer her solace. “At least try to drink something, Vini. You need your strength. You’re getting too thin,” she often said, holding a glass or spoon to Vinita’s mouth.

  For once Mummy’s face didn’t register displeasure. She was full of sympathy, reminding Vinita of that other occasion when her mother had been the embodiment of maternal kindness—when Vinita had given birth to Rohit.

  Mummy had been so uncommonly tender back then. She was being that once again. And Vinita was grateful for the reprieve.

  By day number four, Vinita’s fever began to recede. With a sense of relief she sat up in bed and swallowed some soup and bread that afternoon, much to Sayee and Mummy’s relief. Poor Sayee had been convinced Vinita was going to die from the dreaded malaria.

  The chloroquine pills had to be used up within the first three days, and she was now on something called primaquine, a single pill a day, which was to continue for two weeks—to prevent a relapse. This particular drug was a little less harsh in its side effects. But the weakness lingered.

  It was more than a week later that Vinita actually felt well enough to step outside the house for some fresh air.

  With misery wrapped around her like a shroud and a vast amount of time to brood while she’d been confined to her bed, she’d missed both Girish and Arya fiercely. Naturally Arya had been calling each and every day to check on her after she’d found out how ill Vinita was. It had been Vinita’s ten minutes of comfort each morning. She could picture Arya sitting in the recliner and talking into the phone, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, or eating fat-free tofu ice cream right out of the container. The picture was so vivid, Vinita had nearly wept with the need to hug her daughter.

  But Girish never called. Not once.

  “Has Girish rung you yet?” Vishal inquired nearly every evening, when he came to check on her after he’d returned from work.

  “He’s on a business trip,” was Vinita’s stock answer.

  Vishal had merely shaken his head in disbelief and walked away, obviously drawing his own conclusions.

  Mummy, on the other hand, had been more candid the minute she’d realized Vinita was out of danger and on the mend. She had immediately switched back to her old ways. “See, you should have left the matter of Rohit Barve alone. At least you and Girish would have been happy together.”

  “I know what you told me, Mummy,” Vinita had murmured. “It wouldn’t have made a difference in my decision.” It had been easy enough to ignore her mother, since Vinita’s mind was focused on other, more urgent matters. Rohit was at the top of the list.

  One afternoon, as she lay on the drawing-room couch and watched TV, a thought flashed in her mind. She sat up and shut off the TV. Why hadn’t it come to her before?

  Climbing into a rickshaw, Vinita gave the driver the address. Settling back in the bright orange vinyl seat, she wiped the perspiration off her face with a handkerchief.

  She’d walked some distance to the rickshaw stand and was feeling breathless. She was still recovering from the malaria. She’d also lied to her mother and Sayee, saying that she was going out for a walk and some badly needed fresh air.

  As the rickshaw zigzagged in and out of the heavy traffic, she nearly lost the tea and biscuits she’d consumed earlier. The pace at which her driver was snaking through the streets was terrifying. She clutched at her purse, afraid it would fly out the door. In wide-eyed anxiety she watched the throngs of people and vehicles surrounding the rickshaw, hoping he wouldn’t hurt someone or cause a major accident. But she had to admit he had amazingly quick reflexes. All the rickshaw drivers in this town did.

  She blew out a sigh of relief when they emerged from the city traffic and into the more quiet suburban area where she was headed. When the rickshaw deposited her in front of the large house that was her destination, her heart was still racing. But she knew it wasn’t all from the wild ride. There were other reasons for her breathlessness and clammy hands.

  Walking up the long driveway that led to the house, she stood facing it for a moment. It triggered memories that hadn’t come to mind in years. While she was growing up, she’d considered this a grand old mansion, with its elegant gardens, flowering gulmohar and champak trees, and innumerable windows.

  She and her family had rarely ventured into this part of town—only when they had been invited to a party somewhere in the neighborhood. But every time she’d passed by this distinctive house, she’d stared at it in awe, visualizing the grandeur of the rooms inside, and the kind of people who lived there. Her imagination had conjured up some impressive images.

  Whenever she’d voiced her thoughts, her mother had snorted in contempt. “Those people own a big, posh house, but they have no morals.”

  Despite her mother’s words, Vinita had carried an inflated image of the house in her mind. But now there were lots of rich folks in Palgaum, with much grander homes. When compared to those, this one looked a little worn around the edges. The paint had faded, the garden looked overgrown, and the concrete driveway had cracks in it. The bushes needed pruning.

  It was strange how one’s perception changed with maturity. Of course, now she also knew someone who lived in the house rather well. Too well.

  As she climbed the flagstone steps leading up to the front door, she began to wonder about her decision to come here, especially without discussing it with Vishal or her mother. Surely they’d have stopped her from going, or lectured her sternly at the very least.

  It wasn’t an impulsive decision. She’d thought about it, long and hard. Turning back was tempting, but quitting at this point would be cowardly. And she was no coward.

  She pressed the doorbell with one trembling finger. Seconds later the massive wooden door opened with a groan. A young man with a well-greased head of hair and an equally oily face appeared. He wore faded black shorts and a black T-shirt. He held the door partly open and gave her a bored look.

  Assuming he was one of the many servants, she asked, “Is Kori-saheb at home?”

  The man frowned. “You mean Kori-bayi?”

  “No, Kori-saheb,” she corrected simply. Clearly the man was confused as to why a strange woman had come visiting his master and not the lady of the house. But Vinita stood her ground. “Is he at home? I’m Mrs. Patil.”

  The man scrutinized her a bit longer. She must have passed inspection, because he opened the door wider and allowed her inside. She had dressed very carefully for the occasion—a sky blue chiffon sari and matching accessories. She wore makeup and a blue and silver bindi on her forehead, too.

  If she was going to face Som Kori after all these years, she wanted to look her best. It wasn’t to impress him. She couldn’t care less about his opinion. Careful grooming was her armor against what she could be facing.

  “Please sit down, madam,” the servant said to her with surprising politeness, ushering her through a short corridor into what appeared to be the drawing room. “I will tell Kori-saheb.” He disappeared in the next instant, still wearing a baffled expression.

  The only sou
nd in the drawing room came from an ancient grandfather clock ticking in one corner of the room. She smelled food cooking—the familiar scents of cumin and garlic. Somewhere in the back, the evening meal was being prepared in the Kori kitchen.

  The room she was in was square and large. In the light coming through one of the many windows, the furniture looked like well-rubbed, antique teakwood—two comfortable-looking sofas and four chairs, upholstered in maroon damask. A matching teapoy sat on a Kashmiri area rug with a chinar leaf pattern. Round end tables and brass lamps completed the ensemble. Nothing was as impressive as she’d imagined in her younger days.

  A landscape painting of a waterfall monopolized the wall above one sofa. She recognized it as Gokak Falls—a picturesque place she’d visited during high school class trips. Two sepia portraits of Kori ancestors hung above the second sofa. She figured they were Som’s grandparents and moved closer to study them.

  The man in the photograph wore a turban, a heavy white mustache curled upward at the edges, and a forbidding expression. But then, pictures from the old days never had smiling people. It just wasn’t done for some reason. Looking happy and carefree was considered frivolous, perhaps.

  The woman had a thin, pinched face that told its own story—discontent and a hint of melancholy despite the proud, oversized bindi on her forehead, the symbol of a married woman. Her husband, assuming it was her husband in the other picture, had probably been cheating on her, too. Promiscuity seemed to be the Kori trademark, Vinita reflected with a sneer.

  Something about the woman’s face was familiar. She had Som’s light eyes and low-slung eyebrows. It was hard to tell the exact color of her eyes, but Vinita was sure they were golden brown.

  She turned around from staring at the photographs. The room had the solid, seasoned look and feel of old money.