The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

  “Vishal just left his office to meet a client.”

  Vinita put the phone back. “Do they know who it is? The donor, I mean.”

  Sayee shook her head, disturbing the tendrils of hair that had come loose from her braid. “You know they don’t give out that kind of information. It’s against their rules.”

  “Who follows rules in this country?” Vinita rolled her eyes. “The last time anyone followed rules was when I was about two years old.”

  “This is different. Medical ethics, you see.”

  “I suppose so.” Vinita absently folded the blouse once again and tucked it into the suitcase. “But I’m still puzzled. We had no donors until an hour ago. Now all of a sudden we have a mystery volunteer.” She gave it some thought. “What if this person is not a match?”

  “But this particular donor does match. Apparently they did the tests and everything.”

  Vinita tossed a pair of underwear into the suitcase. After a week of problems, she’d finally managed to get a seat on a plane from Goa to Delhi, and then from there to Newark. Now it looked like she’d have to stay here a while longer—once again postpone her return home.

  Talk about wretched timing. No surprise there. Everything in her life lately was turning upside down. “I’d just finished getting my tickets changed,” she said to Sayee.

  Sayee picked up a salwar and folded it, placed in on the bed, then reached for another one. “You don’t have to alter your plans, Vini. Vishal and I are here for Rohit.”

  “No, I have to be here if Rohit undergoes a transplant.”

  “But you have been away from home and Girish for so long.”

  She threw Vinita a look that spoke volumes. Sayee was worried about her. Everyone in the family was. They knew Vinita hadn’t spoken to Girish since she’d arrived in Palgaum. Although she hadn’t said a word about it to anyone, they were fully aware. Every time Girish’s name came up, they looked at her with anticipation, then dropped the subject.

  Sayee pushed aside the heap of clothes and sat down beside Vinita. “Girish is all right, I hope?”

  Vinita shook her head. Girish was not all right. He’d never be all right. Tears of self-pity welled up unexpectedly. Before she could say a word, they began to roll down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Vini, I am so sorry.” Sayee gathered her in her chubby arms.

  “I d—don’t know what to do,” Vinita admitted on a sob.

  “Shh, everything will be okay. I know it will.”

  Instead of Sayee’s soothing words making the situation better, they only served to worsen Vinita’s sobbing. She’d held it in for weeks—the shock of discovering she had a son; the difficult decision to take leave from her job and make the long journey to Palgaum to save him, followed by her unexpected and severe illness; the frustration of finding out she couldn’t help him—and the fear of losing Girish. The haunting fear of losing Girish.

  Now it was all spewing out like froth from a shaken soda can, and she couldn’t stop it. Despite telling herself not to let her hopes soar, she’d seen a tiny spark of hope when Arya had mentioned that Girish had been worried about her during her illness and the Palgaum shutdown. But once she’d recovered, the tensions had ebbed, and the town’s routine had been restored, Arya had never mentioned Girish’s concerns again. He’d obviously gone back to indifference, or loathing, or whatever it was.

  Sayee handed a handkerchief to her. “There, you’ll feel better if you cry a little.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vinita mumbled.

  Sayee rubbed Vinita’s back. “It has been a very difficult time for you.”

  “It’s silly to cry when there’s finally some good news, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes good news can do that…especially if it comes so unexpectedly,” soothed Sayee. “You’re entitled to a few tears.”

  Pulling away from Sayee, Vinita tried to work up a smile. “How come you’re so wise? You’re younger than I am.”

  Sayee smiled back. “Natural wisdom.”

  Vinita couldn’t help laughing. “I wish I’d been born with a bit of that.”

  Getting to her feet, Sayee offered Vinita a hand. “Come on, enough of this depressing talk. We should be celebrating. Let’s make something special for dinner today, shall we?”

  Taking the offered hand, Vinita stood up. “Like what?”

  “How about your favorite dessert, bahsundee? It’s Vishal’s favorite, too.”

  “It’s one thing I can’t refuse.” Vinita loved bahsundee—milk boiled till it was reduced to a thick, rich pudding and garnished with pistachios and almonds.

  Sayee led the way out. “Let’s go make it, then.”

  “Do you know when they’re going to do the procedure?”

  “No, but Vishal will find out before he comes home this evening. He promised to stop by Dr. Panchal’s office.”

  As she followed her sister-in-law out of the room, Vinita wondered about the mystery donor. It was all very strange.

  That night, Vinita sat at her brother’s computer and sent Girish an e-mail, like she did every other night. It had become almost a ritual, sharing her experiences with him, like she used to in person every evening back home, while they ate dinner together. If she couldn’t talk to him in person, e-mail was the next best thing.

  She doubted whether he read any of her messages. But she wrote to him anyway, felt a little better for doing it. It was her only connection to him.

  Hi, dear,

  Guess what? A bone marrow donor has been found for Rohit. I realize you don’t want to hear any of this, nor do you care, but you’re still the only person I share all my news with. There was a time, not too long ago, when you would have rejoiced in something that gave me joy, but now I can only hope for it. I’m not sure when the transplant will take place, but I’m sure it will be soon.

  I wish you’d find it in your heart to forgive me once and for all. For the hundredth time, I admit I was wrong to keep secrets from you, but I don’t think I deserve lifelong punishment for it, either.

  I miss you. Take care of yourself.

  Love,

  Vini

  Rohit sat in Dr. Panchal’s office with his hands folded in his lap, feeling a bit light-headed—probably a side effect of his latest medication.

  His mother sat on one side of him and his father on the other, pathetically protective as always, sadly naïve in their belief that together they would somehow protect him from doom. They looked as overwrought as he felt. His mother looked fragile, brittle enough to break. His father’s arm was still in a cast, but his face was almost back to normal, except for a scar on his cheek, where the stitches were healing. Nonetheless he sat upright, the proud, relentless lion who would fight till the end.

  Since they’d been informed by Dr. Panchal the previous day that an anonymous marrow donor had come forward, neither he nor his parents had been able to sleep. The news had left them exhilarated yet anxious. They had stayed up late into the night, talking about the unexpected development.

  His mother’s buoyant expression had nearly brought tears to his eyes—something that didn’t happen often. She’d clearly been dreaming of seeing him healthy again, perhaps even capable of giving her a couple of grandchildren in the future—before it was too late. Having been childless herself and forced to resort to adoption, her dearest wish was to see him have a family of his own.

  It was a nice dream to have, no doubt. And yet he didn’t dare to entertain such fantasies.

  Until a day ago, he had been staring certain death in the face. Without a transplant, he could probably carry on for another year or two. The latest treatments had kept him functioning on some level for the past two years, and they could probably do it a while longer.

  He’d been prepared to face a bleak future, where every time he faltered they would likely pump him with steroids, antibiotics, and some newfangled drugs. They would give him a few more months’ extension on his contract with God. But despite the medical intervention, there would b
e no guarantees.

  Now, all of a sudden, he had a chance to live. Or maybe not. His body could reject the transplant. Or the donor could back out at the last minute. Or he could end up with a fatal infection. The possibilities for failure were too many to count. He had done a fair amount of research on his condition. And yet he’d felt a quick surge of hope the moment the doctor had rung him.

  One significant detail had plagued Rohit all night: Who was this donor? The person had apparently been tested and was found to be compatible, which meant he or she had come forward to help some days ago. When he and his parents had asked questions, they had been told that the individual preferred to remain anonymous.

  Why had this person come forward so suddenly? Why now?

  The doctor spoke to Rohit directly, disrupting his thoughts. “Rohit, we have to do a series of tests before we consider you fully ready for a transplant.”

  “But all the tests were done some time ago,” Rohit’s father remarked. He had on his most irritated frown. “Why do them again? Waste of time and money, is it not?”

  Panchal heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Mr. Barve, those tests were done months ago, and for different reasons. Rohit has had some infections since then. Now we have to make sure that he is in good condition to accept the transplant. It is a complicated procedure and we need to be very careful. When—”

  “All right,” Rohit interrupted, holding up a hand. He had heard enough arguing. His father loved a good fight, and the doctor was a thorough man who clearly left nothing to chance. “Whatever you have to do, just do it, Doctor. I’m ready. Do it tomorrow if you can.” He was profoundly tired. He wanted this to be over.

  No doubt it was going to be too damned costly to get a transplant, but he was willing to go through with it. His parents were ready to borrow money if they needed to. In the end, he could still die and they would be in debt for the rest of their lives. But they would never let him back out if his decision was based on lack of money.

  Besides, his real mother was insisting on paying for most of it. He didn’t know if he should accept it, even though she could obviously afford it. It was charity. And yet it was tempting. He wanted to live.

  “Tomorrow? It’s not that simple, Rohit,” retorted the doctor. “It will be at least another week before we can do a complete round of tests to check on your heart, kidneys, and liver. We’ll need to do a brain scan, dental screening, a spinal tap, and then we need to give you radiation and chemotherapy to prepare your body to accept the transplanted marrow…”

  Rohit closed his eyes for a moment, shut out the doctor’s endless list. He should have known it wasn’t simple. Nothing in his life was simple. Right from the day he was born—in fact, right from the moment he was conceived—things had been complicated for him. He was a bastard child, borne in shame under a bleak karmic cloud. And he was a diabetic.

  His stomach clenched at the thought of more chemotherapy. He could almost feel it now—the familiar attacks of nausea, the blinding headaches, the hyperactive bowels, the weakness in his limbs so intense that he could have sworn his legs were made of rubber, and his hair falling out in clumps—every blasted symptom.

  And yet…if he cared to look deep inside himself…he wanted to live. Maybe there was a very remote chance that he would survive and recover, and perhaps scrape up the courage to dream of a normal life.

  “Besides, don’t forget you’re diabetic. We have to take that into consideration every step of the way,” rambled the doctor. “Treatment has to begin days before the actual transplant.”

  Opening his eyes, he nodded at Dr. Panchal. “Okay. Whatever you say, I’ll do it.”

  The doctor’s bland face cracked a rare half smile. “We’ll get you started on the tests right away.”

  Chapter 32

  Rohit flipped the switch to turn on the overhead fluorescent lights in the laboratory and blinked. Bright light bothered his eyes lately. He wondered if it was a natural result of his condition or yet another side effect of the drugs he’d been subjected to.

  But he loved the clinical, sterile comfort of the lab. It was like coming home when he stepped into the long, narrow room that served as Shivraj College’s chemistry lab. The smell of it, the feel of it, and the stark look of it—they were all so familiar.

  Most people tried to get away from their place of work when they needed rest and relaxation. But Rohit often came to his lab to relax, where scarred wooden tables and tall stools ate up most of the space. Row upon row of jars, pipettes, test tubes, and beakers stood at attention, like soldiers ready for battle. They sparkled in the harsh light. He insisted on neatness in his lab and his students complied with his command. Most of the time.

  He smelled the pungent odor of bleach in the air. Someone had probably left a jar of chlorine open, despite his rule of extreme caution in working around unsafe substances. He located the offending jar and tightened the lid. Careless kids.

  There had been a time, not long ago, when he’d have lost his temper at such carelessness when handling chemicals, even harmless ones. But today he merely shook his head. The thought of imminent death was humbling enough to make an emotion like anger at a student seem trivial.

  He inhaled deeply, let the mingled odors of the chemicals sink into his weakened lungs. This was his world. Ever since he was a young boy in school, he’d loved chemistry for some reason, perhaps because his father was a chemical engineer. The idea of combining different substances to form odd and interesting mixtures that could produce anything from a flu remedy to a bomb had fascinated him.

  Cricket and chemistry—the two Cs had consumed his high school and college days, and thankfully his parents had encouraged both.

  He could memorize so many chemical formulae and retain them that his teachers used to be astonished. He’d even given up cricket to pursue that doctoral degree. He had never regretted his decision.

  Nevertheless, lately he’d been speculating about it, wondering if his obsession with chemistry could have something to do with his leukemia. It was entirely possible that working with potent chemicals for many years could have led to cancer.

  He hadn’t discussed his suspicions with his doctor or his parents. It was something he had pondered in private. He didn’t want his parents to try to convince him to give up his career and take up something else. He could never be anything other than a chemistry teacher.

  Even if his suspicions held weight, it was too late to do anything about it. He had chosen his occupation despite knowing the hazards associated with it. He prayed his students knew the risks, too.

  He ambled over to the far end of the room and sat down on one of the stools, then opened a chemistry textbook someone had left behind. The book looked almost new. He flipped through the pages. There were no handwritten notes or scribbles anywhere. It was nice to come across a neat student for a change. They were young, often thoughtless, sometimes sloppy, but this one was not.

  Turning to the cover page, he looked for a name. Perhaps he could find the owner and have it returned to them. Textbooks, especially the thick, hardcover science books, were prohibitively expensive and few students could afford them. Many of them ended up buying used books from the previous year’s students.

  Finding no name to identify the owner, he started turning the pages once again. Then he found it. Not exactly what he was looking for, but something else—much more interesting.

  It was a crudely written note on a piece of ruled paper. There was no name, but it was obviously meant for Rohit. Cancer will kill you soon, you Marathi bastard! Ha-Ha!

  His stomach jumped in response, causing a sudden spurt of nausea. He’d faced his share of practical jokes. What professor at Shivraj hadn’t? Students loved to torture their teachers with itchy powder sprinkled over their chairs, wads of chewing gum stuck where their shoes would rest, mobile phones pilfered, and missing pens and notebooks.

  But this didn’t feel like a practical joke. The message was packed with malice, despite the humor inserte
d at the end. He could sense it in his bones.

  Did he have students who hated him that much, enough to delight in the fact that he had a life-threatening illness? He tried to visualize as many faces and personalities as he could, at least the Kannada ones. But there were so many—too many to remember them all.

  Any one of them could have done this. It could have been more than one—an entire group of hate-mongers. It could be a coworker, even a fellow Marathi, hoping the blame would automatically be laid at the feet of the Kannada faction.

  Maybe it was best to turn over the book and the note to the police. He carefully closed the book without touching the note. He’d read enough crime fiction and seen plenty of movies to know one wasn’t supposed to touch anything that might become potential evidence. But in the next instant he realized this was no crime, and there was no threat involved. It was just a statement of the cruel truth.

  Someone was trying to remind him his end was near. As if he needed reminding. He didn’t want any more damned reminders.

  If that silly note was meant to scare him, the sender had failed. What was there to fear anymore? He was standing on the brink of a precipice, looking into a black, yawning chasm. He could get pushed off the edge in a heartbeat, with or without the transplant.

  He looked around, studying every piece of steel, glass, plastic, ceramic, and wood. He’d worked so damn hard to be able to work in a lab like this, teach in a small, privately funded college, and make a difference in the lives of at least a few students. He wasn’t a greedy sort. He hadn’t asked for too much in life. Suddenly his modest dreams were crumbling faster than termite-infested wood.

  Somewhere, halfway across the world, he even had a half sister, a young woman whose existence he’d only recently discovered. A girl he’d probably never get to meet. At first he had hated the idea of having to face his real mother, and the thought of having a sibling, a new cluster of cousins, uncles, and aunts.