The Unexpected Son

by Shobhan Bantwal

Suddenly all those strangers, most of them faceless, were becoming very real—the people who were his kin. He’d been thinking about them a lot lately. The strangest part was discovering that the Shelke twins, whom he’d taught in the recent past, were his cousins. On the paternal side, there were the Kori sisters—his half sisters. Both were his students at the moment—both quiet, rather shy.

  And the Kori girls and the Shelke boys didn’t know of their odd connection to each other. At least he didn’t think they did.

  The whole tangled web was mind-boggling yet endlessly fascinating. Some weeks ago, he had thought himself an orphan, an only child, adopted. Now Palgaum was exploding with relatives—his real family.

  What would have happened if he’d grown up in their midst, surrounded by Shelkes and Koris? He dismissed the notion. The staunch Marathi Shelkes would never have mixed with the un-bending Kannada Koris. It would have been one long, never-ending feud.

  He wondered if any one of them had suffered from leukemia. Was it hereditary? If so, which side could it have come from?

  Setting aside his thoughts about family for a moment, he ran his palm across the book’s cover. He knew almost every page of this primer on the principles of analytical chemistry. How long would he be able to turn those familiar pages, face a classroom full of eager faces, and introduce them to the magical world of chemistry, a subject that touched every little thing in their lives, including their own bodies? Not long at this rate.

  This could even be his last glimpse of his precious lab.

  Some of the more expensive equipment in this room was here because he had convinced the board members it was a necessity if they wanted their students to learn and compete with other colleges. He had spent long hours canvassing each tight-fisted member. His efforts had paid off to some extent. The lab was now cleaner, brighter, and better equipped. If nothing else, he had made a small difference to Shivraj College’s chemistry department. It would be his legacy after he was gone.

  His left hand shook as it lay splayed on the book. His body convulsed. It’s only a side effect of those drugs, he told himself. The damn shivers set in very easily these days. It was nothing to worry about.

  It wasn’t until his right hand started to throb that he realized he was pummeling the table with everything he had. Pounding, pounding till the knuckles were skinned and bleeding. An empty test tube had overturned and fallen down, the shards scattered over the tile floor.

  Blood streaked the table. He was clearly losing his mind along with his body. Why, God? Why me? His chest started to heave without warning and hot tears started to roll down his face.

  He was crying. Oh, for God’s sake! How much more pathetic could he get? He quickly pulled out a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed his eyes, then his injured hand. Good thing he was alone. His doctor would have scolded him for hurting himself. Between the drugs and the diabetes, even minor injuries were dangerous in his condition.

  What the hell was the matter with him? He never cried, and almost never surrendered to fits of rage. Grown men weren’t supposed to cry. For any reason. And they weren’t supposed to beat their hands to a pulp, either. It had to be those blasted drugs, messing with his brain and body—whatever was left of them.

  The nausea rose higher now, and the bile shot up into his throat. He raced to the sink at the far end of the lab in the nick of time—and vomited. Damn disease! Rinsing his mouth and his bloodied hand at the tap, he wiped both with his none-too-clean handkerchief and headed back toward the door.

  He had plans to meet some friends for dinner later. It was a party at a married friend’s home. The couple was celebrating their second anniversary, and the impending arrival of their first child, due in three months. Except for one, all his close friends were either married or engaged.

  Feeling a stab of pain in his hand, he winced. He’d have to run to his flat and put some first-aid cream and adhesive bandages over the abrasions and pull himself together. It wouldn’t do to let his friends see him like this. They had stopped asking him when he planned to get married—not even in jest. In the usual Indian tradition, they used to nag him mercilessly about acquiring a wife. Now they gave him pitying looks and made awkward inquiries about his health.

  But they meant well, so he didn’t mind their concerned curiosity. As a matter of fact, he was looking forward to this evening. Not the food—the thought of food made him sick—but the company. It could even be his last party.

  Tomorrow he was being admitted to the hospital for pre-transplant treatment. It was likely to be the longest few days of his life. At the end of that period, God knows what lay in store—staying in the hospital till death came knocking, or going home, feeling better. Staying alive.

  He didn’t want to think that far ahead. Lately he had begun to plan his life in terms of one day at a time. One precious day.

  Enough self-pity, he ordered, and straightened his sagging shoulders.

  Before leaving the lab, he swept the broken test tube shards off the floor and discarded them. He took one final look around the lab, trying to commit its last detail to memory. Even if he survived the transplant, it could be nearly a year before he could return to work. A year seemed like a lifetime at this point.

  He put the book back where he’d found it. Despite the nasty note enclosed, he sent its owner a mental message: Hope you pass your chemistry exam, my friend. Professor Ramchandra is not as liberal in his grading as I am.

  Shutting off the lights, he closed and locked the door to the lab and walked down the steps to the covered portico, where he had parked his motorcycle.

  Outside, a thunderstorm was just beginning to spit out the first plump drops of rain. Standing there for a minute, he observed the storm unleash its fury. A jagged streak of lightning tore the sky, illuminating the landscape for a split second. Winds whipped through the row of tall, slender eucalyptus trees planted alongside the building, making their boughs sway madly.

  It was a beautiful sight. Strange, but he’d never thought of a rainstorm as a thing of beauty before.

  The late-summer storm that was passing would drive away the sticky heat and allow for some good sleeping weather at night. Not that he would sleep all that much.

  He waited for the earsplitting boom of thunder to pass before stepping beyond the portico. Lifting his face, he let the delightful moisture slide over his face, settle on his tongue, soak through his shirt. He hadn’t done anything like this in years, either.

  It could be his last rainstorm.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. Vinita read the message one more time…to make sure she hadn’t completely lost her mind. Stress could make one’s brain do strange things. But the message was clear—rather brief and cool, but it was certainly an improvement over Girish’s total indifference.

  Vini,

  I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear from me. But I honestly needed some time to myself. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since you told me about your past. A few things are becoming clearer, now that the shock of discovery has worn off. I’m sorry to hear that you had malaria and that things haven’t been going well with Rohit and your plan to donate marrow.

  But I’m glad someone has come forward to help. I won’t keep you long. I’m sure you’re spending most of your time at the hospital. I hope Rohit comes through this ordeal successfully. I also hope you’re feeling better.

  Girish

  She sat back in the chair and took several deep breaths to let the raging emotions subside. Took him long enough to respond. No word for weeks, and then all of a sudden this?

  Surprised, he’d said. He had to be kidding, she fumed. Try stunned, my dear, judgmental, pigheaded husband. There was no remorse in his note, no words like worried, or concerned, or love, or even the usual affectionate closing.

  She wanted to lash out at him, scream at him for putting her through such anguish for weeks. But where would anger and revenge leave her? They’d both just end up at an impasse again. Did she want that?


  What had brought on this sudden change in attitude? she wondered. Arya was probably nagging him to pieces, but he could be equally mulish in many ways. He’d been thinking, he said. He was a careful, contemplative kind of man. But thinking for this many damn weeks?

  Calm down, she ordered herself. At least he’s communicating now. She wasn’t sure she wanted to respond to his message right now—when she was angry on the one hand, but grudgingly relieved on the other.

  One wrong word from her and he’d probably clam up all over again. Best to leave it alone, for now, she supposed. She’d respond when she was calmer, more rational. What she needed was a good night’s sleep—time to do her own thinking.

  Maybe tomorrow she’d see his message in a different light. Perhaps come to accept it as his way of calling a truce. If she was willing to look at it from a certain perspective, she might even feel gratitude.

  She’d chew on it some more first.

  Chapter 33

  It smelled of antiseptic cleansers, the way hospitals were supposed to smell. And yet, to Vinita, slouched in a chair in the oncology wing’s waiting room, toying with the clasp on her handbag, it was a grim reminder that her son was to undergo a life-changing procedure the next day.

  Since she’d arrived in Palgaum, it seemed like she’d been in this hospital practically every other day. She had come to know every square foot of it by now, and all the odors and sounds associated with it. Even some hospital staff were beginning to recognize her. Some of them greeted her with a smile.

  Besides, it wasn’t every day that they came across a juicy story like hers and Rohit’s. The gossip mill was alive and well in Palgaum, despite its having grown from a small town to a midsize city in the quarter century she’d been gone. Most everyone in town probably knew her saga by now—the estranged mother from America who had suddenly discovered she had a son, and had flown halfway across the world to save him.

  Looking at it from that perspective, it sounded like a movie plot. The whole thing had been bizarre right from the start—all the way back to the time Rohit was conceived.

  More than a week had gone by since she’d been informed about the mystery donor. She still had no clue about the person’s identity. She’d been making a mental list of possibilities. After considering, then discarding, the individuals on that very short list, she had settled on Som.

  It had to be Som. Maybe her plea to him had made an impact after all. Or was it the Indian male ego, the one that fed itself on the fact that he’d fathered a male child? Had that spurred him to come forward and save his only son? No matter what his reasons, for once in his reprehensible life he had decided to do the right thing. Just for that she was willing to overlook every rotten thing he’d done.

  If Som helped save Rohit’s life, she was willing to forgive him anything.

  She was interrupted in her reverie by Meenal. “Shashi and I are going home now,” she announced. “If you want to spend some time with Rohit, please go ahead.”

  Startled, Vinita looked at Meenal. The woman looked more exhausted than ever. Wet bands of perspiration darkened her blouse around the armpits. She’d been at the hospital nearly all day. Her hair was flattened on one side, like she’d been resting her head against the back of a chair.

  “You don’t mind?” Vinita asked.

  “Rohit is alone now. He might appreciate some company before he goes to sleep.”

  Mr. Barve nodded his agreement. His injuries appeared to be healing. The black eye had all but vanished and the scar on his cheek was a thin brown line. But his arm was still in a cast.

  “Thank you.” It was so generous of the Barves that Vinita didn’t know what else she could say. She’d arrived at the hospital an hour ago and parked herself in the waiting room, hoping to find out how Rohit was doing on the eve of his transplant. The poor boy was likely going through hell with what they called conditioning—intensive chemotherapy and radiation to kill any remaining cancer cells and prepare his body to receive the new marrow and help it grow.

  Her last visit with him was five days ago. He’d been looking somber that day, more or less resigned to the poking and prodding, the IV pole a permanent fixture beside his bed. But she’d also sensed a spark of buoyancy in him. Like everyone else around him, his feelings had seemed mixed—optimism tempered by a sensible dose of caution.

  By calling the Barves every day, Vinita had managed to get a daily status report on Rohit. Each day, she had detected the anxiety mounting in Meenal’s voice. Each day, Vinita had tried her best to boost the older woman’s spirits. Each day, her own disquiet had climbed one more notch. But amidst the tension and unease, she and Meenal had become friends.

  The impending transplant and the knowledge that their son just might have a chance to live had served as the glue to bring the two women even closer together than before. No other friend or family member would have understood what they shared.

  Today Vinita couldn’t stay away from the hospital. She had felt compelled to be in the same building as Rohit, as near as she could get to him. But her plan had been to chat with the Barves in the waiting room, wish them luck, and then leave. Vishal had promised to pick her up whenever she was ready to go home. She hadn’t actually expected to see Rohit. That was a privilege reserved for his parents.

  She was merely hoping for crumbs—one last chance to get firsthand information before the procedure. Although the transplant itself was supposedly as simple as a blood transfusion, the fear of losing him afterwards was real. The need to see him as much as she could was turning into an obsession.

  After wishing the Barves good night, she sprang to her feet and quickly made her way to the area where she had to scrub her hands and arms with a special germicidal soap.

  A nurse thrust a clean towel into her hands. “No touching the patient,” she reminded Vinita.

  “Thanks.” Vinita knew the routine from her last visit. She dried her hands and rubbed the alcohol-based liquid purifier on her hands and arms. All the while the nurse watched her like a prison warden, making sure she obeyed the hospital’s stringent rules about safeguarding patients.

  She padded over to the closed foyer that led to Rohit’s room. The door was shut to keep the germs out and maintain the specially created positive-pressure environment, so she knocked and waited a second before entering.

  This room was larger than the last one he’d been in. It had no windows, for obvious reasons. It was sterile, air-conditioned with special filters, and painted a stark white. The next day, after the procedure—assuming it went as planned—he’d be moved to an even more sanitary room than this one, monitored closely by assigned staff only. He’d be kept in a veritable bubble for a few days.

  “Hello, Rohit,” she said. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, seemingly deep in thought. A shuddery breath flew out of her the instant she noticed how drawn his face looked. He’d lost weight in the space of five days.

  It took him a second to shift his focus to her. “Hello.” He looked grim. The spark from the previous visit was missing.

  “How are you feeling?” She closed the door behind her. She stood a little distance from his bed, afraid she might contaminate him if she got any closer. Her eyes raked him, though, wondering how he could have deteriorated so rapidly. His expressive golden eyes had receded deeper into their sockets.

  She quelled the urge to move closer and touch him, to smooth a hand over his beard-roughened face, to experience the feel of his skin, like she sometimes did with Arya. Until this moment she’d had no idea how quickly the maternal instinct could kick in, even toward a child who’d been a complete stranger until recently.

  “Other than an ulcerated mouth, hair loss, diarrhea, vomiting, and a blasted headache, I’m okay,” was his sardonic reply to her question. His voice was weak.

  “I’m sorry. It was a silly question to ask. You must be miserable.”

  “All part of being a leukemia patient,” he said with a snort. “I’ve become an expert at
it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my visiting you this late. Your parents were kind enough to let me spend some time alone with you,” she explained.

  “I don’t mind.”

  Three simple words, yet they tugged at the deepest recesses of her heart. Her son had come a long way since she and Vishal had visited him the very first time. “I promise I won’t stay too long.”

  He glanced at the IV pole. “I have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere, as you can see.”

  “But you need your rest.”

  He gave a wry smile. “I’ll be resting for a long time after tomorrow.”

  “Have they explained the procedure to you in detail?”

  “In excruciating detail,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Briefly, the infusion of marrow will be done through my central venous line.” He pointed to his chest.

  She couldn’t see the tube because he was wearing a hospital gown and a sheet covered him up to his neck. But she nodded. “I read about it on the Internet last night.”

  “After that they’ll keep me in a sterile room and watch me closely to see if engraftment begins and starts to produce new blood cells.”

  She nodded again. Signs of engraftment, if any, were apparently seen about two to four weeks after the procedure.

  “Are you stuck here all that time, or can you go home in a week or two?” She had hoped he’d be out of danger within a few days and she could fly back home, knowing he was on the mend.

  “That depends on how my body reacts to the transplant—rejection, infection…who knows,” he murmured with a shrug. He seemed resigned to his fate. “Like I said, I’ll be resting a long time.”

  “But the important thing is to keep thinking healthy,” she said, working up a sunny smile for him, despite the shiver that ran through her at his ominous words, resting a long time. “You’ll be on your feet and back at work before you know it.”

  He snorted again. “Yeah, sure.”

  She wondered if the doctor had said something to him to make his spirits sink so low. Or was it the effect of the powerful treatment he’d been undergoing these past few days?