Fireproof

by Raj Kamal Jha

  I doubted there would have been any change in my wife’s condition – it had not even been twelve hours since I had seen her last – but if, by some miracle or accident, she had improved, I didn’t want her to wake up, to ask for the child, for me and be told that neither of us was available. (Or worse, I didn’t want Head Nurse, even Doctor 1 or Doctor 2 telling her what had happened, who Ithim was, what kind of a baby she had given birth to.) I wanted to be the first one she saw at her bedside when she woke up. I wanted to prepare her, to give her the news myself and although I had hardly given it any thought – I had no idea what I would tell her, how I would introduce her to Ithim (whether I should perhaps wait for her to get well and come home?) – I was sure of one thing: that with me by her side when she opened her eyes, everything would be easier.

  (‘Stay by my side,’ that’s what she’d said to me before we rushed to Holy Angel that night when she woke up and said she’d felt her waters break.

  On our way, in the taxi, her face ashen, her body cold, she kept saying she didn’t feel a thing inside, that maybe the baby had died. And between telling the taxidriver to speed up and be careful I kept squeezing her hands, telling her, in the same breath, no, this was normal, that I had read somewhere – and this was a lie because I hadn’t – that in the last hour before delivery, just when the waters break, the foetus is under severe trauma and shock knowing its time has come and it’s this trauma that silences it, freezes it in what is, in essence, an act of survival. In short, what she felt in her womb was an expected calm, a sign of the baby’s survival rather than the opposite, as she feared, its death.

  Of course, in the daze of that night, with the city rushing by as the taxi darted in and out between buses and trucks, the driver blowing the horn in one continuous whine, his assistant sitting next to him, a boy hardly fifteen or sixteen years old, thrusting his left hand out and waving a red towel to warn passing vehicles that the taxi was on an emergency, I doubt if my wife heard one word of what I was saying. Her eyes were closed, she was in pain and, her hands in mine, her nails were digging into my palm; in her painfully thin arms, I could see the veins even in the dim light that entered the taxi from outside. Her veins that had first caught my eye.

  By the time we had reached Holy Angel, by the time the taxi had left us in the front porch, by the time I had carried her inside, helped by the driver’s assistant, his red towel-flag now a scarf he tied around his head to cover his ears against the cold, my wife was unconscious. And she had not woken up since.)

  And even if – as was likely – there was no change in her condition (after all, Doctor 1 had said it would be several days), I wanted to see her before I set out with Ithim on our journey, wanted to assure myself that although I was taking him – her baby, our baby – away without her knowledge or consent, the fact that I would walk into her room, see her, maybe hold her hands, touch her forehead, watch her chest rise and fall, maybe even rest Ithim against her for a while, have his skin touch hers, would make me stronger and more confident about whatever lay ahead.

  Yes, I would do that.

  Definitely.

  Certainly.

  ‘Come in, sir, this side, sale, there is a sale on, trousers and shirts, just your size.’ The voice behind me was insistent.

  It was a security guard, dressed in uniform, a blue shirt and blue trousers, a badge stitched onto his pocket, a white badge with four letters threaded, h a n g – the same as the hospital, Holy Angel and Nursing Graduate – but spelled out on the brim of his hat: Housekeeping and Guarding.

  He was guarding the store. And, evidently, playing salesman, too.

  I walked in.

  ‘You have to leave the bag at the counter,’ Plaza Guard said, ‘I will give you a token.’

  ‘I can’t leave the bag,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I am here, nothing will happen.’

  ‘No, I can’t leave the bag.’ There was no way I was going to be separated from Ithim, even if for a few minutes.

  I looked around, there was no one in the shop except a young woman in a red jacket, sitting behind the cash counter to my left, who hadn’t noticed this exchange between me and the guard. She was reading something. Shirts and trousers hung from steel rods arranged in rows in the centre; women’s clothes were to the side against the wall. There was a wooden case near the entrance, built like a bookshelf except that the shelves were taller, deeper; this was where Plaza Guard stood and where customers had to deposit their bags.

  But, no, I wasn’t doing anything like that.

  ‘You want me to enter your shop?’ I told Plaza Guard, more as a statement than a question. ‘You let me get in with the bag.’

  ‘Sir, I have to check with Madam,’ he said. Madam was evidently the woman in the red jacket, maybe the manager or the owner or the owner’s daughter.

  ‘Please wait here for a second,’ said the guard.

  I knew that Madam would look at me so I brought out one of the sheets of paper from the bag and began to read it, I had to appear calm, I had to make it look that this was just another bag that I was carrying, with some important papers inside, papers I couldn’t afford to leave.

  I could have turned and walked out of the shop but at that moment, it didn’t seem to be the practical option. I had already walked several steps into the store and I needed to put on this act because I didn’t want to create a scene, make a fuss about the bag I was carrying. What if that aroused suspicion?

  What if Plaza Guard said, There is a man who’s entered the store and he won’t let go of his bag, Madam, we have told him he has to keep it outside for security reasons but he says, no, he won’t, he even walked out of the shop over this, will you please tell the police, the city is on fire and there is a suspicious man here with a suspicious bag? I had seen the policemen at the entrance and the last thing I needed was for them to start asking questions. What would I have said if Ithim had been discovered? If they had asked, why have you stuffed this newborn in a bag? They would have accused me of stealing him. Or even worse, they would have said look at this heartless father who plans to dump this baby somewhere, maybe in the huge garbage dump behind the mall, just because it is deformed. On a day like this, when the city is on fire.

  So I stood there, staring intently at a page of Miss Glass’s message. Trying to look as if the bag was least of my concerns.

  The act worked.

  ‘Please go in,’ Plaza Guard said, ‘the Trial Room is in the corner.’

  I picked up two pairs of trousers, draped them over my bag to cover it and headed for the Trial Room. Madam was still reading, not once had she raised her head, even when talking to the guard.

  As if she were a mannequin.

  I am Head Nurse, sorry for coming in so late, I was forty-three years old, I had worked in Holy Angel for almost fifteen years attached to the Maternity Ward, I have two daughters, sixteen and thirteen years old, the elder one has her Board exams next month and she wants to be a doctor so to help her prepare for the entrance exam I got her enrolled in a special correspondence course, I told her she should not be a nurse if she can be a doctor and I was lucky since both Doctor 1 and Doctor 2, the two doctors I work for, told me I could bring her to the hospital on some days if she needed help with her studies, both the doctors are kind and we have got to know each other over the years, who knew that all three of us would die together, that afternoon, I got to know of the mob pretty early, around the time my children come home from school, someone who lives near our neighbourhood had brought a patient to the hospita and he talked about a crowd that had blocked the road, was setting shops and homes on fire so immediately, I got Doctor 1’s permission, took a taxi from near the hospital gate, I know Taxidriver, he’s been a regular at the hospital for a while now, no one wanted to drive me there but because I know this driver – in fact, I refer many patients to him, it helps his business – he said, no problem, I will take you home but I will not wait, so please don’t take much time, which was fine by me and
when I reached home, I found my children were already back from school, the mob had been dispersed, the police had come so I told them to stay inside, their father, my husband, was not in town, he was supposed to return next week, I returned to the hospital since it was a busy day, many of the injured and the dead were being brought in and in the evening, the hospital gave us a van to go home, that’s when it happened, the van was stopped and although Doctor 1 and Doctor 2 both tried to reason with the mob, no one heard in all that noise, the fire spread too swiftly, I couldn’t even tell them that I am a Christian, am from Kerala, my identity card was in my purse with my name but I doubt it would have helped because two years ago they were after Christians, too, I am happy that both my daughters are safe and if they don’t have their mother, they at least have their father and in a way it was good that I didn’t tell the mob about my religion, it would have been very selfish of me given that Doctor 1 and Doctor 2 were also in the van because if they had let me go, I would have died every day with guilt.

  16. Father and son,

  5 minutes in the Trial Room

  FIVE minutes in the Trial Room, at the most, six, that’s all I had, that’s all most of us have, anything over and above that would have surely raised suspicions. Just one thing, please indulge me, if you will, I have a little request: let me slip into the third person as I tell you what happened in the Trial Room. For a while, just a while, let me banish the I, bring on the He.

  Yes, I know it’s somewhat odd, coming as it does at this time, and it may strike you as unusual but, as you shall see, it’s wholly appropriate.

  This man likes Trial Rooms in garment stores, especially in this city, right in the middle of the crowd: it’s the Private in the glare of the Public. He likes this tiny space cordoned off, a space he can enter and where, without one second thought, he can begin to undress. He can shed the old, the present, hang it on the wall, let it fall to the floor and see how he will look in the new, in the future. For example, when he is inside, not once does he pause to consider who before him has tried this particular piece of clothing, a shirt or a pair of trousers, that he has just slipped into. Whose skin has it touched? Which part of the body, bare, has it rustled against? Whose sweat has it soaked up, whose smell has it absorbed? Questions that would usually make his skin crawl but here in the Trial Room it doesn’t matter. How he wishes he had a Trial Room for everything, for every thought, every feeling, so he could shed the old, slip into the new, if only for a moment, look into the mirror, see how it fits, before deciding. But this morning, he’s not entering the Trial Room for any of this, he’s walking in for only that space, that gift of solitude in the middle of this city. Away from the mob that walks the street outside. The father needs to spend time with his son. So let the countdown begin. In minutes and in seconds.

  00.00: He walks in, he looks around, he sizes up the Trial Room. It’s barely five feet by five feet, seven feet high, there are mirrors on all its four walls and there is a small leather sofa in one corner. The ceiling has two sunken lights, one yellow, the other white, both dim, forming a curious cone of light over his head but leaving much of the room in shadow. There are four pegs in a line on one wall by the door. The door itself is flush with the floor so no one outside can look in once it’s locked, even if they were to lie down on the floor, press their cheeks against the floor and try to peer in. (This makes him comfortable.) There’s a small poster stuck onto one mirror, with tape; it shows a woman, a blonde in a black turtleneck, her breasts visible through the sheer fabric. Poster Woman wears a skirt slit near the knee, a wraparound skirt that softly clings to her legs. She is sitting on what looks like a park bench, there are trees in the background, blurred, and a cobbled pathway that leads from the bench into the blur of the trees. The man closes the door behind him, slides its bolt into place, looks into the mirror, brings his face closer for a better look. He has stubble, is dishevelled as if he had been running against some wind. He wears a striped shirt, a blue blazer and dark trousers. Below the pegs on the wall, there is a switch for a tiny fan perched in one corner of the ceiling. It’s cool inside, the man doesn’t need the fan, so he looks at it once, looks away. Then he changes his mind, switches the fan on. Perhaps he needs the noise, needs the whirring to fill the room. The man removes a bulky bag from his shoulder and places it on the leather sofa. There are two new trousers that he walked in with, both draped over the bag. He picks them up, lets them drop to the floor, at his feet. He isn’t interested in new clothes. He presses his ear to the door to check if anyone is on the other side, if there’s anyone listening. The fan, the sound of the trousers falling to the floor. He can hear no one.

  00.48: The man sits on the sofa, near its edge, away from the bag as if he’s careful about not touching it, not causing the slightest disturbance. One leg propped on the other knee, he begins to take off his shoes. These are layered with dust and ash. Black. He runs a finger over it, wipes it on his trousers. The shoes fall from his feet, their thud muffled by the noise from the electric fan. He is now in his socks. He wiggles his toes, stands up, leans against one mirror-wall as he removes his trousers, hangs them on the first peg, looks at himself in the mirror again. He can see the pale white marks of his dry skin, the hair on his calves, his knees. He cuts an ordinary figure. Then, instead of bending down, picking up a new pair of trousers (as we would expect), he takes off his blazer, hangs that up as well. Now he’s standing, in his striped shirt, his underwear and his socks. The shirt was tucked in because we can now see the creases at the bottom, where it covers his thighs. Now he removes his shirt, lets it fall to the floor. He has a vest on, a cotton vest, close-fitting, there are ridges on the fabric. He’s thin, it looks like the vest has been draped over his collarbones. He takes that off, too, he slips off the socks, smells each one of them before he lets them drop.

  Now he’s naked. The man, the father.

  01.51: Naked, he sits on the sofa, reaches into the bag and, very carefully, as if he is reaching in for the most precious, the most fragile object in the world, he takes out a bundle. Emptied of Bundle, the bag folds over itself, slides to one side, its mouth open. (There is a sheaf of papers still in the bag. Neat, white.) Bundle in his hands, the man stands and looks into the mirror, looks at his infinite reflections in the four walls. Tries to count how many he can see but soon gives up. He presses Bundle against his chest, raises it to his left shoulder, holds it, both arms around it. A man holding a child. Standing straight, he looks at himself and Bundle in the mirror again. He transfers Bundle to the right shoulder and as he is doing this, he also turns to the right so he faces the second mirror. Then transfers Bundle to the left shoulder and turns again. And a fourth time so that he’s back to where he started, has completed a full circle, a 360-degree turn.

  02.46: The man places Bundle on the sofa, then switches the fan off. In the silence that fills the tiny room, he can hear himself move. He checks the bolt on the door, it’s still securely in place, the door is locked. There’s nothing to worry about. He presses his ears to the door again to check if there’s anyone there: nothing. He returns to the sofa and once seated, begins to unwrap Bundle, layer by layer. Towels, small and big, tissue paper, a tiny white shirt. All removed, Bundle is now his son, naked. The man takes one end of a towel and begins cleaning him, wiping his son, near his penis and his anus, then he crumples the towel and puts it into the bag, next to the paper. He gets up, unhooks his trousers from the peg, takes out a handkerchief from the pocket. There is a small heap of talcum powder within the folds; he daubs his fingers with it, applies it to the son’s face, chest, waist. He feeds the son out of a bottle, with a dropper, wipes his son’s mouth and his face, then cradles him in both arms all the time looking into the mirror.

  03.50: Still holding his son, the man pushes the bag to the floor, lies down on the sofa. The sofa is much smaller than him so the man has to keep his knees bent; he presses himself hard against the back of the sofa so he doesn’t fall. Lying there, away from the cone of
light, in the shadows, the man holds his son high, his palms around the baby’s chest. Then he brings the baby to his face, kisses him on the black strip of charred skin that is the baby’s forehead, kisses him on the eyes, on the mound of his nose, the knife-cut of his lips, kisses him on the funnel-flap of his left ear, on the right where there is none, just skin stretched taut. He lifts him up, lowers him again, lifts him up, lowers him, looking at him, at his son, and then into the mirrors as well. To see how they reflect, father playing with son. His hands hurt, he lets his son rest on his chest. He closes his eyes; the room floods with a dazzling white light that hangs over him and his son for one moment and then fades into black; he opens his eyes. Both father and son are naked, skin against skin, newborn against old and tired. And he stays still, waiting to hear the beat of the heart inside his son against his own.

  Father and son, son and father.

  04.50: Still holding his son, he bends down. Suddenly, there, in the mirror, he can see it. His son is looking. At himself, at Father. His perfect eyes have opened, they are blinking. Father brings him closer to the mirror, he can see his perfect eyelashes, the perfect eyebrows. Son won’t sleep now, he’s just woken up, thinks Father, so let me take him to the park for a walk, the park in the poster on the mirror, behind Poster Woman, where the trees have begun to grow fresh leaves. It’s the first day of March, it’s spring in the park. The poster peels off under the weight of the new leaves and the sway of the branches. Without making any noise, the mirror cracks, its shards of glass falling to the floor. Poster almost gone, Poster Woman has a puzzled look on her face. She gets up and walks away, along a narrow path between the trees, the new leaves brushing her shoulders, the grass green against the black of her skirt that clings closer than ever. Poster Woman gone, the cobbled path clear, the park now in full bloom, Father is walking, watching his son, teaching his son to ride a blue-and-red bicycle. It wobbles, the son laughs, his hands and legs outstretched to balance his tiny frame. Father runs after him, holds the bicycle seat so that the child doesn’t fall, the son turns his face to look at Father. ‘Don’t look at me,’ says Father, ‘don’t look at me, look straight ahead, keep the bicycle steady.’ The son smiles, blinks at his Father, the bicycle moves forward and Father can see, in the light of the park, dappled by the leaves and the branches of the trees, the bicycle’s handlebars and pedals disappearing. Fading, dissolving into the air. And his son, legless and armless, still moving forward, the soft crunch of the bicycle wheels against the leaves. Then the seat begins to disappear and, with it, both wheels until Ithim is floating in the air.