25
Zarah Mirza
It was a gloomy morning, like many before. Muted light from the tinted windows of her bedroom made patterns on the mosaic floor. Her parents were back again and finally, she had figured out the reason behind the uncalled-for surprise drop-ins. Last night, her mother had dropped in five names, all doctors, who were really fond of the picture they had been sent. It was a picture of her from a wedding she had been dragged to by her mom. She was in a red embellished saree and carried a Chanel handbag—a gift from her mother—which her mom had bought for herself during her trip to Europe the year before. The photo had all three of them, but it had been cropped.
The recent visits had been bothersome. Her dad had tried to initiate conversation with her every time they were alone and she would feel queasy and nauseated.
Groggily, she stepped out of her room and called out to her mom. She was nowhere to be seen. After checking the kitchen, the balcony and the washrooms, she finally asked her dad.
‘Where is Mom?’ she asked.
‘She has gone to the nearby masjid to pray for you. I think she will be back in half an hour,’ he said and put the newspaper by his side.
‘Okay,’ she acknowledged and turned on her heel.
‘Zarah?’ her dad called out.
‘Yes?’
‘Can we talk? Will you sit with me for a while?’ he asked. Zarah looked at him with revulsion. Every inch of her body wanted to run away from the man who wouldn’t believe his daughter, but his questioning gaze kept her from going.
‘Fine,’ she said and plonked down on the sofa. ‘But it better not be about the guys whom you have chosen for me. I am too busy to get married right now,’ she declared.
‘I am not talking about that,’ he said. ‘I want to talk about us.’
This can’t be happening. Zarah felt someone had pulled the rug from beneath her feet. All of a sudden, she started to feel light-headed. She wanted to run from him. Why? Why does he want to talk about us?
‘Why do you want to talk?’ she asked.
‘There are some things that I know that you think I don’t. And things that you don’t know.’
Oh no. This was only getting only worse. She wished he would stop and not go any further. It had taken her years to put what had happened that night behind her, and him digging out the past would only mean it was real. She looked at him with rapt attention and saw his eyes glaze over.
‘I have been a coward.’
Yes, you have.
He continued, ‘I know what happened that night. I have wanted to talk to you about this for very long, but I have never found the words. I tried to get close and make you understand how wrong I had been, but it never helped. I understand your hatred for me. I understand that it’s hard for you to sit in the same room as me. I know I have failed as a father.’
‘Can I go?’ she asked. Her eyes had started to well up and she didn’t want to cry in her front of her father. Despite all the years she had spent hating her father, she also had the lovely memories of her childhood when her dad doted on her and loved her like a little newborn baby. She didn’t want to be reminded of all that.
‘Yes, you can. I understand why. I know I should have believed you, but I didn’t. Years later, I came to know what happened from the daughter of my senior and about what he had done to you … She told me that you had gone to the hospital when her dad was in a coma and told her that her father was a monster, a disgrace, a paedophile, a depraved pervert …’ His voice trailed off. ‘I was consumed by guilt. I was no less a monster than that man. I didn’t know how to come to you and apologize. I didn’t know what I could have done to make it better … I needed to die.’
‘I need to go,’ she said as a lone tear trickled down her cheek. She got up and turned her back on him.
‘I tried to kill myself,’ he mumbled.
She turned to look him in the eye, still fuming but a mush of emotions inside. Almost instinctively, her searching gaze caught his hands—both wrists had huge scars running through and through. Someone must have found him quickly after he did that because the wounds appeared deep enough to prove fatal within fifteen minutes. They were determined cuts that ran deep, not superficial grazes that suicidal teenagers have.
‘Did you cut …?’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Nothing worked. I drove our car off a flyover. I ate a bottle of sleeping pills … I lived. I lived to face you,’ he whimpered like a little girl.
‘When was that?’ she asked with a trace of emotion in her voice. ‘Wait? Was it when you and Mom …?’
‘We never went to Europe. I was in a hospital for a month,’ he clarified.
‘And Mom? You never thought about her? Does she know? Had you died, what would she have done? She has a daughter who doesn’t talk to her and a husband who constantly tries to kill himself? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? And just because you tried to kill yourself doesn’t mean I will forgive you. How can I forgive all those years you were right in front of me and I couldn’t tell you anything. HOW DO YOU THINK I FELT when you were going to parties with the SAME MEN WHO RAPED ME! How can I forget all that? JUST BECAUSE YOU TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF? You know what? I wish you had died! You deserve to!’ she bellowed and melted into a big pool of tears.
She slumped on the couch, scrunched herself into a little ball and hoped she would disappear. She wept and she could hear her father sob like a little child. She was angry, distraught and vulnerable. Slowly, a montage of pictures with her father and her started to float in front of her eyes, interspersed with images of her dad lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood, lying with broken bones in a hospital bed, frothing at the mouth because of an overdose of sleeping pills. Slowly, she felt the anger melt away. She couldn’t help but think about what it would be like not to have her dad around. It was a sinking feeling.
She didn’t know how it happened, but she found herself in her dad’s arms and both of them wept profusely. Every passing second made the presence of her father near her easier to bear. With every tear that she shed, she could feel the animosity melt away. The flood of tears slowly reduced to a trickle. Zarah didn’t know what to say, all she knew was that after years of bitterness and hostility, this tiny moment of love made her feel alive again. Just then, the door bell rang.
Zarah stood up straight. Both of them wiped their tears away and she felt her lips curve into a little smile. Next, she smoothened out her clothes and walked to the door. She opened the door and hugged her mother. ‘Good morning,’ she whispered. Her mother looked at her, shocked.
‘I got aloo-puri for breakfast,’ her mother said and held out the polythene in her hands.
‘I will just take a bath and come back,’ Zarah said and smiled. As she walked to her room, her eyes met her father’s and they smiled. She blushed. In more ways than one, it was one. The shower went on for a little longer than she had intended. For the longest time, she stood there and thought about how life would have been different had her father come out earlier and apologized. She realized her anger was aimed at her father keeping mum about the whole matter.
She came to the living room after she dried herself and dressed. Her parents were already waiting on the table for her. The salty, yummy aroma of the aloo-puri overwhelmed her senses. She sat down and started to eat, her mother slightly perturbed by the glances and small talk between Zarah and her father.
‘When do you have to go to the hospital today?’ her mom asked.
‘Late night,’ she said and reminded her mother of her weekly day off.
‘You’re staying at home today?’ she asked.
‘No, I am going out with friends for a movie. The new Avengers movie is out. People are saying it’s hilarious. So, I might go catch that. Plus, Robert Downey, Jr is really nice looking,’ she said. Her mother was still perplexed at her daughter’s sudden chatty mood.
‘And what about the guys we have chosen for you? Beta, you’re anyway too busy on the days that you’re wor
king. At least meet them? There is this really nice guy—’
‘Oh, c’mon! She is still young. Let her live her life for now. She can get married later!’ her dad interrupted.
‘See? At least someone has the sense!’ she said and laughed with her dad. Her mother’s face contorted in utter bewilderment.
‘And who knows, maybe she has already found someone she wants to be with? Zarah, is there somebody in your life that you really like?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ she said with an evil smirk. ‘Though I am not really sure about it.’
It looked as if her mom was struck by lightning. She froze like a mother from an ’80s shoddy Hindi movie who had just learnt that her daughter had been impregnated by her college sweetheart.
‘What?’
‘I am just kidding, Maa. There is just this very cute patient in my ward.’
‘So, you like someone who is not well? Whoever he is, he is sick. How can you like him? I hope he is not a Christian or a Hindu. Oh, God. Why didn’t you tell me that before?’ she asked frantically. ‘You knew about this?’ She looked at her husband, who shook his head vehemently.
‘Maa. Calm down. It’s nothing but a crush,’ she clarified.
‘God knows what I have done to deserve this,’ she grumbled. For the rest of the meal, she found some or the other reason to curse her life, which Zarah found adorable. After a while, both she and her dad ignored her and talked about other aspects. Since her mom was never interested in her work—in fact, she never wanted her daughter to be a doctor and be around diseases—it was a relief for her to actually discuss her work with someone from her family.
After dilly-dallying for a bit, because she didn’t want to leave the family she had regained after so many years, she left the house. She met her school friends after a really long time and they were surprised to see Zarah in an ecstatic mood. After making them cancel the plan to watch the movie, she dragged them from one shop to another to get her father a gift. Careful consideration and rebukes from her friends, who progressively got more impatient, made her decide on a beautiful Tag Heuer watch that she had seen Shahrukh Khan wear in an advertisement.
It was a day of colossal shocks for her mother as she saw her daughter give her father a gift far more expensive than anything he had ever owned. Had she been carrying a tray of teacups, she would have promptly dropped it like the quintessential soap-opera mom.
On the watch, there was an inscription which said, ‘We still have time.’
Later that night, her father offered to drive her to the hospital but she refused. She got into her car and left, and her parents waved her goodbye from the balcony like they used to in her schooldays. As her car lazily zipped through the traffic, she wondered about all the times she had cursed her father for her wretched life. Everything that didn’t go according to her plans was attributed to a failed father. But that day, she was amazed at how easily she had forgotten everything and had gone running into his arms. She argued that it had been too long and her father had suffered enough. Probably even more than she had. As penance, he had tried to kill himself thrice and none of them were half-hearted attempts. The guilt must have driven him to madness, she thought.
On certain levels, she even felt guilty about it. Maybe things would have returned to normal a lot earlier had she mustered up the courage to pick up that topic again. All said and done, there was a sinking feeling in her stomach that all the years of hatred and loathing would never come back. She parked the car and as she entered the hospital building, a winning smile found its way to her face. She wanted to shift in with her parents. It was a crazy thought and it would in no certain way be pleasurable, but there was nothing to lose.
The spring in her step and the glow on her face, even when it was one in the night, were apparent. She put a new pot of coffee in the machine and waited for it to brew. Her body sprawled across the couch, she was thinking about a vacation they could go on. Maybe, this time for real … Europe. Just as she closed her eyes and imagined her family on a gondola ride in Venice, she heard a commotion in the corridor and saw a doctor and a few nurses run past her office. Instinct told her they were running towards the all-familiar room no. 509. She jumped up and ran in their direction.
She was there fifteen seconds after the nurses and saw the door ajar. Pihu was coughing violently on the bed while Dushyant lay on the floor, his hand twisted in a strange angle, motionless. On the door, she saw Kajal with her hands covering her mouth as the nurses and the doctor made a mad scramble for the two patients. Zarah froze, her legs numb, unable to move or think.
Dushyant was put on a stretcher and rushed out of the room towards the Intensive Care Unit; he had suffered a major bleed again. From the little experience that she had, she knew Dushyant’s liver had given up. The alternatives started to crop up in her head. Transplant? Living donors? Dead donors? No insurance? Maybe his parents? She just sat there on Dushyant’s bed, petrified, as the doctor got Pihu to breathe normally again. She called Arman to let him know about his patient.
Kajal was still standing in the corner, watching in horror as the scene unfolded.
Finally, she stepped towards Zarah and asked, ‘Will he be okay?’
‘His liver just gave up. He needs a transplant,’ she said mindlessly. ‘But …’
‘But what? Are you looking for a donor? Can I donate? If that’s okay? I mean I am healthy and we even share the same blood group! What else do you need to match?’ Kajal panicked.
A fear-stricken Zarah looked at her in shock. Her feelings towards Dushyant, which she thought were genuine, were dwarfed in front of Kajal’s proposition.
‘I need to talk to my seniors,’ she said and got up.
‘Can I come?’ she asked impatiently.
‘No, I think you should be with Dushyant right now,’ she said and told her where they had taken him.
‘I don’t think I can watch him like this,’ she cried out and crumpled into a heap near the bedpost. Zarah, on noticing there was someone who was much more disturbed than she was, finally jolted herself back to her senses. She helped Kajal sit on the bed and reassured her that she would do anything and everything to get him a donor. Kajal, still weeping, whispered that she would be ready to donate if the need arose. Zarah knew finding a donor was tough, given the red tape, shortage of dead people with usable livers and the rising number of old alcoholics with plenty of money to spare. Transplanting livers from living patients was monstrously expensive and she wondered if Dushyant alone could afford it. It was a long, complicated surgery and usually cost more than 15 lakh rupees. As she sat there patting and consoling Kajal, Pihu’s parents came rushing in, crying. They sat beside their daughter and kept asking her what had happened. Pihu had no answers for them—she just stared at them with a blank expression on her face.
‘You just stay here; I will be back in a bit and update you on how he is doing,’ she said and got up to leave the room and talk to Arman about it.
Just then, a voice called out her name: ‘Zarah?’
Zarah looked back to see Pihu call out her name. ‘Yes?’
‘What happened?’ Pihu asked. ‘And … And … I can’t move my hands.’
‘You were about to choke to death. I think your heart stopped too. The nurse just told me that Dushyant resuscitated you. He saved you,’ she said and left the room, as four pairs of stunned eyes followed her.
26
Arman Kashyap
Arman paced about in his room, angry, frustrated and really scared. He waited for Zarah to come back to his office and tell him exactly what had happened. For the first time in many years, he felt like he would pass out from anxiety. It was his third cigarette and he was far from being calm. If the surgery failed, he would have to schedule another one and quick. Reversing the process was improbable and even more dangerous than just going ahead with the treatment and finishing it.
At a distance, he saw Zarah walk towards his office with slow, unsure steps. He held the door open f
or her and as soon as she got in, he said, ‘What happened?’ His hands were crossed firmly in front of his chest, bracing for impact.
‘Dushyant needs a liver transplant. He might not see another day. Pihu is dying. She can’t feel her hands any more and she nearly choked to death,’ she said and took a seat. ‘She needs to be put on constant breathing support if we don’t want it to happen again.’
Silence gripped the room as both the doctors faced the reality that stared them right in the face. Arman’s head was a mashed pulp of angst and failure. Sitting on his seat with Pihu’s reports in front of him, his demeanour transformed from a headstrong, unemotional doctor’s to that of a parent who is about to lose his or her kid. As tears threatened to peek out from his eyes, he made a few calls for some tests to be run on Pihu. Next, he called his college buddy–surgeon to let him know that he would need his help again. As he looked around helplessly, often running his hands over his head, he noticed Zarah sobbing softly with her head buried in her palms.
‘I will see what has to be done. You should talk to his parents. They can be possible donors,’ he said, trying to regain some grip on the situation. His words had no effect on Zarah whose stifled sobs only got louder. ‘I will pay if money is a problem,’ he added as another assurance. But deep down, he knew all this wouldn’t matter. A liver transplant would make him live for another few days, maybe a month, but his kidneys were still shutting down. The survival chances of someone with donor kidneys and liver were slim, and that is if the patient got the organs in the first place.
Till the Last Breath . . . Page 19
