by Om Swami
‘You are not touching him!’ she roared.
Taken aback by her sudden intervention, without a word or warning, he pushed her away. In an effort to regain her balance, she tried to hold on to something, but her saree got stuck in her big toe, and she toppled and fell back on her head. There was a loud thud as her head hit the concrete staircase. No other sound came from her.
‘Ma!’ Varun leaped to pick her up. But there was no movement. He sat down and put her head in his lap. Blood was oozing out non-stop.
‘Mum!’ Mira screamed. She was trying to wake her up. ‘Anu?’ Father grabbed her pulse to check it. ‘Anu, please
wake up. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ He was choking, breaking out into a sweat.
Mum lay there unconscious. A terrible thought flooded my mind: what if she never woke up. No, I couldn’t think like that. I wanted to move closer and touch her, shake her, but I was just rooted to the ground. It felt unreal, like a nightmare.
It didn’t feel like home any more. It felt more like I was just walking on the road and people had gathered around a stranger who had been in an accident. I looked at mum. Father, Mira, Varun, they all looked like strangers – I didn’t know them. They were trying to bring her back to consciousness, but she wasn’t responding.
‘Vasu! Vasu!’ Father shook me. ‘Get some water!’ I stood there, paralysed.
‘What’s wrong with you, Vasu?’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Get some water. Now!’ He shook me violently.
I neither moved nor cried.
Mira ran to the kitchen and got a glass of water. He sprinkled some on mum’s face. ‘Please get up, Anu,’ he cried. ‘I’m sorry.’
There was no movement. Not even so much as a twitch. Father grabbed a t-shirt hanging on the clothesline and tied it on her head to prevent further blood loss. Lifting her in his arms, he ran barefoot. We had no car, and ambulances in our small town were used more often to transport groceries for various officers. Patients were expected to make it on their own.
‘St. John’s Hospital,’ he yelled. ‘Lock the house and reach there.’
How tiny she looked in my father’s arms! It was strange to see him carry her like that. How effortlessly he held her, tenderly but protectively. There was not a sign of the anger that had distorted his face just a few minutes earlier. His eyes were full of fear, though: fear of losing her.
The hospital was about eight kilometres away. At the end of the street, you could usually find an autorickshaw or two. Like a mad-man, he ran out with mother in his arms. I wasn’t sure if she was dead or alive, whether I would ever hear her call me Vasu again. I had no clue if she would worry about my food again. I didn’t know what the future held for us.
‘Let’s go, Vasu,’ Varun howled. He had just washed his hands; his shirt and jeans were still smeared in blood. He was holding father’s wallet.
‘I need a minute,’ I said calmly. It only came out that way. I wasn’t calm at all.
‘We don’t have a minute,’ he shouted back. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s all happening because of you.’
‘Shut up, Varun!’ Mira chided him. ‘It’ll be okay, Vasu,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I just need a minute, Mira.’ And without saying another word, I ran into my room.
There he was, Hanuman, with his mace on his shoulder, smiling. He seemed so oblivious to what had just transpired, so unconcerned.
‘O Bajrang Bali,’ I lifted him in my palms and touched his feet to my forehead. ‘It’s okay if you never grant me another wish, but don’t take my mother away. Bajrang Bali, please don’t take my mother away. I promise I’ll behave and be a good boy. Please, God, please let her live. I beg you.’
In a blinding flash, shorter than the fraction of a moment, I saw a vision. A vision of the future. Vasu Bhatt with his mother on a stage, receiving the trophy for the world championship. There was thunderous applause all around. In my heart of hearts, I felt this was a real vision. Time could not take away my mother just yet. I knew Hanuman would protect her. A new energy surged through me. I quickly wiped my eyes that were welling up and ran out.
‘Mum will be fine, trust me,’ I hollered and flashed the little idol of Hanuman in my hands as if he would actually speak to them or show them what he had just shown me. They said nothing. We rushed to the hospital.
‘She’s still unconscious,’ the doctor said. ‘We can’t tell how bad the injury is until we see the scan.’
Mother got eight stitches on her head. They put her on drip.
Father was running barefoot from one department to the other to organize all the necessary tests. It wasn’t easy to get things done in a hospital owned by a charitable trust and partially funded by the government. Two hours later, her report was with us.
‘There’s internal bleeding,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll have to operate. But the chief neurosurgeon is gone for the day. We’ll keep her under observation. The surgery will be done tomorrow.’
‘Can’t it be done today?’ father asked.
‘No,’ came the indifferent reply. ‘It’ll be done tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ father argued. ‘We can’t wait till tomorrow.
Why can’t we call the chief surgeon in this emergency?’
‘We get emergencies like this every day,’ the doctor said, a little irritated, while checking mum’s blood pressure. ‘We can’t just call him.’
‘What if it were your mother dying here?’ Varun screamed. ‘You piece of shit!’
‘Watch your mouth or I’ll have you thrown out of the hospital,’ the doctor said, pointing his finger at Varun.
Mira pacified Varun. She said something to him but I wasn’t paying attention. I was looking at mum. She was just lying there as if nothing had happened, unaware of everything that was happening around her. I gripped the Hanuman idol again.
Father went to the officer-in-charge but he gave the same reply – the chief surgeon could not be called at that hour. Father made some calls to find out if anyone could do anything. It was a small town and everyone knew everyone else. Yet no one seemed to know the chief surgeon.
I took a five-rupee note from my father’s wallet and walked to the PCO just outside the hospital and dialled a number.
‘Master?’ I said in a low voice. ‘Vasu?’
I burst into tears.
‘What happened, Vasu?’ His voice was so comforting, just like mum’s.
I told him about what had happened and how the chief neurosurgeon wasn’t available for surgery. Master reconfirmed if my mum was admitted at St. John’s hospital.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Go tell the doctor to prepare the OT. The chief surgeon will show up in the next twenty minutes.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. More tears rolled down. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Vasu,’ he spoke reassuringly.
‘Go now. I have to make a call.’
‘Four rupees and twenty paise,’ the PCO owner said as soon as I put the receiver down. I just placed the full five rupees in his hands and ran to the hospital.
‘Your change,’ he shouted from behind.
It was already 8 p.m., well past the visiting hours. We were not allowed to see mother even from outside the ICU.
Father and Mira were still sitting outside the doctor’s room, looking desperate. Varun was pacing the corridor madly.
I barged into the doctor’s room. Father followed behind.
Mira and Varun too.
He was livid to see me … us, enter like that. ‘What do—’
‘Master says get the operation theatre ready. The chief surgeon will be here in a matter of minutes.’
‘What master?’ he said. ‘Who?’ ‘My master, my chess teacher.’
He snorted as he chuckled. ‘On any other day, it might still be a possibility. Not today,’ he
scoffed. ‘It’s his daughter’s sixteenth birthday. Every bureaucrat in the city has been invited. Half the hospital staff is there.’
O Hanuman! What is he saying?
‘Master doesn’t lie.’
‘Listen, kid,’ he said gravely. ‘I’m in the middle of some important work. Wait out—’
Tring … tring. Tring … tring. His phone rang.
‘Hello!’ he shouted into the phone. ‘Yes … yes, yes, sir, right away.’ His voice got lower with each yes.
‘Yes, sir,’ he continued, ‘Loss of consciousness. Yes, sir. Traumatic brain injury, sir. Yes, sir … Subdural hematoma, sir
… Sure sir, BP, pulse, okay … sir. Yes, sir … I thought I couldn’t call you. But, sir—’
I could hear a beep from the other side.
He put the phone down, got up and took his gown off the hook.
‘Dr D’Souza will be here in ten minutes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Who did you say your master was?’
‘I didn’t say.’ ‘What’s his name?’
‘Not telling you.’
He gave me a dirty look and rushed out to get the OT ready. The hospital, which was deserted like a cremation ground until a few minutes ago, was suddenly bustling with activity. The staff was getting ready. I could hear shouts of a number of medical terms: bandage, drip, knife, power backup, meds…
Varun lifted me up in elation. ‘Your master is a magician, Vasu!’
A ray of hope, a feeling of great relief flitted across father’s face.
Mother was shifted from the ICU to the OT and Dr D’Souza reached in practically no time.
We were given staff canteen vouchers for our dinner, but nobody ate. The surgery went on for over two hours.
‘Vitals are okay,’ Dr D’Souza said. ‘But it’s only after her consciousness returns that we’ll know the prognosis. She’ll be under observation for the next three days.’
My father thanked him profusely for leaving the celebrations midway and coming to do the surgery at such short notice.
‘What could be a greater celebration than saving a life!’ he said. ‘Whether I look at it as a Christian or as a doctor, either way, it’s my priority.’
Our saviour then dashed out as speedily as he’d arrived. His guests were probably waiting for a late-night celebration with him.
Mother was shifted back to the ICU. Varun went home with father to change his clothes. About time too; with his crew-cut, his solid build, and the blood smeared across his shirt, he had looked like an off-duty soldier caught in the middle of a siege.
Hanuman was still safe in my hands. Or was I in his? Father came a little while later and asked us to go home and get some sleep. Both Mira and I refused. We were not leaving till Mum opened her eyes, we said. He tried to reason but we did not relent. The whole night passed very slowly, very quietly. We slipped in and out of sleep in the waiting room.
Dawn broke, the sun rose and the hospital was buzzing again. It was a different place now. Not that a hospital is a desirable place at any time of the day, but a night in a hospital is a completely different affair. It seems to foreshadow death with its doom and gloom. In the morning, you look up to life once again.
Only one visitor was allowed in the ICU at a time. One by one, we visited mother. Mrs Anu Bhatt. I tried talking to her but she did not respond. Sixteen hours had passed since she fell and she still hadn’t moved or opened her eyes. The doctor said all we could do was wait.
Master visited during the day but he was coughing throughout. He asked me how mum was and walked straight into Dr D’Souza’s office. I caught a glimpse of the doc getting up instantly, like a sergeant would at the entry of a general, and the door closed behind my master. He came out after a few minutes and didn’t say a word. When I asked him out of courtesy to go home since he was unwell, he promptly left, without offering to stay back at all.
I was too worried about my mother to reflect on anything though. Father and Mira tried to feed me, but I didn’t eat. I was waiting for the next window of time when we could see mum again. We would press our faces against the glass to catch a glimpse of the corridor of the ICU. Every time anyone walked out, we would ask about mum.
Evening came and we were allowed to visit her again. I was the last one to go in this time. I wanted to be with her, but I was scared to see her like that. Unlike my mother who couldn’t ever have enough of me, the pale figure on the bed did not talk to me at all.
It was late evening. The silence of the night was setting in again. The cardiogram was flashing her pulse and some other numbers. It was utterly quiet. An intravenous tube was taped around her left hand. Every now and then there would be a beep. It meant that all was okay. Her lips looked particularly dry.
I kissed her face. It was warm.
‘I’m sorry, mum.’ I stroked her face but she didn’t respond. Any other time, she would have melted right away. She would have asked if I had slept properly the previous night, if I had eaten during the day.
A tear trickled down my eyes and fell on her face. There was no reaction from her. I gently wiped it with my thumb.
‘Your Vasu is hungry, mum,’ I whispered in her ears. ‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday.’
Her body twitched. Only just, but it did. Her eyes were still closed, but the eyeballs seemed to move.
‘Yes, mother,’ I repeated. ‘Your Vasu is hungry and won’t eat without you.’
Her eyelids folded slowly. She was looking at me, trying to focus. She looked around. The first few seconds went by as she tried to recall how she could possibly have ended up on a hospital bed. She was about to speak but I placed my hand on her mouth. I wasn’t sure if it was okay for her to talk.
‘Please wait,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the doctor.’
She realized that there was a drip running through one of her hands. She raised her other hand to her mouth. Joining four fingers with her thumb, she gestured to me to eat something. I ran out crying, calling out for the doctor and my father. The image of my mother’s gesturing me to eat would remain etched on my mind for the rest of my life.
MY MOJO
‘WHEN WILL ANU be discharged?’ Master called on the third day. I happened to go home to change into a fresh pair of clothes and that’s when the phone rang. It wasn’t his question but his tone that surprised me. It was plain as usual. When it came to my mother, I was hoping he would be a bit more compassionate. Nevertheless, I was pleased to hear his voice after three days.
‘Good morning, Master,’ I said. He kept quiet. ‘They’ll discharge her on Monday.’
‘And what about chess?’
‘I was planning to resume next week.’
‘Vasu,’ he said, as usual, plainly, ‘your first rated tournament starts in two weeks’ time. You can’t afford to miss your practice.’
What is he talking about? Chess over my mother?
‘But,’ I protested, ‘mum’s still in the hospital. My mother!’
‘Do you think your mother will be happy to have you in the
hospital and lose the tournament?’
‘But she needs me!’
‘What are you, a doctor?’ he said curtly.
‘I’ve to be with my mother, Master,’ I replied in the same tone.
‘All day?’
‘She’s my mother!’
‘Fine, then, be a mama’s puppy.’ And he hung up on me.
I felt hot near my ears. I wanted to fling the phone on the wall and watch it shatter into pieces. If it wasn’t for the fear of my father’s wrath, I probably would have done it. Still, I slammed the receiver as hard as I could. Mum was recovering. The injury had not affected her speech, sight or memory. She was eating. All was well. Things were looking up again, but Master’s phone call ruined my morning.
‘Master called,’ I told mother dejectedly at the hospital and narrat
ed the entire conversation verbatim.
‘But Master is right, Vasu,’ she said while fixing the collar of my shirt. ‘There’s no need for you to hang around the whole day.’
‘Try this mango pickle, papa,’ a plump lad of Varun’s age said enthusiastically. ‘It’s mind-blowing.’ Next to mum was a man who had had coronary bypass surgery. Every day, at least twenty people visited him and brought along tiffin boxes full of food. The whole room would smell of turmeric, pickles and what not.
I looked at mum again.
‘But who will take care of you then?’ I said angrily.
‘Your father is here. The doctors are here. Mira has taken days off.’
‘I also want to be here!’
‘No, Banwari Lal!’ the patient on the next bed insisted. ‘I can’t have jalebis even if they are made in pure desi ghee.’
‘One jalebi is like a drop in a bucket, papa,’ the son insisted. ‘You won’t even know where it went in your big tummy.’
They were rowdy and noisy. Their pickles and jalebis kept intruding into my conversation. I looked at him angrily and he offered me a jalebi in response.
‘One day I would like to see my Vasu as a world champion,’ mum said. ‘You will be speaking to journalists on TV, they’ll jostle to pose their questions to you and some of them will click your pictures in a frenzy. You’ll walk away briskly soon after speaking to them.’
I smiled.
‘None of this would be possible without your master, Vasu.’ ‘But he’s so hard sometimes.’
‘He’s only saying it for your own good.’
‘Do I just leave you here and push some pieces on a wooden board?’
‘Okay, don’t be upset! I’ll have one jalebi,’ the patient said. ‘No! No pakora at all!’
‘Will you please be quiet?’ I got up and yelled. ‘This is a hospital!’
‘Calm down, Vasu.’ Mum tugged at my arm.
‘Why is he so mad, behenji?’ the patient asked my mother. ‘It’s a short life.’ He looked at me. ‘Eat and be merry,’ he said, putting the last jalebi in his mouth and then asked his son to quickly pack everything up as the doctor would be doing his rounds soon.
