by Farahad Zama
“Nothing doing,” said Mr Bhargav.
“Please, sir, I beg you…”
Mr Bhargav just stared the man down until he turned and left, his head hanging and feet dragging. Once the plastering foreman left, Mr Bhargav stood up in his platform shoes and patted Rehman on the shoulder before he got up from his chair.
“Right, keep it up.”
He turned and walked out, his short legs moving quickly.
His nephew followed behind, taking deliberately short steps to keep behind Mr Bhargav.
Rehman stared after them. I should have stood up for the worker, he thought to himself. But that wouldn’t have helped when Mr Bhargav was so adamant. When had that stopped him before? He was thinking like his father now, weighing up the odds of success before acting.
♦
Two days later, the rains stopped and the sun came out. The sky was a cloudless blue and the air particularly clear, as if it had been scrubbed in the showers. As always, the sun’s rays seemed very strong after the rain. Rehman’s shoulders prickled in the heat even though it was only just past nine in the morning. He was on the top floor of the construction site, and the whole area in front of him was full of vertical, nine-foot-tall pine logs supporting a ceiling of rough wooden planks. The watchman and general factotum, Soori, set up a home-made bamboo ladder, wedging it against the boundary wall, and they both climbed up on to the ceiling. They were high above the ground with a great view over the town.
Rehman looked around with interest. Ten or fifteen years ago, the houses below him would have been covered with red roof tiles, but now…He shook his head. There was nothing less suitable for the hot south Indian weather than rectangular boxes topped by concrete slabs. Solid grey cement clad around iron bars is a combination ideally designed to capture the sun’s heat and transmit it downwards into the rooms below, which is not what one wants when the outside temperature is forty degrees in the shade.
“I think we can tell the iron-bending brothers to get their team over to start binding the rods for the slab,” said Soori, shading his eyes and looking into the sky.
“Do you think the rain has really stopped?” said Rehman.
Soori nodded, but Rehman took out his mobile phone to call Usha. After the usual greetings, he asked her, “What does the meteorology department say about the weather?”
Usha laughed. “I’ve heard that some men call their fiancees just to have a chat. Let me check their fax.” The phone went silent for a little while and then Usha’s voice came back. “The weather front has moved on and it will remain sunny now.”
Rehman said his goodbyes, promising to call again later in the evening, and hung up. He turned to Soori and said, “OK, let’s call the iron-benders.”
Rehman calculated swiftly – it would take three days to prepare the iron framework, so they could start pouring the concrete in four days. Give it one more day just to be on the safe side. He’d better arrange the gang of workers, the concrete mixer, cement and pebble-sized stones. He already had sand, but it was better to get some more. He’d have to tell Mr Bhargav to arrange the cash for all the material and for the extra workers on the day.
Pouring the concrete for the slabs was probably the biggest single task in a construction like this and there was little margin for error. The work would start early and carry on as late into the night as necessary. The entire concrete had to be poured in one continuous operation, otherwise the parts would never join seamlessly and the roof would always be prone to leaks and weaknesses. The two men climbed down the ladder and Rehman got busy arranging everything.
Three days later, everything was going well. The iron framework was almost ready and everything was organised for the slab two days hence. He stepped off the ladder and came down the stairs to the ground floor. A big empty plastic sack lay across the stairs. Picking it up, he called out to one of the women working nearby, watering a newly made brick wall.
“Put this away,” he said. “Make sure there are no obstructions on or near the stairs. They will cause accidents.”
“All right, babu.” She nodded, taking a stubby, hand-rolled cigar out of her mouth. She probably couldn’t afford cigarettes.
Just as he reached the ground floor, his mobile phone rang. He didn’t recognise the caller’s number. “Hello.”
“Thank God I got hold of you. I’ve been trying to get your number all morning.” It was a woman’s voice, speaking very fast in Telugu.
Rehman jerked the phone away from his ear and looked at the number on the front for a moment. He put it back to his ear and replied in the same language, “Excuse me, madam. Who are you and what is this regarding?”
“Oh! Sorry. I am Sita. You picked up Vasu at my place a few months back.”
Rehman remembered the newly married, six-fingered woman who came from the same village as Vasu and Mr Naidu. He had also seen her after the monkey wedding, supporting her mother-in-law with Pari. “Sitakka! I remember now. What can I do for you?”
He was surprised to hear from her.
“Something terrible has happened. Mr Naidu is in hospital. My mother-in-law said that he has taken poison.”
“What? I don’t believe it. What about Vasu? Where is he?”
“The boy is fine, apparently. He is in the village.”
“Which hospital is Mr Naidu in? How unwell is he?”
“Very serious – he still hasn’t recovered consciousness. He is at the NTR hospital in town. We are on the way to the village now. Can you come over as well?”
Rehman thought rapidly. “Of course,” he said. “He is such a careful man. How can he make a mistake like this? Anyway, that’s for later. I’ll go straight to the hospital first before coming to the village. Please make sure Vasu is all right. I am worried about him.”
He put the phone down. Mr Bhargav was walking over quite rapidly for a man with such short legs. His much taller nephew walked several steps behind him, carrying the usual tattered bag.
“Thank goodness you are here, Mr Bhargav. My…er…uncle is seriously unwell and in hospital. I need to go straight away.”
“Of course, of course. Will you be back in the afternoon?” said Mr Bhargav.
“No, sir. He is in a village outside the city. I’ll be at least two days.”
“Oh, that’s bad timing. There are a hundred things to be done for the slab work.”
“I am sorry, sir. But I have to do this.”
“All right. Two days maximum, though. You have to be here for the pouring of the concrete.”
Rehman nodded. “Thanks, sir.”
Mr Bhargav held up two fingers. “Remember, I hate unreliable people,” he said.
Rehman turned and went to his two-wheeler, calling to Soori. When the watchman came over, Rehman spent a few minutes giving him instructions about what needed to be done in the next couple of days. Finally, he was free to leave.
He drove quickly to his parents’ house. His father and his assistant were busy with a client and his mother was in the kitchen. He called both of them into the living room and told them what had happened. He stuffed a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts into his old cotton bag along with a toothbrush. His mother rushed into the kitchen and returned in a couple of minutes with a plastic packet.
“There’s rice, dhal and a cabbage curry in there. I’ve put in a plastic spoon as well.”
“I am not hungry, ammi. This is not the time to be thinking about food.”
“Don’t be silly. You will be hungry soon. Eat this on the way in the bus and you won’t need to waste time once you get there.”
Rehman slung his bag over his shoulder and took the food packet from his mother. Less than a minute later they were hailing an auto-rickshaw.
Rehman got in, telling the driver to hurry to the RTC bus stand.
On the way, he called Usha and told her what had happened. She said, “I am coming to the bus stand. I’ll be there in ten minutes, wait for me.”
“I don’t want to delay, Usha. I’ll meet you
when I come back.”
“I am leaving now. I will be there almost at the same time as you. Just look out for me.”
“All right,” he said. “Come to the ticket counter.” As soon as the auto-rickshaw reached the bus stand, he rushed over to buy his ticket. The queue wasn’t too long. There was an Express Volvo bus to his destination in fifteen minutes. He looked at his watch impatiently and scanned the crowds. He would give Usha another five minutes. He didn’t want to miss the bus.
She came just as he was about to give up. He gave her a fleeting smile and started moving towards the buses. She followed with rapid steps, almost running. Her high heels click-clacked on the hard floor and many people turned to stare at the unusual sight of a glamorous lady running for a bus. As they reached the bus, he turned to say a hurried goodbye. She had a grim look on her face.
“Take care, Rehman. I have a bad feeling about this.” He nodded. She quickly rummaged in her bag and took out a bundle of hundred-rupee notes.
“That’s ten thousand rupees,” she said. In answer to the question in his eyes she said, “It’s from my emergency stash. After what happened when I told my parents about our engagement, I always keep some money with me.”
Rehman wasn’t happy about taking money from Usha but he could see that she wouldn’t give in easily and he didn’t have time to argue with her now. The bus was likely to leave any moment now.
“Thanks. But I don’t need so much money.”
“Keep it, just in case. Hospitals are an expensive business.”
Seventeen
Rehman jumped off a rickshaw and ran into the hospital. He had forced himself to eat on the bus and spent the hour and a half journey wondering how the accident had happened and what would happen to Vasu now.
He went up to reception and was pointed to the second floor. Climbing the stairs, he noticed several men from Mr Naidu’s village, sitting on benches along the walls. Mr Naidu’s cousin and neighbour stood up when he saw Rehman and took him by the hand into the ward.
There were several beds cordoned off by curtains and Mr Naidu was lying on the bed nearest to the door. His eyes were closed and he was hooked up to an intravenous drip. His face looked shrunken and his white hair contrasted with his dark, tanned skin. Mr Naidu’s forehead was deeply lined and his breathing appeared regular. It was easy to believe that the old man was just sleeping.
They quietly stepped out of the room. Rehman was led towards the nurses’ station at the other end of the corridor.
“You speak to them,” said Mr Naidu’s cousin. “They don’t tell us much.” Rehman nodded. Mr Naidu’s cousin added in a whisper, “Speak in English, they will be more forthcoming.”
“Excuse me,” said Rehman in English when they reached the end of the corridor.
A doctor sitting with the nurses immediately jumped up. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Mr Naidu, the patient in the first bed in the ward, what can you tell me about his condition?” said Rehman, still in English.
The doctor came out and they moved into the corridor.
“A large quantity of pesticide was ingested by the patient. We pumped out his stomach as soon as he was brought here and put him on a saline-solution drip, but the poison had been in the patient’s body for several hours so it has affected various organs. The prognosis is very poor.”
“But how can such an accident happen? Wouldn’t Mr Naidu have noticed the taste and smell of the pesticide?” said Rehman.
“It was no accident,” said the doctor. “The villagers brought the container with them. The old man drank the pesticide straight from its bottle.”
“What?” said Rehman. “Why would he do that?”
The other man shrugged. “I am sure I couldn’t tell you why he took the poison. I am only a doctor, not a mind-reader.”
Rehman blindly sat down on one of the chairs by the wall. After some time, he looked up at the doctor and said, “What now?”
The doctor looked at him for a moment and said, “We can do nothing but wait. But to be honest, I don’t hold out much hope. There’s been too much damage. In fact, I am surprised that he is still hanging on. I can only attribute it to him being a tough, old farmer. People like you and I would have given up a long time ago.”
Rehman thanked the doctor and went to join the rest of Mr Naidu’s relatives. Time passed slowly in silence and eventually some of the men left to go back to the village.
Late in the afternoon, Mr Naidu’s cousin turned to Rehman. “What shall we do?” he said.
“I was wondering the same thing,” said Rehman. “I want to check up on Vasu. It must be such a shock to the poor boy.”
“Humph!” said the other man, and Rehman was surprised at his lack of sympathy for the orphan.
The door to the ward opened and they both looked up to see a nurse beckoning to them. They hurried over and she said in a whisper, “The patient has woken up and wants to speak to somebody. You must not be loud or you will disturb the other patients.”
They nodded and went in quickly. Mr Naidu’s eyes were open and he was looking straight up at the ceiling. Rehman sat on a stool next to the bed and held the old man’s free hand. Mr Naidu turned his head slowly towards Rehman and tightened his fingers round Rehman’s.
“I knew you would come,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Rehman said, “Why? Why did you do this?”
Tears trickled down the old man’s craggy cheeks like a slow stream through the forest of his stubble. “A farmer without land is like a bull that has been castrated. He is good for hard labour but nothing else. I did not want to live such a life.”
“Without land? What are you talking about?” said Rehman. He looked across the bed but could see that Mr Naidu’s cousin was just as surprised.
“Make sure that my grandson is taken care of after I’m gone,” said Mr Naidu.
Rehman’s eyes filled. “Don’t say that, Mr Naidu. You have woken up when the doctor said there was no hope. You will soon be treading the mud of your fields once more.”
“No,” said Mr Naidu. “That will never happen again. I failed the trust of my ancestors who tilled our land for hundreds of years and passed it from generation to generation. I have to now go and face them all and I wonder how I’ll respond to their unanswerable questions. I don’t want to die in this strange place. Take me back to my own house.”
“We won’t do that until you get better and then you can walk out of here on your own two feet.”
The doctor came in and Mr Naidu turned to him. “Tell me honestly. Is there really any chance that I will get better?”
The doctor was still for a long minute, then shook his head.
Mr Naidu said, “Thank you, doctor. I don’t want to stay here any more. I want to die in my own house.” The doctor left the room. Mr Naidu closed his eyes and would not respond further.
Rehman and Mr Naidu’s cousin left the ward and went to see the doctor. “What do you say, doctor?” asked Rehman.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “If he leaves the hospital, he will die soon. We can keep him alive here for a longer time, but it will cost money and it is unlikely that he would ever leave that bed anyway. It is up to you. If you want to take him away, I will write a prescription for painkillers in case he becomes uncomfortable. Go to the accountant and sort out the bill if that’s what you want to do.”
Rehman looked at Mr Naidu’s cousin and said, “What do you think we should do? Keep him here or take him away?”
The older man looked weary. “I’ve known him since we were both boys,” he said. “So naughty, he was – always getting into trouble. But he was our naannamma’s favourite and she made sure that he did not get punished. She used to say that he was her only grandson who physically resembled her husband – our grandfather.” A smile came over his face. “I remember the time when we sneaked into the sugarcane field on the other side of the river. That farmer and our family were bitter rivals over the piece of land by the t
emple.”
Rehman realised that sugarcane still grew beyond the river and the temple still stood on the way to the fields. It would be so interesting to talk to Mr Naidu and find out what had changed in the village since he was a boy and what had remained the same and what had not, thought Rehman. Cities changed but villages were more unvarying.
Mr Naidu’s cousin continued, “The farmer and his sons chased us and caught us when I sprained my ankle and we both tripped over. We were roped to a tree on the edge of the field and the farmer made dire threats saying that we would be tied there for ever until we starved to death. Nobody knew where we were and I started crying. I don’t know how my cousin did it, but after an hour his hands were free from the rope and then he untied me. By that time my foot was swollen and I couldn’t walk. He carried me all the way home.”
Rehman nodded, silent.
Mr Naidu’s cousin’s eyes shed their faraway look as he said, “It’s my turn to take him home now.”
They went to the accountant’s office. A plump, middle-aged woman ahead of them was telling the man behind the counter that she had only one thousand rupees with her.
“How many times should I tell you?” said the accountant rather rudely. “That is not enough. We need at least three thousand rupees before the operation can start. Don’t waste my time and yours by standing here arguing with me.”
“Please, babu,” said the woman. “The doctor said that if the operation doesn’t start soon, my husband will die.”
The man sighed. “You are wearing gold bangles. There is a man outside who takes gold as security and gives loans. Get the money and we can save your husband’s life.”
She turned away, blundering into Rehman and Mr Naidu’s cousin.
“Sorry,” she said, her eyes wild and hair flying in all directions.
Rehman stared after her, shaking his head in sympathy as she rushed out.
Mr Naidu’s cousin took out a receipt and handed it to the accountant. The man fished out a file and flipped through the contents, punching several numbers on a calculator. He finally wrote a number on a piece of paper and pushed it towards them. Rehman’s eyes widened when he saw the cost. He took out the bundle of hundred-rupee notes that Usha had given him and paid the bill, thanking his fiancée in his heart. The accountant wrote another receipt and passed it through the hole in the grille to Rehman.
