It was a wonder the commotion hadn’t yet brought every villager to the clinic. The surgeon looked around, but the corridor was empty except for the pharmacist’s husband, who was standing outside the room with a look of bewilderment and fear. The portion of the hillock visible from the windows of the back room was fresh and serene in the morning.
The teacher returned to his bed and sat turned away from everyone, the weight of his body on an angled arm. He shielded his eyes with his free hand.
“Is there anything else?” the surgeon asked.
The man’s hand remained where it was, concealing whatever shape guilt had given his features.
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
Through all this, the man had been protecting the jar connected to his chest. Air bubbled through it now with unseemly vigor.
“There’s something more, isn’t there? Put your hand on your son’s head.”
“Saheb, please try to understand, please don’t—”
The surgeon’s eyelids were turning unbearably heavy again. Despite all this chaos, they kept dragging him down to some foggy abyss. There was a sickly shade to everything: the walls, the sunlight, the dead. They darkened, grew murkier, every time he blinked. He couldn’t deal with these abominations anymore. He just needed to fall on his own bed and lose consciousness.
“Swear on your son’s head. Swear on the life you want him to have that there’s nothing else I need to know.”
The teacher now turned like a criminal at an inquest. His face looked stretched across his cheekbones, his eyes seemed set deep under his eyebrows.
“Doctor Saheb, I should never have agreed, I should’ve said no when the angel told me.”
“Told you what?”
“I know now, I should have refused his offer there and then—”
“Stop talking in circles and get to the bloody point.”
The teacher’s head sank into his shoulders. He raised his hands as if he were expecting his next words to be met with violence.
“The angel said that if something went really wrong, if there was a real risk that our secret might be exposed, he would have to pull us back to the afterlife. And with us, any living people who were involved in this.”
A high-pitched ring rose in the surgeon’s ears over a painful silence, as if his hearing had, at that moment, been deadened by fireworks. He strained to make sense of the teacher’s words, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force them into a coherent sentence.
“What—”
“Saheb, I didn’t think about how—”
“Any living person? But that means—”
“You are good people. I had no right—”
“You gambled with our lives. Without even knowing who we were.”
“No, Saheb, no, please, that’s not how it happened. I was desperate. I was willing to do anything for my family. No one would ever have offered us anything like this again. I had to make a decision—it was then or never. I didn’t think, I didn’t consider how it would affect others, Saheb. I did an awful thing, but please don’t blame my wife, my son. They didn’t know any of this.”
“You . . . you dared to talk to me about justice, about how unfair your deaths were—”
“I thought everything would go as planned, Saheb. I didn’t expect any trouble. Even now, nothing bad has happened. We could come to life any minute, and then everything can just go on as it would.”
The man’s naïveté was horrifying. The surgeon felt a cold thrust in his marrow, a pressure in all his bones, the greatest in his skull. Behind him, the pharmacist gasped. He heard it, but couldn’t bring himself to look back at her. He curled his fingers around the free edge of the door panel to steady himself, but it swung and slammed against the wall with a loud thud, and he stumbled back with it. The teacher’s body was convulsing, with sobs, it might be said, but the dryness of his eyes, the tearless contortions, they were all too macabre to have any real meaning. It was as though the night had started all over again: the dead had just appeared with their mad predicament, and he was at the mercy of it all.
“Call your angel.”
The man seemed not to hear him at first, and then his face flattened into a stare.
“He responds to your summons, right? Summon him now.”
“But, Saheb, that was in the afterlife. He can’t come here.”
“You told me they could if they wanted to.”
“Doctor Saheb, please understand. The angel can’t . . . won’t come to this village.”
“Then what are we supposed to do? None of you know what’s going to happen. Only the angel knows.”
“But he won’t—”
“You fucking fool, why are you wasting my time arguing? After everything you’ve done? Just summon him.”
The teacher seemed to wither under the surgeon’s fury. He slowly rose from the bed, joined his shaking hands together, pressed them to his lips.
Then he shut his eyes and started muttering, reciting some prayer in a tongue that the surgeon couldn’t recognize. It went on and on. The man didn’t stop for breath—of course he had no need for it, he could very well continue this till the sun was doused and the moon ground back to dust. The surgeon felt a sudden, racking chill at the thought of a celestial being actually appearing in his clinic, glowing like a firefly. What would he do then? Plead for his life and the lives of the others, beg for pity from this being that probably considered him no more worthy of life than a cockroach?
But nothing changed. Even the air stayed completely still. The surgeon looked around, and saw that the boy was still in the corner of the room. He was hugging his knees to his face, his head bent so that his terrified eyes peered through the mess of hair on his brow. His mother’s face was turned away toward the far wall, whether from anger or shame or grief, there was no way to tell. Or maybe because she couldn’t bear to see this, the figure of her humiliated husband in his useless prayer. A miserable rhythm had entered the man’s recitation by now, the same incoherent string of syllables rising and sinking from the waves.
The surgeon turned. The pharmacist pulled back behind her husband. Their faces were pale, and there was reproach in their eyes, or at least that’s what he saw. You dragged us into this, Saheb, he heard, but neither of them had spoken. There was no assurance he could give them now, so he just looked past them and walked into the corridor.
A few syringes, still in their plastic packaging, were strewn across the floor. They’d probably spilled from their boxes when he hit his shin against the bench. At that memory, the pain returned, and he bent, felt the spot with his finger. His trouser leg was wet there. The spilling of morning blood by the wrong character in this farce. The omen of death. The wait couldn’t be long now. A few hours at the most. What would it be like to die at the whim of a bureaucrat? A brisk, banal leaving from a body that would then fall and fracture itself, at which point who cared—once you’re dead, you’re dead, no matter what anyone promises you. But the girl and her husband, for it to happen to them . . . No, it was too horrible even to consider. If there were to be deaths, he should die thrice, but not them, God, not them.
Tears formed under his eyelids, but he was tired, too tired, and they couldn’t even wet his eyes, not even when he tried to massage them out with his palms. The muttering continued in the back room. It hadn’t stopped even after he’d left their presence. It was idiotic, absurd beyond words, to expect an official of the afterlife to report to the insects of the earth. The entrance to the clinic was just a few feet away, so the surgeon stumbled to it. Who knew, perhaps the air there would be easier to pull into his lungs?
And that’s when he saw. Some distance away, on the gravel path leading up to the clinic, the official. The one who had brought the polio vaccines the previous afternoon.
FIFTEEN
THE SURGEON FELT HIS innards churn with a sickening rush. He tried to convince himself that he was mistaken, but there was no doubt about it. It was the same
official. As far as he could tell, the man was even in the same blue safari jacket he’d worn the previous day.
The official looked back at him, and the surgeon passed his gaze over the horizon as though he were just examining the morning landscape. Then he turned as calmly as he possibly could and walked to the back room.
The pharmacist and her husband were squatting outside the door, huddled against each other. The teacher was still standing in closed-eyed recitation. The woman, the boy, the newborn—all were just as he had left them.
The surgeon had to force the words from his throat. “All of you, listen very carefully. I won’t repeat this. Lock yourself in and don’t make a sound. And don’t come out until I call you, no matter what happens.”
The teacher stopped his prayer, returned to the surgeon a look that was initially blank but then curdled with shock. “How—” he began, but nothing else emerged from his lips. His hands remained where they were, the fingertips touching in front of his chest. He was taking too long to collect his senses, and his wife rose from her bed, swung shut the leaves of the door, slid home the bolt.
The pharmacist began to pull her husband into the pharmacy.
“Not there,” said the surgeon, pointing out the open window in the front wall.
So the two stole to the other side of the corridor, past the autoclave machine, and into the operating room. The surgeon couldn’t remember if he’d left the placenta lying on a tray there, but it was too late to worry about that now. The door closed behind the girl and her husband.
It would be better if he were seated when he faced the official, the surgeon decided. It would rid his legs of the obligation to be steady. On a whim he happened to glance at the autoclave, and saw the small red light glowing on its lid. At the very thought of its unpredictable shriek, he flipped off the wall switch and pulled out the plug.
A crunch sounded outside the clinic before he could reach the consultation room, and so he stayed in the corridor and turned to face the entrance. His fingers knotted behind his back, he straightened himself to his full height. Biting the back of his lower lip to still the quiver in his jaw, he tried to settle his forehead into some expression of bland and appropriate surprise. Before he could achieve any of this, the official appeared, framed in the doorway, the sky at his back.
“Good morning, Doctor Saheb. Hard at work, I can see.”
He climbed up the few steps at the door.
“Quite a strange decision. Whoever it was that drew up the plans for this clinic, why did they put it high up on a hillock like this? The sicker your patients are, the less likely they are to make it to this place. A clinic only for the healthy, eh?”
The official didn’t appear winded by the climb. That said, he wasn’t carrying any boxes today. He cast a look around the corridor, at the supplies piled on the benches, the packets on the floor.
Now the surgeon had to say something, play host on this morning that was proving more grotesque than the night that preceded it. He unlocked his fingers from behind himself and gestured to the consultation room.
“Would you like some tea? I had made a kettle for myself.”
The official showed no sign he’d noticed the tremor in the surgeon’s voice. “Yes, why not?”
The surgeon led the way into the room, his back as stiffly held as when he’d received the official. The pharmacist had left the kettle on the side table as always. He poured a cup.
“You look tired, Saheb.”
The surgeon hadn’t glanced into a mirror since the previous morning, but he could imagine how darkly the night had shaded the folds around his eyes.
“I have to say,” the official said, “this is quite a change from the welcome you gave me yesterday.”
The surgeon placed the cup on the official’s side of the table. The tea was lukewarm—no steam curling up from the surface. His own teacup, he now remembered, was somewhere on the gravel outside the clinic entrance. His chair gave its familiar creak under his weight, and his fingertips left moist oval smudges on the plate of glass on his desk. There were things flattened under it—yellowed receipts, scraps with faded scribbles, flowers with their anthers spread out.
“How did the drive go, Saheb?”
“The drive?”
“The vaccines. Did you end up using them all?”
“Yes, all.”
“Good, that’s good. It’s to be admired, what you do here, and with so little.”
“I try.”
“There aren’t too many surgeons working in broken-down clinics like this.”
“Hmm.”
“It must be difficult, working in this place.”
“Difficult, yes.”
“Especially with you having to spend from your pocket to stock the pharmacy.”
“Yes.”
“Unfortunate that you have to balance your needs against those of the clinic.”
“I do what I can.”
The official had settled in his chair, his soft, full hands folded on his belly. His nails were small and circular, with neat crescent edges. A second chin occasionally formed under his face when he spoke. He hadn’t touched his tea.
“You’ve heard the story of the Brahmin and the Ganga, haven’t you, Doctor Saheb?”
“Uh . . .”
“I’m sure you have. Maybe you’ve forgotten it. In any case, here it is. There once was a poor Brahmin who lived all alone. As the years went by, his spine bent from age, his hair turned white, and the time came when he knew he would die. Now he had only one wish: to bathe in the water of the Ganga before he closed his eyes for the last time.
“But our Brahmin had never left his little village. What did he know about the world? Someone told him that the Ganga was to the north. So this poor man sold all his belongings, settled his debts, and set off with a stick and a bundle of food.
“After half a day’s walk, he reached a small stream. He put down his bundle, dipped his hands in the water, and started to pour it over his head.
“A farmer from his village happened to be walking to the market. He recognized the Brahmin and asked, ‘Washing your clothes?’
“‘No, I’m cleansing myself,’ replied the Brahmin. ‘This water from Gangotri, it will wash my sins away. Then I can die in peace.’
“‘But this isn’t the Ganga,’ the farmer said. ‘This is just a little stream. The Ganga is much farther away.’
“So the Brahmin, weak as he was, gathered up his things and hobbled along. The hot ground burned his feet. For every hour he walked, he had to rest for two more.
“Two days went by, and he came to a river. He said his prayers, bowed to God, and entered the water. A shepherd on the riverbank asked, ‘Why are you praying here, grandfather?’
“‘My son, I’m washing my sins away,’ said the Brahmin. ‘I’m preparing myself for death.’
“‘Washing sins? In this water? This is just a small river, grandfather. It feeds our fields, nothing more. If you’re looking for the Ganga, you should keep walking.’
“The Brahmin had so little strength left, but what else could he do? He begged along the way for food to keep his soul tied to his body. He had to stop and rest his bones every few minutes now—under trees, under large rocks, any place he could find.
“A few days later, he reached another river—a wide and mighty one. He waded into it with tears flowing down his cheeks. So great was his joy that all the pain racking his body seemed to vanish. With all his faith and devotion, he said his final prayers, bathed in the water, and purified himself.
“A fisherman passing in his canoe cried out, ‘Watch out, old man. You’ll drown if you aren’t careful.’
“The Brahmin smiled. ‘We all have to die someday. Me much sooner than you. Drowning in the Ganga would be a blessing. It would take me straight to heaven.’
“The fisherman laughed so hard that his canoe almost tipped over. ‘The Ganga? You toothless fool. Who told you this was the Ganga? This river is nothing, just a tributary. G
o, cross the bridge and keep walking northward.’
“By now, the Brahmin had become so ill that he could hardly breathe. Every step he took made him feel lightheaded. His skin burned with fever, no food or water would go down his throat. He knew death wasn’t far.
“A crowd of people joined the road. They were dressed well, all in a festive mood. ‘Why are you so happy?’ the Brahmin asked a boy in the group.
“‘Because we’re all going for a dip in the Ganga,’ the boy said. ‘It’s very close now.’
“The old Brahmin was filled with despair, because he knew it was too late. He swung forward on his stick, as fast as he could go, and tried to keep up with the other travelers, but they passed him one by one. His legs became heavy as grindstones. The Ganga, the real one this time, blue and immense, stretched out at the horizon. But the fever had spread through his whole body, and there was a crushing pain in his chest. His stick slipped from his hand, and he fell on the mud, dead.
“His soul left his body and reached the other world. He stood in front of Chitragupta, who was there with his book of sins and virtues.
“The Brahmin cried, ‘O great Lord, I couldn’t cleanse myself. I’m full of sin. Send me to the underworld if you wish, for I was unable to bathe in the Ganga.’
“All Chitragupta said was, ‘Ah, my son, but you’re mistaken,’ and he opened the door to welcome the Brahmin into heaven.
“That’s the story, Doctor Saheb. Quite a touching one, wouldn’t you agree? Now tell me, what would you say is the moral of this tale?”
On any ordinary day, the hectoring tone of this fable would have enraged the surgeon. Even now, he could barely believe he’d just allowed himself to sit there and be spoken to for so long in such a condescending tone. But when he tried to reply, he found he could only mumble.
“The moral? Even a stream can . . . can be as holy as the Ganga if . . . if you have faith. Is that what you want me to say?”
Night Theater Page 14
