She looks at him in shock. ‘I can’t walk around with a feather on my brain.’
‘Well, you have been.’
‘But I can’t live like this! I can’t. You have to do something. What about medication?’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t know of any medication that could realistically achieve that.’
‘What about blowing it out? Is there a machine that can just blow in one ear?’ she asks.
‘The feather would still be inside your head, it would just shift from one area to another. In a way, you’re lucky that the area affected is this one – another part of the brain could cause paralysis, speech problems, serious brain damage.’
She feels utterly helpless. ‘I have to do something.’
‘I … um …’ Dr Khatri turns to his colleagues for backup and they all look away nervously, uneager to respond. ‘Well, I am afraid we’re rather stumped on this one.’
One doctor breaks the silence. ‘If I may?’
The woman nods; permission for him to continue.
‘I’m a keen birdwatcher. And this is a long, dramatic feather. It is a rather impressive plumage of the brain,’ he compliments her.
She stares at him blankly.
‘What I’m saying is, it could be a peacock feather.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ her husband steps in.
‘The peacock engages in train-rattling and wing-shaking, during breeding season—’
‘I don’t want another baby,’ she says quickly. She looks at her husband. ‘I do not,’ she says firmly.
‘Okay,’ he says, nervously looking from her to the doctor.
‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. They do it to get attention – the wing-shaking.’
She studies the X-ray. ‘Could it be related to brain activity?’
He thinks it through, and the other doctors again look away and look down, shuffle their feet. Nobody has a clue what is really happening.
She sighs. Up to her as usual to figure it out. ‘I’m not as mentally challenged as I was before. I never get a break but I’m using my head in a different way. I earned a double degree in Finance and Economics and worked for ten years in the most prestigious financial services firm in London before falling in love with this man,’ she says, smiling at Paul. ‘But this week my main project is potty training. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in the stock markets but I can tell you every episode of every season of Peppa Pig. I am the only person in my family who has finished Ulysses, albeit on audiobook, and every night I read The Gruffalo four times in a row. I love my life, there’s nothing unimportant about it. Raising people is vastly more important than stock markets, or bullshit sales meetings. But maybe my brain wants that and other information, other stimulation.’
She looks at the doctor; he is thoughtful.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘that’s not a bad thought. I think you should do whatever you want to do to blow this feather out. And that’s a doctor’s order.’
She thinks about this and she smiles. She knows she never needed permission to look after herself, but it is difficult to put herself first. What she needed was an order, silly as it seems. Her feather brain’s wing-shaking was a call for her attention.
She starts with slowing down, taking time out so she can read a book.
She finds an extra hour for walking along the beach where the wind is so strong she imagines it clearing the feather from her brain. She watches the wind to see if it floats away.
She goes away for a night with Paul.
She has a weekend away with friends.
She starts jogging.
She considers signing up for a course. Even reading through a college prospectus for potential courses thrills her.
She goes out one night and dances until her feet are so sore she has to kick off her shoes, and drinks so much she doesn’t care about how she’ll feel in the morning.
She relaxes her mind. She steps back. She jumps in. She blows the feather off until everything is clear again, and she emerges from her fog.
A heart defect at birth, a heart that was too large for her chest, led to a colostomy-bag-type procedure, groundbreaking surgery by the brave Dr Nita Ahuja, which meant that as a child the woman’s heart was removed from her chest and sat in a pouch connected, irreversibly, to her left sleeve. The theory mimicked that of Dr Nita Ahuja’s conjoined twins case study, in which one twin survived though her heart was technically outside her body, though of course the heart was attached through vital veins and tubes to her conjoined sister’s body. The young woman was the only person in the world to have this surgery. It had made a star of Dr Nita Ahuja, and a household name of the young woman who wore her heart on her sleeve.
The pouch was changed once every seven days when the seal wore off. A colostomy pouch was usually the size of a hand, but her pouch was twice the size, as Dr Ahuja would say, as though it was being held safely in a pair of hands. The surgery saved her life and miraculously had few significant effects on her lifestyle or diet. Her clothes were normal, just something that would allow for the pouch on her left arm.
Her heart’s beat was loud, its sounds intensified outside her body. While exercising, it caused people to stop and stare; when in a cake shop or ice-cream parlour the glucose would send it racing and pumping, beating under her sleeve as though she were hiding a pet in her arm. If she saw a boy that she had a crush on, it would be a giveaway, along with her rosy cheeks.
Her heart revealed when she got attached too quickly, it revealed when she wasn’t attached at all. There were awkward moments when it revealed her excitement at inopportune moments, or her lack of enthusiasm. It revealed everything about her. She depended on it, and therefore had no choice but to follow its lead, even when she wanted to go in the opposite direction. Sometimes she did feel like a conjoined twin, living with a separate life that was part of her, on her sleeve.
She learned that wearing her heart on her sleeve often caused distrust, because of the contradiction between the mask she wore on her face, and the beat of her heart. In the same way people were afraid of clowns because of the discrepancy between the joy in their expression and the lack of joy in their demeanour, suspicions were aroused. On the other hand, if she allowed her heart to do the talking without attempting to veil her expression, then they found her openness off-putting. Most people showed their hand gradually; she went there straight away, she couldn’t slow it down. Her heart would always give her away.
Wearing her heart on her sleeve made her vulnerable to emotional terrorists, those who saw the word FRAGILE emblazoned across her and did all they could to hurt her, just because they could.
Thirty years of it had led to bumps and bruises. Her most vital organ was in constant jeopardy of getting injured. Though, thankfully, there had been no serious injuries, there were the occasional unwelcome elbows. On a bus, or at the market, anytime she was in a crowd, she had to remember to protect her heart.
As she grew into her teenage years, she became more self-conscious and protective and changed her wardrobe to accommodate her heart. But even though it solved the visual, her heart on her sleeve continued to reveal her.
Her turquoise jutti tap over the marble floor of the Mumbai private hospital and research centre where Dr Nita has her private consultant’s office. It’s a service that neither she nor her family can afford to pay for, but from the moment that Dr Nita had set her eyes on the infant with the birth defect, she had insisted on waiving her fees, and making arrangements for the surgery and aftercare bills to be paid. It simply could not have gone ahead without Dr Nita and because of this, the young woman feels an enormous gratitude and duty to return the favour. She appears on television shows with Dr Nita when asked and attends conventions and Dr Nita’s speaking engagements when requested. She knows, when speaking with important influential people and media, that she is always to mention Dr Nita Ahuja as the doctor who saved her life. They have even appeared together in Time Magazine under the headl
ine ‘Dr Nita Ahuja, The Heart Keeper’. The title had stuck. With a label like this, she knew she had to return the kindness that had been extended to her and her family in every way she could. Quite simply, she felt that she owed Dr Nita for saving her life.
She smiles and greets the security men and receptionists who wave her through the medical centre. Everything is familiar here, it is a place where she feels safe. She clutches a small canvas painting of a heart, which she plans to present to Dr Nita, to add to the wall of her artwork in her office. She is expecting a normal day; this weekly visit has been part of their routine for twenty-one years so why should today be any different?
However, when she steps into the office, it is a man who sits behind Dr Nita’s desk. He stands when he sees her enter. After her first moment of shock, she recognizes him from the photographs displayed all over the desk: it is the doctor’s son, Alok. Over the years, she has learned much about him through his mother: his studies at university, his work overseas, sometimes of his love affairs, and whether she approved or disapproved of them.
She takes in his big brown eyes, his intense gaze, his long neck and slender fingers. Alok; his name means light. Her heart starts to pound, she feels it pulsate against her upper arm, more intense than before, more intense than ever. Feeling alarmed, she watches the pouch on her arm vibrate.
‘Sit, please, my child,’ Dr Nita says, coming to her rescue. She seems to appear from thin air.
‘She is not a child, Mother,’ Alok mutters, as the woman sits in the chair before the desk.
Dr Nita fixes her with her warm eyes, and the young woman readies herself for bad news. ‘As you know, this year is the twentieth anniversary of the surgery that changed both our lives.’
The young woman nods and waits for the doctor to continue.
‘Discovering your case set me on a wild and wonderful path, which I fully embraced. I only wish you had come into my life when I was younger,’ the doctor says. Her smile fades. ‘It is now time for me to stop my work,’ she says gently, and the young woman’s panic soars, her heart pounds again, vibrating on her sleeve, she feels its intensity against her triceps.
‘It’s all right, my child. Alok has returned from the United States to take over where I have left off. He is young but capable,’ she says firmly. ‘And I trust him more than anybody else to continue my work.’
High praise indeed from a woman whose ego would never allow her to delegate.
‘No disrespect intended, Dr Alok,’ the woman says quietly, barely able to meet his intense concerned gaze. ‘But you are my heart keeper, Dr Nita. You said as much yourself. You can’t leave me,’ she insists, hearing the tremble in her own voice.
Dr Nita smiles, a smile that reveals how proud she is of her role as the heart keeper.
‘Oh, child … believe me, I understand that this is difficult for you. It is for me too.’ The doctor breathes in. ‘My connection with you runs deeper than you’ll ever know. When you hold someone’s heart in your hands, not just for one surgery but for their life, it is a profound responsibility that extends far beyond the professional, requiring constant monitoring of which bonds and valves have become twisted or combined.’ She stands, with an air of finality. ‘But it is for the best that I leave you in Alok’s hands. He will keep me informed of everything he is doing and I will continue to advise on your care.’ This, she says firmly as though it is an order and one that her son doesn’t seem very happy about. He avoids her gaze.
Dr Nita comes towards her and the young woman readies herself for an embrace, but Dr Nita, to her surprise, goes directly to her left arm, to her heart. She gently places her hands around the pouch, feeling its heat, and leans over to kiss it. The young woman watches this goodbye to her heart, which is thumping at such a voracious rate she wonders if it will burst from her pouch. Then the doctor wipes her eyes and leaves the room without another word.
Her heart keeper is gone and the young woman is alone with this man, this handsome man who looks at her with big brown eyes and thick eyelashes.
‘She is not your heart keeper any longer, and she never was,’ Dr Alok says suddenly.
His words are cold, and hurtful. They break the silence like a hammer shattering ice.
‘I’m sorry, that came out harsher than I intended,’ he says, before she has the opportunity to tell him exactly what she thinks of him, though her heart is already communicating that in its own language.
Dr Alok stands and walks around the desk, thinking through what he is about to say. He perches on the edge of the desk before her, so close to her, and when he speaks his voice is gentler. ‘While I intend to pick up where my mother left off, my work is not exactly the same as hers. We differ in our philosophies. Unlike my mother, I do not wish to be the keeper of your heart.’
She tries not to take offence, but how can she not? Her cheeks blaze with fury.
‘It is not enough for us doctors to just look after the functioning of your heart, it is not enough to just keep you alive.’
This takes her by surprise.
‘My mother is deeply respected in the worldwide medical community and what she did with you was, is, groundbreaking, I acknowledge that,’ he says, torn between loyalty to his mother and the need to voice his opinion. ‘But she is of a different … time. What I feel she has missed is that you are walking around with your most vital organ on your sleeve, in constant jeopardy of being hurt, and that too is our responsibility. We put it there. We must be proactive, not reactive. You should not have to hide your heart under layers of clothes and worry. I have spent years working on a new pouch that will protect your heart, one that will defend it from the elements.’
Bending down, he retrieves a pouch from a bag by the desk. He hesitates, then holds it out to present it to her. ‘From hereon, you will be the keeper of your own heart.’
She feels the pulse in her neck responding.
‘I will aid you, but you will be in full control. I will be here for you for as long as time will allow, to supply the tools which will give you the power to protect and shelter your heart.’ He stops then, cheeks pink, self-conscious under her gaze. His brown eyes and long lashes not sure where to look. ‘What do you say to that? Do I have your permission?’
She smiles and nods. ‘Yes, Dr Ahuja.’
‘Alok, please,’ he says gently, their eyes locked on one another.
Her heart vibrates with an intensity she has never experienced before. It is speaking for her, to him, and for once she is thankful that her heart can replace the words she cannot find, that it can express these surprising new emotions she has discovered for this man. She is grateful that her heart’s response is greater and deeper than any words she could find.
She watches as, with her permission, his nervous but warm long slender fingers open the pouch and take hold of her beating heart. She understands now that it is hers, nobody but herself is its keeper. She controls it.
She will let him hold it in his hands. She will allow him to give her the tools to protect herself.
1
The 7 a.m. alarm sounds from the pink iPhone on the nightstand and the woman reaches out with her manicured pink fingernails to silence it. She pushes her candy-pink eye mask up onto her forehead and lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to stop her eyes from fluttering closed again. As she’s starting to drift away again, another alarm sounds from her husband’s nightstand and Dan’s hand appears from beneath the duvet, feels around for his blue iPhone, then tosses it across the room. She laughs. He peeks his head up from the blanket sleepily, and they share an exhausted look.
‘Let’s cancel today, let’s do today tomorrow, instead,’ she says, feeling her heavy eyelids being pulled closed again.
Dan pats her head, then messes her hair and pushes her eye mask over her face. She laughs, removes the eye mask completely, and sits up, finally awake.
Dan stretches and roars mid-stretch, ‘Let’s grab the day by the balls!’
‘The day has balls
?’
‘The day has balls.’
‘Are you guys going to claim everything now? Even the days?’
‘Especially the days. But the night … the night has boobs.’ He sidles up to her and she laughs, and gently resists.
Laughing, she pulls herself out of bed and leaves to wake the kids.
2
In the bathroom, fresh after her shower, the woman stands in front of the mirror, wrapped in a pink towel. She reaches into a drawer and retrieves a small pink velvet pouch with a drawstring that contains a pink rubber wristband. She slides it on.
Dan is beside her, a blue towel around his waist. After shaving he reaches for his blue velvet pouch with a drawstring and slides the blue rubber wristband out and onto his wrist.
3
Dressed in their grey corporate work clothes, briefcases in hand, Dan and the woman step out of the elevator, with their six-year-old twins Jack and Jill. Jill wears a pink bow in her hair, Jack wears a blue baseball cap.
‘Morning, Al,’ the woman greets the apartment building doorman.
‘Morning, guys,’ Al says, high-fiving the kids.
The woman and Dan embrace their children and help them onto the waiting school bus. Jack and Jill walk down the centre of the aisle of the bus. Jack takes a left and sits with the boys on blue-covered seats, Jill takes a right and sits with the girls on pink-covered seats.
‘Want me to call you two cabs?’ Al asks, making his way to the road to hail a cab.
‘Just one cab this morning thanks, Al,’ Dan says.
‘Penis or vagina?’ Al asks.
‘Vagina,’ Dan replies, checking his watch. ‘I’ve a meeting around the corner, I can walk.’
Al whistles for a cab. A blue cab nears and slows and a male driver hangs out the window.
‘Vagina!’ Al calls to him, and the blue cab speeds off. Instead a pink cab with a female driver pulls in.
The woman displays her pink wristband through the window to the driver, before getting into the car.
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