Hijab

by Guruprasad Kaginele

  It was apparent to anyone that these two deaths were related in some way. I felt bad for Rukhiya and Fadhuma’s deaths but as the hospital’s chief of staff I didn’t know what I was supposed to do? Should I call a staff meeting? Should I talk to the board? Should I contact both Hassan and Abdhi? Should I consult Dr Mohammad Mohammad for advice?

  I wondered what Radhika would say about this second death. She was perhaps clueless. We had not met in the recent past due to our overlapping work schedules. I decided to call her. There was no answer.

  Two days had passed. Radhika and I had not seen each other yet. Since I was working the night shifts, when I was at work she would be at home, and when she worked, I stayed home. And she was not answering my calls. When I checked with Srikantha, he said, ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of her either. But I feel she is handling the situation well.’ I was not able to talk much with Srikantha too.

  The newspapers and the TV channels had not mentioned our names or that of Amoka General Hospital. The media had not established any connection between Fadhuma’s and Rukhiya’s deaths. We had a gloomy sense that something bad was about to happen. The impact and the scale of this was something we couldn’t predict, and it made us even more helpless.

  I thought hard, but I could not figure out what to do. My wiser instincts prevailed, and I kept to myself and my job.

  On that day, when I came home, Radhika had finished her supper and was busy with some kitchen chores. I wondered if she was the same person who came running to me after Rukhiya’s death. She was unusually calm and was busy with her daily chores as if nothing had happened.

  Srikantha too was at home. And as always, he had his head buried in his laptop. My head was overwhelmed with hundreds of thoughts and questions that begged for answers. Echoes of Radhika’s assertion that ‘This is like a death sentence to them’ and Hassan’s threats that ‘Heads will roll’ filled my mind. Why did these girls commit suicides? What did they accomplish by doing that? They are against a clinical procedure validated by science the world over. Why so? Is it because of a baseless belief that, once operated, a woman cannot get pregnant? What role has Dr Mohammad Mohammad played in these murky set of events? These women died within a few days of his visit and meeting with us. What does it mean?

  Srikantha suddenly looked up from his computer and exclaimed, ‘My god! Guru, look here!’ Before I could get to him, he shouted, ‘A Sanghaali woman named Asha Ali has committed suicide in Columbus, Ohio.’ I went up to him quickly and looked at the website he was culling this information from. He had googled for ‘Sanghaali suicide’. Asha Ali, a Sanghaali girl, had taken her life with a magnum 33 pistol—quite unlike Rukhiya and Fadhuma. A local newspaper also reported that she too had a three-month-old infant. Nowhere was it mentioned that Asha Ali had a Cesarean section. For some reason, I glanced at the news report date.

  That news was six months old!

  I felt like punching Srikantha right there. ‘Srikantha, what the hell are you doing? I know you are curious. But this is not the time, dude.’ I told him after restraining myself. I showed him the date, ‘Look, this incident happened six months back. What would you gain by prying this open now?’ The distance of this death, both in time and space, provided some solace. Srikantha too was surprised at his oversight. He had not observed the date. ‘Sorry, Guru. But so what if this incident is old? Don’t you think that Minnesota’s incidents and this death in Ohio are related?’

  I had not responded.

  Radhika was standing at the door. Neither of us had noticed her. She seemed to have had a reasonably good inkling of what we were discussing. She moved over to Srikantha, pushed him aside, sat on his chair and started reading, taking in all the details. I suspected that she may start crying at any moment.

  I said, preemptively consoling her, ‘Radhika, there is absolutely no relationship between this incident and the events at Amoka. This incident happened in Columbus, six months back!’

  Even as I said this, for some vague reason, I had an instinct that all these incidents were somehow related. Radhika had not uttered a word. This silence was surprising. Srikantha was standing behind me and not knowing what to say, asked her, ‘Did you call Giri?’ Radhika nodded her head. I said, ‘Radhika, why don’t you take a week off and go to Austin. I’ll talk to Smith and Razak. We can manage here.’ Radhika went straight to her room. She had not responded to the news in Columbus. She was talking to someone on the phone for about nearly half an hour. I assumed that she was talking to Giri.

  She was surprisingly calm later when we sat down for a cup of coffee. In fact, she was the first one to talk. ‘Duniya was at the clinic today, and we were talking casually, Fadhuma’s topic also came up. I was talking to her again.’ I realized it was Duniya that she was talking to, not Giri.

  Srikantha and I waited for her to continue. Radhika went on, ‘I asked Duniya, these Sanghaali women need to ask themselves what do they really want? How fair is it to put their babies’ lives at risk or commit suicides? Who knows why they are killing themselves? Do you think that they would kill themselves just because they had a surgery that their culture supposedly prohibits? Or is it because they are looking for the government’s support dole? You know what Duniya said?’ We both patiently listened. She had the frenzy of a schoolgirl who had just found the answer to a math problem that she was working on for a long time.

  ‘Duniya said, just wait. Everything will make sense.’ Radhika waited for me to respond.

  I was confused even more. ‘What do you mean? If you speak in riddles like this, what can we understand? How would anything make sense?’

  Radhika said softly, ‘According to Duniya, the Sanghaali women have rebelled against their husbands!’

  ‘Against their husbands? I thought it was against us?’

  ‘I thought so too. Truth has many layers to it. Duniya was talking mysteriously that what can’t be achieved in life can be accomplished in death. Suicides can be an opiate for the masses, and stuff like that…I didn’t get a whole bunch of what she was talking. I did not talk much. In a nutshell, this is what I understood: Our surgeries were not the sole reason for their deaths. We are partly off the hook.’

  I stayed quiet.

  I could not sleep that night. Rebels? What kind of rebellion is this? Deserting your children and committing suicides—can this be called rebellion? Are the wives of Hassan, Abdhi, Ali really rebelling against their husbands by committing suicides? If that is so, then why the timing? Radhika’s Cesarean sections are just an excuse? Or her misfortune? Why did this Mohammad Mohammad give us a lecture on Sanghaali women and the Sanghaali community? Does he have no role to play in these deaths?

  What does Duniya know about all these events? Did Rukhiya and Fadhuma talk to her before dying? Of course, Radhika is so gullible at this moment, she would be receptive to any comments that would absolve her of any guilt. Duniya might have mentioned to her, ‘These women killed themselves because of bad marriages and abusive husbands not because of C-sections’ and she believed her. Radhika had held on to Duniya’s words. Rebellion didn’t make any sense to me.

  It is said that a person navigates across five phases when confronted with bad news—denial, anger, compromise or negotiation, depression and then acceptance. Radhika has crossed the first three phases. Now she is trying to pin the blame on others. I didn’t get if this was compromise or denial. I thought she may be rationalizing.

  The light in her room was switched on all night.

  7. The Churn

  One bright morning, just a week after this incident, Giri showed up in Amoka. I was already late for work, I greeted him with a quick ‘Hi’ and went to the hospital. Srikantha had already left, ahead of me. Radhika had taken the day off.

  When I came home that night, I could sense the tension in the place. The whole place had a funereal ambience.

  Radhika and Giri were eating supper quietly. Srikantha had settled down in his room. I apologized to Giri for not being able to tal
k to him in the morning. I grabbed the tomato lentil curry from the fridge, heated it in the microwave, mixed it with rice and sat down with the two of them to eat.

  ‘Guru, I’ve been telling Radhika since morning. Quit this fucking job and come with me right away. We can look for a job in Austin. But when has she listened to me?’ The tone of this conversation-opener took me by surprise.

  Radhika was wearing a cotton churidar and had her dupatta wrapped around her neck like a shawl. She was wearing her thick glasses. That she was not wearing her contacts meant only one thing: she had cried without a break since morning.

  She said softly, something that they had discussed all day, ‘Giri, please watch your language. None of us have done anything wrong, that requires us to leave this town. Hear me out. I’m not going to quit this job.’ It was awkward for me to be with them in the middle of what seemed to be a big fight. I couldn’t help thinking that I stood there destined to be a witness to a verdict that might emerge from this argument. I did not say anything.

  ‘Guru, you are her boss, right? What the fuck is all this? I can’t make any sense of it. She did the surgery, and they died. But apparently there is no connection between the two? Listen to this shit, this is supposed to be a fucking Sanghaali rebellion! Who will believe this kind of a cock and bull story? Radhika says that the media folks have not mentioned anything on air or print. Until they do, we should not assume anything, it seems. This is basic common sense, man. She operated on two Sanghaali women and both fucking killed themselves. This is a no-brainer. It is nothing but stupid if we naively believe that there is no connection between the two and do nothing now. Stupidity? Huh, it is a fucking understatement!’

  Boy, was he furious!. I hadn’t heard so many F-bombers with an Indian accent ever before. But I could not disagree with him. Yet, I said, ‘Giri, it is not as simple as you think. I am not sure whether at this time Radhika can quit, even if she wants to. Let us assume, like you said, that their deaths are connected. Do we know what the connection is?’

  ‘What kind of a foolish question is this? Radhika did both these Cesarean sections, right? If there is an investigation, wouldn’t she be questioned? Don’t think you are safe. They are going to come after you too, my friend. Such naiveté on your part is utter foolishness.’

  Radhika asked, ‘Nobody has questioned us so far, right?’

  I added, ‘Yes, we may be questioned for all we know. But then, if we quit now, wouldn’t we be declaring ourselves guilty? And wouldn’t that be implying that there is a connection between us and these tragic incidents?’

  Radhika said, ‘Giri, let’s be patient for some time. If I work for another two years, I can apply for my green card. If not, all the time we served in this cesspool will be a waste—precious time down the drain.’

  I thought she brought up a wrong topic at this time.

  ‘To hell with your green card! I’m tired of listening to this shit. So, what if we don’t get our green cards? We go back to Bengaluru, right? What’s wrong with that? People living there…are they not human beings? Living here in this lousy fucking town, you talk about Bengaluru’s traffic and pollution, what are you guys doing here?’ His voice was loud and trembled with rage.

  Radhika said, ‘Giri, there is a logical end to everything. The question here is not of going back to Bengaluru. If I go back now, would it not mean that I’ve lost. I’m not prepared to lose for any reason!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? What battle are you fighting to lose?’ Radhika didn’t answer. Frustrated, Giri asked, ‘No use talking to you. What are you planning to do?’

  ‘I will keep doing my job.’

  ‘What if more people kill themselves because you did C-sections on them?’

  ‘God! Giri, how can you speak like that? I will watch myself. I will behave. I will try not to do any Cesarean sections as much as possible.’

  Giri did not respond. He was probably tired from arguing all day. He said, resignedly, ‘It’s always about you and your job, right? Do whatever it is that you want to do. But don’t ever call me crying. It is not easy to get to this fucking place. I don’t know why you guys land in places like these and suffer. It’s your karma.’

  The next morning Giri had left for Austin. Radhika’s good mood and the glow on her face puzzled me. I wondered if I’ll ever comprehend this couple’s dynamics—their fights, their little make up love acts and who knows what. If they can settle their differences after one night of togetherness, I prayed: ‘God, let there be many such nights.’

  I thought that Radhika was coming back to being her old self. However, I couldn’t say if this image of her was something that she wanted to project to the world or whether it was genuine. She would suddenly lock herself in her room alone for hours. She kept to herself and her work at the hospital. She didn’t talk to us much at home either. When she talked on her phone to Giri, her conversations were insipid, rehearsed and mechanical. She flicked through the local TV channels every hour and searched the internet for random things. Once she came up to me and said, ‘Apparently someone in Columbus, Ohio is working on a PhD thesis paper about cultural reasons behind these Sanghaali women’s opposition to Cesarean sections. The person doing this research is from Karnataka. She has agreed to share her research papers with me.’ Three days later, she came yelling, ‘Damn woman! She says she can’t share it. Apparently, she has signed some non-disclosure agreement. If we don’t help each other, then who will?’ Many nights, we could see the lights turned on in her room till dawn. She would get up in the mornings and go to work with swollen eyes and sagging eye sacks. Of late, I had not seen her wear any makeup at all.

  I was most surprised by the fact that the media buzz about these suicides did not last for more than a couple of days.

  This solace did not last long. The news that was supposed to have gone cold sparked back to life. It didn’t take us long to realize that this short-lived peace was the lull before the storm.

  Meanwhile, the local radio and TV channels started broadcasting two new developments as ‘Breaking News’. There is a small town called Chapel about twenty miles north of Amoka. This town has a population of three thousand. There was a company called Chapel Meats here that was in the business of packing processed meat. It was an all-white town, and in the past six years about fifteen Sanghaali families had moved in there. The men from each of those fifteen families were all working at Chapel Meats through a New York based contracting company.

  In the past eight weeks, two young Sanghaali women had killed themselves at Chapel.

  According to the news on TV, both had infants less than six months old. There were no suicide notes here too, just like Fadhuma and Rukhiya’s cases. One woman hanged herself from the ceiling fan in her room using her Hijab—a death that was eerily similar to Rukhiya’s. The other woman had chosen a rather different and novel approach. She sat in her car with its engine running and closed the garage door and died of carbon monoxide poisoning. When her husband came home, he thought she was asleep in the car. It was reported that he had no idea that someone could die in this way.

  I had no clue where this Chapel town was located. To tell the truth, we ourselves were unaware of what was happening here, let alone convincing others into believing our story.

  8. Interrogation, Courtesy Visit

  The incidents that followed, unfolded quicker than what we could imagine. The media, which appeared to be asleep, suddenly woke up to the happenings following the incidents at Chapel. The local TV channels started beaming the news on the deaths of Rukhiya and Fadhuma and the girls at Chapel all day. Headlines screamed, ‘Serial deaths of Minnesota Sanghaali mothers’, ‘Are these suicides or murders?’, ‘Do patients have no rights?’, ‘Newborn infant, Dead mother’. Tickers flashed across television screens. What we learnt subsequently was that the girls from Chapel were also young mothers who had delivered their babies about six months back at a local Minneapolis hospital. Both had come to America from Sanghaala last
year.

  Media vehicles were parked all the time around the hospital. What was weird was that there had been no statement whatsoever from any representative of the Sanghaali community. A couple of reporters from one of the local channels had accosted me with questions at the parking lot, while I was making my way into the hospital. The incessant broadcast of the video clips of me running in and out of hospital with reporters chasing frankly had scared me.

  Radhika’s mood wavered a lot. Soon after Rukhiya’s death, she had panicked as if she was going to lose everything that she had worked for. But, after Fadhuma’s death, she appeared quite composed, thanks to Duniya’s theory of ‘Sanghaali women’s rebellion or revolution’. Now, watching the news on TV she started panicking again. For someone who was very confident about her work and her skills, she appeared overwhelmed. She seemed convinced that this whole series of incidents had started with Rukhiya. She confided in me about her fears and the self-doubts she was grappling with and said, ‘I should have listened to you, Guru. I should have referred her to some other hospital and washed my hands off this thing. Duniya tells me stuff like, revolt against their husbands and all. How does she know? How can I trust her? If God averts this crisis for me, I will never do a Cesarean section on any Sanghaali woman so long as I’m here. What shall I do, Guru? Shall I quit and go away with Giri? If I quit this job, my visa will expire in two weeks. It is not easy to get a job in Austin that can renew this visa. I may have to return to India.’ I listened without having much to say. I had no words to console her. She was also accosted by the media for interviews. The clip that showed her running away from the reporter who was chasing her in the parking lot was quite dramatic. A passerby had recorded that incident on his phone. That too was broadcast by the media. She watched it multiple times, no matter how terrified she was after watching each time. The long and short of it was that everyone was clueless as to what was happening and scared of what might happen.