Of Course, It's Butterfingers Again

by Khyrunnisa A

  ‘No chance. I remained on the top berth all the time with my sleeves rolled down, collar up and feet covered. Not even an ant knew I was there.’

  Mrs Kishen nodded in approval. ‘Come, Amar. Let’s go to the hospital and consult the doctor straight away. After that we’ll head home. I hope you aren’t too hungry?’

  ‘Hungry? I’ve no appetite at all.’ An Amar without an appetite was like an egg without its yolk; this confirmed Mrs Kishen’s fears, he really was ill.

  At the hospital, Mrs Kishen and Amar completed all the formalities and waited outside the GP’s consulting room. Amar sat next to an elderly man, who turned his piercing, suspicious eyes on him. Amar smiled. Then he began to sneeze—again and again. He sniffed, blew his nose loudly and turned to smile at the man again, but found the man had turned his back to him. He appeared to be holding his breath, as if he had recalled that he hadn’t completed his yoga that morning. The man looked around for another seat but all were occupied. After an uncomfortable wait of ten minutes, during which the silence of the room was broken only by coughs, sneezes, sniffles, clearing of the throat, noisy expirations of breath and the nurse’s announcements, Amar’s name was called.

  The doctor, a rather old man, gestured to Amar to sit down and asked what the matter was. Mrs Kishen took over and said, ‘I think my son has chicken po—’

  Before she could complete the sentence, the doctor leapt out of his chair, almost did a double somersault and retreated to the wall, practically imploring it to open up and swallow him. Pressed against it, he pointed to the far corner of the room and said in a quavering voice, ‘There! Go there, there!’ Intrigued by the old doctor’s surprising agility and acrobatics, Amar jumped up to obey him.

  Regaining some of his composure, the doctor muttered under his breath, ‘Coming to see me with a contagious disease!’ Turning to Mrs Kishen, he asked fiercely, ‘How do you know it is chicken pox?’

  ‘Spots, doctor,’ Amar answered instead and pointed them out with pride. ‘See, here, here, here and here. There too. Can you spot them? My chest, I’ll show you, has some big ones. And my stom—’

  ‘All right, that’ll do.’ The doctor shielded his eyes with his hands, as if the mere sight of the spots would give him the disease. Then, feeling a little ashamed of his behaviour, which didn’t become a doctor, he explained, ‘I’ve not had chicken pox before. That’s what is worrying me. And now I’m an old man. I don’t want to get it. The older you are when you contract this disease, the more dangerous it is. Yes, it is chicken pox.’

  Mrs Kishen hid her indignation. What a doctor! she thought. Aloud, she said, ‘But what’s the treatment, doctor?’

  ‘It looks like a mild attack. That’s a good thing. This anti-viral medicine will stop it from spreading further. He must rest for a couple of weeks. The nurse will give you a chart with the details of his diet. Your name is? Ah, Amar. Amar Kishen,’ he said, looking into the file. He quickly scribbled something on the prescription pad and ordered in a loud voice, ‘Now go!’

  They went. Amar opened the door and walked straight into the old man, who had been trying to eavesdrop at the door. Both of them involuntarily clutched each other for support and Amar’s file went flying, scattering the contents. The man recovered his balance and picked up a paper. It was the prescription. He took one look, turned pale and, holding it by the tips of his fingers, dropped it from a height into Amar’s hand. After they had chased down all the papers, Amar and his mother bought the medicines and returned home.

  Mrs Kishen settled Amar into his room before going to the kitchen, the food chart in her hand. Mr Kishen was still in his room, busy with his work. Half an hour later, Mrs Kishen was back in Amar’s room, serving him the special food she had prepared. Mr Kishen entered, looking elated. ‘Ah, Amar, how are you, son?’ he asked, showing some belated concern. ‘Did you meet an old man at the hospital?’

  ‘Plenty, Dad. The place was crammed with old men. Or did you mean the doctor? Yes, he was an old man, a mean old man.’

  ‘Well, the mean old man has done me a good turn. Mr Srivastava just called. It seems his father-in-law, Mr Siddharth, wanted to be taken to the doctor this morning itself. He felt he had caught a chill on the train—the AC was too cold. At the hospital, he was seated next to a boy who sneezed into his face all the time . . .’

  ‘I didn’t!’ Amar protested indignantly.

  ‘If you did, thanks. The right thing to do. And later the boy rammed into him and dropped the prescription. That I can well believe.’

  Amar grinned sheepishly.

  ‘Mr Siddharth stole a glance at the prescription, which said the boy had chicken pox. He got frightened. He was sure he would get it too. When he discussed this with the doctor, the doctor told him it’s better to be careful and advised him to take the new chicken pox vaccine. The doctor was planning to do the same, I believe. The vaccine would take effect only after seventy-two hours, so there was still a risk he might have contracted the disease. The doctor suggested he could get admitted to the hospital and be there for a week or two. He could have a thorough check-up, get tests done, scans, the works. The hospital has a new wing with five-star facilities. Mr Siddharth was elated. He could now be a hypochondriac to his heart’s content and that too under medical supervision.’

  ‘So he’s not going to stay with Mr Srivatsava?’ asked Mrs Kishen.

  ‘No, he isn’t. Mr Srivastava is elated. There is elation all round. I’m elated too, and I’ll tell you why. Mr Srivastava was waiting outside the hospital and saw both of you leave. And when his father-in-law said the chicken-pox boy’s name was Amar Kishen, he realized who his saviour was. He’s now talking about the promotion! But one thing’s still bothering him. The dog. It won’t be allowed in the hospital, and he and his wife hate dogs. It’s already driving them nuts, he says.’

  ‘What dog?’ asked Amar, mystified.

  His mother explained.

  ‘Wow, damnation, I mean Dalmatian! Dad, Ma, can’t he bring it here? I’ll look after it. I have to rest for two weeks, and your boss’s father-in-law will be in hospital for two weeks. Perfect!’ Amar perked up.

  ‘But how? You have chicken pox!’ his father protested.

  ‘So what? Chicken pox is not zoonotic.’

  ‘What tick?’ Mr Kishen looked confused.

  ‘Zoonotic diseases spread between species—between animals and humans. But the chicken pox virus doesn’t spread from man to dog. So the dog won’t get chicken pox from me, but I’ll get a lot of joy out of him.’

  Mr Kishen looked at his son with newfound respect. ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’

  ‘That was my biology project, Dad. You can check on your phone if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I’ll do that, just to make sure, not that I don’t believe you, Amar,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Then I can give Mr Srivastava an authentic source too.’

  He brought out his mobile from his pocket and after a little while lifted his head, looking very happy. ‘Thank you, Amar. Mr Srivastava is now talking openly about my promotion and he even mentioned my annual vacation! He is over the moon. He asked me with gratitude dripping from his voice, “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I told him, “I have a spotted son at home. Why not a spotted dog too?”’

  Amar and his mother laughed.

  ‘I also found out that Dalmatians have hardly any oil on their coats,’ Mr Kishen continued. ‘So they lack a doggy smell and stay clean. Now I guess I won’t mind having one at home for a couple of weeks. I might even enjoy it. One dog won’t yelp much and I haven’t had a dog since I was a boy.’

  The Swimming Champion

  Amar and Kiran made their way to the swimming pool, looking more serious than they normally did. The swimming pool was a new and proud acquisition of the school and lay beyond the cricket field. This year, Mr Jagmohan had offered to host the annual inter-school swimming championship at the new swimming pool and the All Schools Swimming Association had gratefully accepted the propos
al. The local swimming pool had been drawing a lot of flak and Mr Jagmohan’s offer had come as a godsend. The students of Green Park School, too, were fired up until it hit them that there was one serious problem: they had no champion swimmer to boast of.

  ‘This is pathetic!’ Amar exclaimed, standing a safe two hundred yards from the pool. ‘Just imagine! Our school has millions of boys and two girls and not one can swim a decent length in a decent time! What’s the world coming to?’ He twirled the towel he was carrying, dropped it and promptly tripped over it, landing a good two feet away.

  ‘Classy dive, Butter!’ Kiran gave his friend a helping hand. ‘A little more practice and we’ll have a land-diving champion.’

  ‘Ha! You never know. There might be such competitions in the Olympics soon!’ Amar laughed, distributing sand from his person to everyone around. ‘I had some hope when Jizan joined our school, but that guy seems to be suffering from hydrophobia.’

  Jizan was a new boy, who had joined the school a week before and was in VIII B. He was a quiet chap, a boarder whose parents were in Dubai. His classmates made him feel at home and soon he became friends with everybody. Amar and his friends, who had made it their mission to discover a swimming talent in school, had been hopeful when they had heard about the new boy. But they soon found to their dismay that Jizan was not the fish they had hoped for but a mere crab that preferred to stay on the fringes of the pool.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Kiran. ‘Why, he turns green when he sees the water in the deep end.’

  ‘And that happens twice every evening,’ added Amar. That week it was the turn of all the students of VIII A and B to compulsorily use the pool for an hour in the evening. The boys generally heaped their clothes on a couple of stone benches nearby. Some boys, though, kept them on the spring board near the deep end. Since very few students ventured towards the deep end, they felt their belongings would be safe.

  By this time they had reached the swimming pool and were hailed by the rest of their friends who were fooling around in the shallow end. Jizan was also there and gave them a half-smile. Their PT master, Mr Sunderlal, was urging Eric and Ajay to swim the length of the pool.

  ‘Let’s get Eric to dive from the deep end,’ Amar suggested. ‘He did it yesterday. I’m sure he’ll get a prize for the maximum water displaced on diving.’

  ‘If you call falling into the pool like a huge sack of potatoes diving,’ Ajay commented.

  ‘He would have been Archimedes’ blue-eyed boy!’ Kishore laughed. ‘He proves his principle right every time.’

  ‘Eureka!’ Amar exclaimed. ‘Why don’t we just take every boy to the deep end and shove him in? Swim or sink! To save himself he’d start swimming and, hey presto! Our Ian Thorpe or Michael Phelps would be born.’

  Mr Sunderlal heard Amar’s words and got angry. ‘Amar! The last thing I want is boys drowning in my pool. Don’t you try such nonsense! Come on, everybody, be serious and start. I’ll time you.’

  Jizan, who had turned pale while listening to this conversation, tried to slip away. Noticing this, Mr Sunderlal hailed him, ‘Jizan, what’s wrong with you? Get back into the pool!’

  ‘Sir, I feel sick. I think it’s something I ate. Please let me go back to the boarding.’

  Mr Sunderlal looked keenly at the trembling boy who really looked sick and said, ‘Hmm, all right, go and take some rest. But remember, no excuses tomorrow.’ After Jizan left the scene, the teacher remarked, ‘That boy seems to be mortally scared of water. I must try and help him get over his fear. But first things first. The competition’s worrying me. How can I tell Mr Jagmohan that not one of the boys in the school has a chance of winning a prize?’

  He wrung his hands in despair. Amar consoled him, ‘Not to worry, sir. We’ll try our best not to come last.’

  That weekend Kiran and his family went to their native village, Haryali, to visit Kiran’s grandfather.* As they sat around talking after supper, Kiran mentioned the swimming competition. ‘Grandpa, did I tell you about our fabulous new swimming pool? Our school’s hosting the inter-school swimming championship!’

  ‘Lucky for you, then, that Jizan’s there,’ said Grandpa.

  ‘Jizan? How do you know Jizan? And why lucky?’

  ‘Jizan’s grandfather lives in Haryali and is a very good friend of mine. I know Jizan too. Why, that boy’s the most amazing swimmer! He’ll win you all the prizes.’

  Kiran looked at him sceptically. ‘I think we’re talking about two different boys, Grandpa. Jizan seems to hate water like a cat. He never even steps into the shallow end if he can help it. You must have some other boy in mind.’

  ‘Nonsense! It’s the same boy all right. Why, it was I who recommended your school to his parents. Didn’t he ever mention Haryali or me?’

  ‘He’s in another division, Grandpa, and he’s rather shy. We’re just getting to know him. But he can’t be a swimmer. No way!’

  ‘Of course he is. He’s a natural in the water. In any pond, river or even the sea, he can beat the best. He dives beautifully too.’

  ‘Then why does he behave as if he’s scared of the pool?’

  ‘I’m equally puzzled, Kiran. Anyway, I’ll be meeting his grandfather tomorrow. Let me find out.’

  The next day, Grandpa told Kiran the story behind Jizan’s fear of the pool. ‘A couple of years ago, while he was standing near a swimming pool, someone accidentally pushed him in at the deep end. He hurt his head, lost consciousness and almost drowned. After that he developed a phobia for the swimming pool. He’s not afraid to swim anywhere else, in fact loves to do that, but a swimming pool revives those near-death memories and he hates it.’

  ‘What a tragedy for us,’ sighed Kiran.

  On Monday morning, when Kiran and Amar walked towards their classroom, they saw a crowd of boys in front of VIII B with Jizan at the centre. Some VIII A students were in the periphery, stretching their necks to get a better view of something. Eric waved to Amar and Kiran on sighting them and said excitedly, ‘Hey, Jizan’s father sent him a super watch from Dubai. He’s passing it round. It’s a Casio Pro Trek and has innumerable features—it can read the temperature, the pressure, the altitude, can gauge the possibility of rain, has a digital compass too and a hundred thousand other features. It’s solar-powered and has a light titanium strap.’

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Amar. ‘Are you sure it can tell the time?’

  The sound of the bell sent everybody scurrying to their respective classrooms. During the lunch interval, Kiran filled his friends in on the information he had gathered about Jizan.

  ‘How sad!’ mourned Ajay. ‘All those prizes are so near, yet so far.’

  ‘I’d have tried to talk Jizan out of his fear,’ said Reshmi, ‘but Minu and I have a debate competition this afternoon.’

  ‘Let’s go and look at his watch, at any rate,’ said Amar, and they went to VIII B and had a wonderful time trying out its features.

  In the evening, as the boys gathered at the swimming pool, Amar and Kiran accosted Jizan, who was as usual hovering near the edge. ‘Jizan, you never told me you are from Haryali!’ said Kiran. ‘That’s my native place too.’

  ‘I know.’ Jizan looked abashed. ‘I wanted to tell you but . . .’

  ‘Is it because of the swimming pool incident?’ Amar butted in.

  Jizan nodded. ‘I just can’t seem to get over my fear of the pool. I try not to look into it, but if by chance I do, I feel that the floor and the water are coming up in a menacing surge to attack me, to engulf me, to swallow me.’ His fear made him eloquent.

  ‘Good choice of words,’ approved Kishore.

  ‘That’s only your imagination, Jizan,’ said Ajay.

  ‘Come on, Jizan! We’ll help you. Let’s go to the deep end. You can dive and we’ll cheer you on. I bet you’ll get over your fear,’ Amar suggested.

  Jizan looked terrified and stammered, ‘Nnnno, no . . . p-p-please don’t make me s-s-swim there!’

  Eric, meanwhile, had noticed a d
ark cloud in the distance and began studying the sky like an amateur weather forecaster. Soon he announced, ‘Looks like rain.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Amar, agitated. ‘We have an important cricket match early tomorrow morning and I don’t want it rained out.’

  ‘Why don’t we find out from Jizan’s watch?’ suggested Kiran.

  ‘Good idea!’ said Amar. ‘Where’s it, Jizan?’

  ‘In my trouser pocket. My trousers are on the springboard. You can take the watch from there.’

  ‘Sure thing! Race you!’ Amar shouted to Kiran and took off towards the deep end from the side of the pool. Kiran huffed and puffed beside him but actually managed to overtake him as they reached the springboard.

  Kiran found Jizan’s trousers and as he fiddled with them, Amar grew impatient and with a ‘Here, let me try,’ snatched the trousers from him and pulled the watch with some force from the pocket. The effort sent the watch flying into the pool.

  ‘Oops!’ Amar exclaimed in dismay.

  Jizan watched in horror as his watch dropped into the water and, without a second thought, leaped into the pool and swam furiously to the deep end. Everyone turned their attention to this exciting drama and some boys began hurrying to the other end of the pool. As the spectators watched with bated breath, Jizan disappeared underwater.

  ‘Jizan!’ shouted Amar, his heart in his mouth. There were no ripples in the pool. All fell silent.

  ‘Here!’ Jizan popped up without warning, spitting out water and twirling his watch. The relief was palpable and the boys greeted the swimmer with loud cheers. Jizan grinned from ear to ear as Mr Sunderlal, who had timed him, exclaimed, awestruck, ‘My goodness, fifty metres in just thirty-five seconds! Why, we might have a national champion in our midst!’

  ‘Maybe even an Olympian, sir,’ said Amar, thankful that things turned out well in the end. ‘Jizan, the way you Thorpedoed to you watch was amazing!’

  Jizan, who had swum back to the shallow end, grinned. ‘And your dropping the watch into the pool was most providential.’