by Braham Singh
~
When Doktor Doktor Lustig finally had enough of Siegfried, he had Schwester Ingrid reason with her Göring-fat, Jew father-in-law. It wasn’t difficult enumerating why he should behave, including for example, staying alive. The difficulty was in getting anything through, past all that fat. When Lustig saw Siegfried outside the Sammellager risking it again one morning, he took matters in his own hands.
‘And by that,’ Schwester Ingrid wrote to Ernst, ‘All I mean is he tried to personally talk him out of it. Herr Doktor Doktor Lustig is that sort of a man, a negotiator and humanitarian. He saved thousands of lives, including mine. He is the reason your father was not in a cattle car already, a yellow star on his chest, en route to Auschwitz or someplace similar.’ Let’s not forget, she reminded Ernst, Herr Doktor Doktor Lustig never had to wear a Star of David; more importantly, he made sure nor did his Jewish doctors, nurses or patients.
Herr Doktor Doktor Lustig’s gentle persuasion did not work its magic this time. Siegfried continued making a nuisance of himself over his daughter-in-law. Finally, the SS Commandant had a word with the good Doktor Doktor. Now the matter couldn’t be ignored without taking their little Jewish world apart. ‘You piss off Nazis, you end up with pissed-off Nazis,’ the Doktor Doktor said, explaining why he did, what he did.
Refusing to endanger the whole Jewish community in the hospital because of one fat, fool of a Jew, Herr Doktor Doktor Lustig washed his hands off Ernst’s father by declaring him fit to travel. Those days, there was just one direction a Jew could legally take. East. Also, remember how Siegfried would go about driving people crazy saying, they should’ve let that homo teacher run the entire verdammte school system, and saved themselves a Second World War? Well, for the coup de grace, Herr Doktor Doktor Lustig went registered him a homosexual. A twist to the thrust, just to show who was boss and what happened to those who forgot.
One may want to sit back and let this sink in. Think what it meant being a Jew in Nazi Germany. Then, read up on what happened to homosexuals. Simply adding the two together doesn’t do justice. For Jewish homosexuals, the persecution needs to be compounded—like the Seth’s interest—to get at what lay in store. Reasonably good at math, Siegfried Steiger knew he was in for the compounded fucking of his life.
23
Doctor Waller
Neither Indian or English, but both.
—Frank Anthony, MP, on the Anglo-Indian community
‘No question,’ Salim Ali claimed, epistemologically speaking, ‘the patient knows more than his doctor. Don’t forget that.’
‘I don’t know what that word even means. Your accent isn’t helping.’
‘Oh, and yours is perfect? What’s wrong with you? Coming to Sion Hospital instead of going to Breach Candy like other Europeans.’
Waller’s Mallu nurse showed up and there was this silent, ethnic moment with Salim Ali. She was perky, this one, and openly checking him out. It didn’t take long to establish though that when one looks like Salim Ali, he being a fellow Mallu wasn’t good enough. She tuned off and beckoned Ernst to follow.
Walking behind the nurse, Ernst decided to remain upbeat. After all, he wasn’t in pain, still alive, and leading a life of sorts. He couldn’t help wondering though if this was the turning point. When his body took a look at the rest of his life and decided to follow suit. The nurse left him at the door, refusing to go a step further. Entering Waller’s surgery, Ernst made straight for the operating table, clambering up to get his feet off the floor. He tried not taking in the pungent urine smell and musky odour. Seeing the snakes on display, Ernst understood why the staff left Waller alone. And even though he was sure the Russell’s Viper scare was nonsense, people swore they had seen snakes slithering around .
Waiting up there gave him time to study the nearest glass vitrine on the stainless steel shelf, a few feet from his face. It looked like a plumpish, brown eel coiled in there with a distinct snake’s head: triangular with a blunt, raised snout. This one had big nostrils—you would think they were eyes. Ernst could count each scale on the snake’s fragmented crown. He had never been close to one before—not even near a harmless rat snake from the hospital compound, which is what this probably was. The Mallu nurse peeked in, shuddered and stepped aside for Dr. Waller. He pointed at the snake staring at Ernst through unblinking horizontal slits.
‘That’s a Russell’s Viper. Poisonous bugger, what?’
Ernst scooted up the operating table to the far end. He cursed, calmed himself and got ready for Waller to begin with a dissertation on Russell’s Vipers before coming around to the medical report. Knowing Waller, he would read it aloud then say to him, there’s nothing to worry about, you bugger.
‘It’s skin cancer,’ Waller said.
He turned grave, stern almost. ‘The cancer from the melanoma may have spread. Possibly the colon, given your related issues with constipation and all.’ The man delivering that blow to the head was all British. Where did the half-baked dingo go? ‘To confirm the diagnosis though,’ he went on to say, ‘X-ray’s a must.’
This was an outrage. Ernst wanted to tell the idiot he was a confirmed hypochondriac and therefore he couldn’t possibly be ill.
‘The other day you said it was all in my head.’
‘Relax, you bugger. You have in the neighbourhood of several years with proper treatment.’ The meandering Anglo-Indian was back to blunt the blow. He then went, ‘Possibly more,’ before his British Army alter ego qualified that going, ‘with a catheter and other aids.’ Over these past years, certain aspects of Dr. Waller’s personality weren’t obvious. Like his having two of them.
‘Let’s go get you an appointment at the Tata Memorial,’ the British Army version said. ‘Sooner, the better. They have the latest Canadian teletherapy machine. But first, an X-ray’s required to identify the spread.’ He spoke as if the spread was certain. ‘However,’ the drug addict intervened to add, ‘whatever the diagnosis, I still ask you, bugger, lead your life normally. Remember, every man has to die one day. ’
Ernst knew he would die one day. Just, not one day soon. Which is where maya comes in. Why it’s such a necessary illusion. But the curtain before his eyes was rent now. He felt trapped by a growing terror and became short of breath.
‘Don’t quote me,’ Waller said, ‘but late cases sometimes outlive the early ones, simply because they escape invasive procedures.’
‘Did exposure to sun cause this?’
The British Army Waller was back again, and categorical. Nothing just appeared out of nowhere. Cause-effect principle. Excessive exposure to the sun, smoking and now, they say, even the human sperm when it enters the female cervix.
‘We can eliminate that last one though in your case, what?’ the half-baked dingo said with his crazed smile.
‘Anyway, no time to lose.’ The British Army surgeon was back. Chop-chop. ‘Off to Tata Memorial with you. Let’s not delay the appointment.’
‘How worried should I be?’
‘Relax, bugger. They have this Canadian Theratron Junior over there. It can cure anything.’
‘Even cancer?’
‘Ha ha. That’s the spirit. Humour’s key. But faith too, you bugger. Times like this, keeping faith is what matters.’
Ernst wanted to reach across and strangle the man who, seconds ago, advocated against invasive procedures and now wanted to blitz him with radiation, based on faith. What he needed, was a second opinion. Sassoon would find him the right doctor at Breach Candy once he got past Salim Ali. The Seth would get him into Bombay Hospital, once again if only Salim Ali weren’t blocking the way.
Alternatively, he could surprise himself by taking charge. Stop looking for handouts; go get admitted to the Jüdische Krankenhaus. Like him, Berlin’s Jewish hospital had survived. Unlike him, it had flourished. He should make a trunk call. He was still German. Still a Jew. See how the Jüdische Krankenhaus protected Bombay Ingrid after she returned. Maybe it would hold back cancer the same way it kept
the Nazis at bay. Then there was the matter of an air ticket. That admittedly, would need one more handout .
He felt a shortness of breath, and sat on the bench outside Waller’s office. Behind her desk, the Mallu nurse was a tight, little package and he didn’t care. That Waller though, was something else. So was one’s life—going, going, gone, and nothing to show for it. This feeling of emptiness stemmed more from time wasted, than over what little remained. He had done nothing with his life, and now there was nothing left to do. Someone touched his shoulder—Salim Ali, with his best, disinterested expression.
‘Do you need me to assist you?’
‘Why?’
‘You should look at yourself. Does he actually have snakes on the floor?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. What was the diagnosis? Nothing to worry about?’
‘He confirmed it’s cancer.’
Salim Ali curled his lip. He looked disappointed.
‘We’ll fight this. If not here, then Moscow. I can arrange it. Socialist medicine is the answer.’
They walked out to the one-eyed Fiat.
‘Fuck Moscow,’ Salim Ali said. ‘Don’t listen to me. You have to get to West Germany.’
An impressive a volte-face as any. It struck Ernst that the panicking Salim Ali was too young to have people dying around him. Arjun gone, Tufan going, and now this—the last straw.
During the ride home, Ernst paused to ponder the diagnosis. First you fail, then you die. For once, he empathised with Salim Ali and found himself in agreement. This was the last straw.
24
The Last Straw
Black as night,
Her tongue is red,
Demon blood is what’s been shed.
When she’s a frightful sight,
Means all right,
When she’s smiling though,
It means you’re dead.
—On Goddess Bhairavi
‘Goddess Bhairavi, Shiva’s daughter, is the sixth Mahavidhya or great teacher,’ says Andhi Ma.
‘But you already know that,’ she says, ‘unless you’re a bigger fool than I thought. More importantly, seen her recently? No longer ugly as sin, is she? Even those teeth look good. Well, please don’t shit your pants, but your time’s up.’
First and foremost: even while speaking to no one in particular, the crazy, blind woman outside the Krishna Temple has an Assamese, Convent-School accent. She sounds like the dead Arjun’s mother, Tobi Basar. Other than that, there’s nothing in common with the Oriental Butterfly.
Second: Who is she going on about? Which Goddess Bhairavi? Shiva’s daughter, or the one from Sindhi Camp?
‘What difference does it make?’ she asks in that Assamese Convent English. ‘When time’s up, it’s up. ’
Third: if this was a dream, how does he know to call her Blind Mother, or, Andhi Ma?
Maybe, because it is a dream.
His panic comes in waves cresting above chest level while Andhi Ma sits it out beyond the surf. He takes deep breaths, does his ‘Oms’, tries to focus and tell himself he is there for a purpose. When one has Waller as his doctor, going to a blind mendicant for a second opinion actually makes sense. Besides, it’s no one’s business what he does in his dreams. Her legs are crossed and feet sticking out from her unwashed, saffron, kaftan-type sackcloth she has on, day and night. He cherishes his foot fetish like nothing else, and would never place himself near ones as dirty as these. Let alone hold them with both hands to press against his head in supplication, Hindu-style.
She looks pleased to death when he does that.
‘I’m scared, Maaji.’
‘Think I can’t see that?’
But you can’t. He feels an idiot. In a way, good she’s blind. Her crusted braids are alive with lice and it’s impossible to maintain eye contact. She appears philosophical. He tries not to stare at her caked feet but it’s either that, or the lice.
‘Stop staring. What’s this nonsense about last straws? Tell me how you feel.’
‘Relieved because I’m with you.’
‘You’re relieved because the uncertainty’s over.’
‘How do I fight this cancer?’
‘Why? What’s it ever done to you?’
That deserves a pause.
‘You’re a tantric acolyte. A Sahajiya.’
Pause.
Then, ‘Really? You think I wouldn’t know? Being Sahajiya, shouldn’t you be displaying more sense? I mean, what’s the big deal? Whatever’s happening inside you is helping you prepare, getting you ready for when time’s right. But your type either wants to fight it, or surrender. Looks like it’s only bookish knowledge, your tantric studies.’
It’s supposed to be, he wants to tell her. This is India. No need to practise what’s preached .
‘Or maybe, you are Sahajiya just for the tantric fun and games? You know…’ Andhi Ma winks. What he feels seeing her nictitate, Ernst wouldn’t wish on anyone.
‘When’s the time right, Maaji?’
She doesn’t bite his head off. Instead, ‘How should I know? Your body will tell you,’ she says, looking up, distracted. ‘That glare, can you see it?’
He tries not to look stumped, not to follow her finger tracing past Sindhi Camp with its frightened Nissen huts and towards Trombay Hill hiding India’s nuclear reactors from view—a permanent backdrop looming large. He struggles dealing with her not just being blind, but stoned.
‘Treat it like a friend, your illness,’ she advises, now back on track. ‘You may see it as evil; I see it being considerate. Spreading painlessly, until it is time.’
Painlessly?
‘Yes, painlessly. Do you know how long it’s been inside you without causing any problems? What has it done that you want to tear at it? A mole appearing? Some weight loss? Irregular bowels? We call that ageing.’
‘They say I have to begin radiation.’
‘Why? Not getting enough already?’ She points at the air at absolutely nothing. ‘Look at all that light. What do you think that is? Eat almonds instead,’ she says. ‘Bitter almonds are better than X-rays. And recite your Bija Mantra every morning. Not just for time-pass, the way you recite it now. Outrageous. A total waste of time, just so you know. Who taught you?’
He touches her feet once more, and offers his namastes. Time to get away from this, and that, and all the other clutter in his life.
‘Maybe you’re taking death too personally,’ she suggests.
He pretends he didn’t hear that gem.
‘Your local is rushing towards VT,’ she explains, meaning Victoria Terminus, the big, paan-stained and urine-smelling but otherwise exquisite Indo-Saracen, Victorian, Neo-Gothic railway terminal the British built where Mumbai ends and Bombay begins. He has taken a local from Chembur Station to VT a couple of times on the Harbour Line .
‘What do you remember from your rides? Tell me about the sights and smells. I’ve never been on one.’
You don’t want to. Passengers overflow from each compartment, and from the roof of every moving train at all times, every day. Overhead you have power lines, killing those on the roof when they stretch up. The compartments have no doors, killing those inside when they lean out. Of course, no air-conditioning either. With a wide-open entrance on either side, the cross-ventilation brings in smells from people squatting alongside the tracks, trousers down, saris up, faces averted, taking a dump. There you have it—sights and smells.
‘Your train’s heading to the terminus,’ she says. ‘Soon, your time will be up, and all you want to take away are sights and smells of people shitting?’
There’s a riposte waiting at the tip of his tongue but he can’t find it. She plays along, not saying anything either. He looks at her. She looks in the air.
He remembers his first ride on the Harbour Line local. He had purchased a First-Class ticket that should have come with a printed warning: Oye Bhenchod, First Class means shit.
That ride established what every commuter knew�
��there was nothing about abject poverty a train ride through Bombay couldn’t trump with something worse. Cutting through the world’s largest slum, it was as if seeing India for the first time. All of Bombay wasn’t one, big, festering slum just because that’s all you saw from a local. But most of it was. He had covered his nose with a handkerchief, and hell with whoever got offended.
Then they rolled into Masjid, one stop before VT.
Masjid is Bombay’s wholesale spice market. No more smells of shit and urine. Instead, cloves, cardamom, nutmeg and black pepper filled the air. Hitting Masjid, he was transported to his classroom in Berlin where his homosexual class teacher would read him the names of these spices out aloud. After coming to India, the sight or smell of any of them would whisk him back to the Berlin classroom; he alone with the teacher behind closed doors, but that was another story.
‘Stick with the analogy,’ Andhi Ma says. ‘You’re at Masjid now and the shitty, smelly portion of your life is over. Enjoy the smell of spices because the next stop is final. You are lucky to be where you are. It’s like approaching the Place of the Hidden Moon. I envy you.’
She means that place in your head, inaccessible even to you. Where the perfect union takes place every second of every day, with Lord Krishna loving a Radha who’s married to another and therefore unattainable. That way, the Lord teaches us to reach for the impossible. There is purity in an asymptotic trajectory—getting closer to, but never touching the curve of the Hidden Moon. One is unable to cross the horizon to get to where they aspire to be, but so what? Getting as close as possible is what matters—the journey is everything. It takes three minutes from Masjid to VT. Sticking with her analogy means he has three minutes’ equivalent of life left. That was meant to be comforting? She senses his panic at being caught between a rock and a crazy place. It irritates her.
‘We are talking about three whole Technicolour minutes. Who asked you to perform tantric rituals if you want to live in black-and-white and die in bed?’
He tries protesting once more. This is India. All theory.