It started with an upset stomach. He thought it would go in a day or two. It persisted. He tried to control it by taking Isabgol which is said to both relieve constipation and control diarrhoea. This did not help him, so he took recourse to allopathy. The diarrhoea stopped, but only for a few days. Once again he had to rush to the loo six or seven times a day. He began losing weight rapidly. He thought he had eaten something which had disagreed with his stomach, or perhaps got some bug in his intestines. He persevered with allopathy, and after almost a fortnight, it seemed that he had got rid of whatever he had inside him; his evacuations became normal.
The relief was brief. The bout of diarrhoea was followed by fever. Because he had never had fever before, he did not even have a thermometer in the house to find out how high his temperature was. It was Vimla Sharma who remarked one morning in office: ‘Mr Kumar, you don’t look well. Your face is flushed.’ She took the liberty of putting the palm of her hand on his forehead. ‘It feels hot, you must have high fever. Shall I send for a doctor?’ He shook his head, replied, ‘No, send for a thermometer.’ She went to a chemist in Nehru Place and got a thermometer. She washed it under a tap, shook it vigorously, examined the mercury level and inserted it in his mouth. She kept her eyes on her wristwatch and after two minutes plucked it out of his mouth. ‘Hundred and two point five,’ she pronounced gravely. ‘You should be in bed and not in office. You should send for a doctor at once.’
He took her advice and went home. He took a couple of aspirins which he kept to get over hangovers, had two hot cups of tea and lay down in bed. He sweated profusely. The fever came down to normal. He took his quota of Scotch but did not like the taste. He had tomato soup and baked beans on toast. The food tasted flat. His servants looked worried: ‘Sahib, you are not well,’ said the cook. ‘One of us will stay in the bungalow to be near you if you need us at night. We can’t leave you alone in this state.’ Mohan nodded his head.
He took two more aspirins before going to bed. He thought they would induce sound sleep and rid him of the fever. The fever went, a cough came on—a dry, racking cough which pained his abdomen. In the morning the fever was back. He took his own temperature. It was 100 and he knew it would probably go up as the day proceeded. It did.
The ever-caring, almost maternal Vimla Sharma turned up at eleven to see how he was doing. She put her hand on his forehead and declared: ‘You still have high fever.’ She took his temperature. ‘Hundred and two point five. The same as yesterday. Mr Kumar, if you don’t send for a doctor, I will,’ she said in a tone of authority.
‘I don’t know any doctor. I’ve never needed one. How’s work going at the office?’
‘You get the office out of your mind, Mr Kumar. I can look after it, I only need to get your signatures on letters and salary cheques. If you don’t know any doctor I suggest you send for Dr Malhotra. He’s a young man who had a large practice in Washington. He’s shifted to Delhi and set up a very fancy hospital, latest gadgets and a highly qualified staff of doctors. Try him. Your shouldn’t put this off.’
‘Get him on the phone.’
Vimla consulted the telephone directory and after a while got Malhotra on the line. Kumar asked him if he visited patients in their homes. ‘Not normally,’ he replied. ‘I like to see them in my clinic where we can put them through different tests. But if you are too unwell to come, I’ll certainly come over to see you. I can make it anytime after six this evening when I’ve finished my game of golf.’
‘Are you a member of the Golf Club, then? So am I. I don’t play much, but we must have seen each other in the bar.’ Mohan thought this would establish his credentials, that he was no ‘aira-ghaira’ but belonged to the elite of Delhi society. Dr Malhotra agreed to drop in around half past six. Vimla asked him if she could be present. ‘Sure! if you want to know all the dirty details of my insides.’
Vimla was back at six. Dr Malhotra arrived half-an-hour late and was escorted up by her. ‘I’m Mr Kumar’s secretary,’ she introduced herself. ‘Mrs Kumar is living with her parents, and he has no one to look after him except his two servants and his driver.’
The doctor was a dapper young man who spoke English with an American accent. To impress him further Kumar told him he was a Princetonian and had taught classes in Georgetown University. ‘You must have been a baby then,’ he said to compliment the doctor on his youthfulness.
‘But you look younger than you are, if that is true,’ replied the doctor, drawing up a chair beside Mohan’s bed. ‘Now let’s see your medical history.’
‘Blank,’ said Mohan. ‘Never been ill before in my life. Just last month I began to have loose motions, then this fever and now a dry cough.’
The doctor took Kumar’s temperature, felt his pulse, went over his chest with his stethoscope. He tapped his abdomen and groin, examined his tongue and eyes. ‘I think, Mr Kumar, I’d like to put you through a thorough check up in my clinic. It will take the best part of the morning. We’ll get a complete picture of what’s wrong with you. When can you come? If you like I can send my ambulance to fetch you.’
‘I can still walk straight,’ Mohan replied with a wan smile. ‘I’ll come in my own car. Tomorrow morning at nine.’
‘Nine will be fine. I’ll be waiting for you.’
As he put out his hand to say goodbye, Mohan asked, ‘Doctor, what about your fees?’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll send you a consolidated bill after I’ve done all the tests. See you tomorrow. Keep smiling.’
Vimla Sharma saw the doctor off in his car. She came back to say goodnight. Once more she put her palm on his forehead, then kissed it and said, ‘Get well soon.’ She turned to his two servants and Jiwan Ram. ‘You look after the sahib. He’s worth his weight in gold.’
Jiwan Ram replied on behalf of all three. ‘He’s our mai-baap (father and mother), memsahib, our anna-daata (provider). May God take years off our lives to prolong his!’
Kumar was very touched.
Next morning all his three servants accompanied him to Dr Malhotra’s clinic-cum-hospital. They were told to stay outside. Kumar was taken over by the clinic doctors and the nursing staff. First, a long form to fill about his age, parentage, marital status, children and ailments he had suffered from in the past. In the last column he wrote, ‘None till about two months ago.’ They put him through a succession of tests carried out by specialists: his eyes, ears, nose and mouth were examined. His muscular responses were tested and noted down. Then they did a CAT scan of his skull followed by blood and urine tests, an electrocardiogram, and a few other routine tests. The procedure took over two hours. Finally he had a cup of coffee with Dr Malhotra. ‘So far we haven’t found anything wrong with you. But we’ll have to get results of the blood and urine tests before we can be certain. That may take a day or two. Meanwhile keep your fever under control—aspirins and sponging with ice-cold water.’
The doctor saw him off to his car. ‘I’ll get back to you in a day or two. Not to worry too much.’
Three days later the doctor rang him up. ‘I’ll come over in the evening to see you. Perhaps over a drink. I’d like to talk to you alone.’
He came after his evening round of golf. He had a sizeable dossier in his hand. He sat down in an armchair. Mohan was in his dressing gown. The fever had not left him. Nor the cough. In addition he felt a constant itch all over his body and scratched himself incessantly. The doctor poured a drink for himself and gave one to his patient. He came to the point at once. ‘All the tests are clear, Mr Kumar, except the blood. I’ll need to take another sample to make sure. You’ve had a busy sex life, haven’t you?’
‘Nothing to complain of,’ Mohan replied, ‘lots of girls in Princeton, married and unmarried. A few here.’
‘Did you use condoms all the time?’
‘No, most of them were on the pill. I did use them after I got married and had a son. I continued till we wanted a second child.’
‘I gather your marriage broke down some
years ago. Did you have affairs with other women?’
‘A few,’ replied Mohan honestly. ‘Some on a quasi-permanent basis. If they were not on the pill, I used condoms. One had nasbandi, so I did not have to use anything.’
‘Did you indulge in anal intercourse with any of them?’
‘Never. It was always straight sex. I don’t fancy buggery.’
‘Any oral sex?’
‘Only when I didn’t get an erection and the woman wanted it a second time. I let her rouse me by taking it in her mouth for a minute or two. The idea of a blow job nauseates me. But why are you asking me all this—not that I mind talking about it.’
‘It’s important, Mr Kumar, that I know this. When did you last have sex?’
‘More than six months ago in a Bombay hotel.’
‘Did you know the woman? Did you use a condom?’
‘I don’t know who she was; she refused to tell me her name. The room bearer brought her—through a pimp, no doubt. I had to pay her handsomely. I didn’t have any condoms because I wasn’t expecting sex till the urge overcame me. Anyway, she looked clean and healthy. Doctor, what are you driving at? Have I contracted some venereal disease, syphilis or gonorrhoea?’
‘Both are easily curable these days. I’ll be blunt, Mr Kumar. Your blood test shows you are HIV positive. As I said, I’ll take another sample to make sure.’
Mohan’s heart sank. ‘There’s no cure for HIV, I’m told. How long do I have?’
The doctor patted Mohan’s hand to reassure him. ‘We can control HIV and prevent it growing into full-blown AIDS for many years. You don’t have to worry about longevity. You can have a full span of life—another ten or twenty years. But no more sex. You must not expose others to the disease. And if you must, you should always use condoms. Most of all, don’t brood over it. Your fever will go, your itching will subside. You’ll regain natural health if you keep the virus under control. I’ll help you to do that.’
‘Doctor, everyone will get to know I have AIDS. I’ll be treated as a pariah. How will I face the world! What will my children think of me!’
‘No one need know. So far only I know you are an HIV case—not even my laboratory staff know in whose blood they’ve detected the virus—and I’m under oath not to divulge the ailments of my patients. As long as you don’t open your mouth the secret will remain between us. As I said, don’t worry too much about it. You have to fight it with cheerfulness and hope.’
The doctor left. A pall of gloom enveloped Mohan. There was no one he could turn to for comfort. He had only himself to blame for what had happened to him. But blaming oneself does no one any good. And Mohan hated wallowing in self pity, which only made one more miserable. But the shock was too great. He shut the sitting-room door, fixed himself a Scotch and slumped into his armchair. He undid his flies and pulled out his penis. Limp, it was like a baby python blissfully asleep—silken smooth, without a blemish from head to root. Suddenly Mohan burst out in a stream of expletives—‘You bastard, mother-fucker … you slimy sister-fucker … Look what you’ve done to me, you son- of-a-whore!’ The baby python remained asleep and unblemished. Mohan looked at it awhile. He was reminded of all the pleasure he had known in life, and knew that he only had this little snake to thank for all of it. He felt stupid. He buttoned his flies, poured himself another drink and told himself to be reasonable. That evening he had more than his quota of three drinks, ate little, and went to bed slightly drunk and disoriented.
As the doctor had predicted, the fever left Mohan. He stopped coughing and scratching himself. The second blood test confirmed he was infected with the HIV virus. He had to have regular treatment to keep it under control. Outwardly he looked his normal self; but his insides were being corroded. His servants, staff and friends congratulated him for recovering his health. When they asked him what had gone wrong, he was evasive. ‘Some kind of viral fever. The doctors don’t know much about these fevers. They come and go.’
The prospect of dying a horribly painful death continued to haunt him day and night. He kept awake at nights brooding over it. He told Dr Malhotra. The doctor chided him: ‘You’re an intelligent man, Mr Kumar—you know death comes to everyone. We doctors are there to see that the passage from life to death is not painful. If sleep’s the problem, take a sleeping pill. One Calmpose when you go to bed. If you wake up at night, take another. But not more than two.’
Mohan had never suffered from insomnia. Now he could not go to sleep without the help of a sleeping pill. Sometimes he had to take another at midnight, and felt groggy till mid-morning. He asked Dr Malhotra if he should make a will: by now the doctor had become his closest confidant because he was the only one privy to the secret that Mohan had a time-bomb ticking away inside him. The doctor gave him sane, no-nonsense advice: ‘I think it’s always wise for people in their fifties to make a will if they have property over which there may be disputes. Or if they wish to leave something to people they are beholden to.’
Mohan made his last will and testament after consulting his lawyer over the legal terminology: The first charge on his estate was Rs 50,000 in cash to be given to the people who had served him faithfully—his cook, the bearer, the driver Jiwan Ram and Vimla Sharma. Then there was Ranjit Villa which he had promised to his son—he decided to give the house equally to his son and daughter. They could decide which portion they wanted to have, or they could sell it (it was worth over two crores of rupees) and share the proceeds of the sale. Likewise he left his company to the two children equally. The jewellery which his father had given Sonu was to go to Mohini. His car he left to Jiwan Ram who had served him longer than the other servants. His lawyer took him to the Registrar’s court to have the will registered. A copy was given for safe custody to Dr Malhotra.
Mohan felt a little lighter. He had cleared his debts to everyone to whom he felt he owed something. If only Dr Malhotra could rid him of the dreadful disease he could die an honourable death and spare his children the stigma of having a parent succumb to a sexually related disease.
For nearly two years after Dr Malhotra had pronounced the dreaded verdict, Mohan led a relatively healthy and outwardly normal life. He eschewed sex. It was difficult at first, but gradually he learnt to not let it torture him; he crowded his waking hours with work and harmless socializing with his old friends and at night he slept soundly, often after having taken a sleeping pill, he followed with great interest and greater hope the progress of doctors all over the world as they struggled to find a cure for AIDS. He was careful about his diet, exercised regularly and consulted Dr Malhotra constantly about treatments and medication.
Then, in October that year, the season changed, he caught a chill. It turned into a virulent cold. He could not shake it off. When Dr Malhotra examined him, he detected symptoms of TB in his lungs. He passed the death sentence on Mohan as gently as he could. ‘I’m afraid you have AIDS. I can control its onset with your help but I can’t cure it.’
Mohan tried to take the verdict manfully. For the next week he recited the Gayatri mantra from sunrise to sunset. He started reading the Bhagavad Gita. He had his father’s copy, which he had found at the ashram in Haridwar. Much of what he read in it made sense to him, but the passages on death confused him. ‘There is no death,’ Lord Krishna said. ‘The eternal in man cannot die; it is only a passing from one form to another. Just as a person casts off worn out clothes and dons new ones, so man when he sheds his mortal coil is reborn in some other form.’ The Lord was right in saying, ‘For one that is born, death is certain,’ but there was no proof that Mohan knew of to support Krishna saying, ‘For one who dies, birth is certain.’ Mohan knew it was an attractive idea for a dying man. But he did not understand it. He would soon die, but that he would soon be reborn he could not accept.
Mohan gave up taking sleeping pills and stored them for future use. If sleep did not come to him he recited the Gayatri mantra over and over again till he dozed off. One night he was shaken by a violent bout of coughing.
The phlegm was choking him. He went to the bathroom and spat it into the basin. His phlegm was full of blood. That decided his fate. He went back to bed and lined thirty sleeping pills on his bedside table. For a moment he thought about the implications of his suicide. What would people say? What would they think? He didn’t care, he thought, as long as they didn’t connect his death with AIDS. And they could not, he decided, for only Dr Malhotra knew, and he wouldn’t talk. He thought about his children. What would they make of it all? But perhaps they would be better off without him. Besides, hadn’t he ceased to matter to them already? The image of his father, alone and content by the Ganga in Haridwar came to his mind, and he clung to it as a deep sadness overwhelmed him and tears slid down his face.
Then he resolutely composed himself and took the first Calmpose; as he gulped it down with a sip of water, he recited the Gayatri mantra. He did the same with the second, and the third, till the last: thirty Gayatri mantras with thirty pills. Then he put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
Author’s Note
As a man gets older, his sex instincts travel from his middle to his head. What he wanted to do in his younger days but did not because of nervousness, lack of response or opportunity, he does in his mind.
I started writing this novel when I was eighty-three. I finished it at eighty-five. An equally apt title for it could be: ‘The Fantasies of an Octogenarian.’
No characters in this exposé are real: they are figments of my senile fantasies.
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