Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  I shot up in alarm and glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. 6.15 p.m. I stumbled towards the stairway corridor.

  Shailaja, Nidhi and Jyoti were gathered near an overturned wooden chair in the dining area outside Asha’s room. Nidhi had Sunil at her hip as Jyoti knelt down, attempting to turn a convulsing Asha to her side. It looked as if a demon was trying to shake Asha from within. Pandy stood behind, yowling forlornly. I rushed downstairs. ‘Um, do you need any help?’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do until she settles down,’ Shailaja said.

  Eventually, the interval between each jerk lengthened and Asha stabilised. It was probably no more than two minutes, but it felt like eternity.

  Shailaja jammed some buttons on her mobile phone.

  ‘Just be with her until Nirmal gets back. He’s on his way,’ she told me urgently before disappearing into the sitting room.

  I knelt down and touched Asha for the first time. She was running a high fever.

  ‘She needs to be in bed,’ Jyoti stated decisively.

  Nidhi handed Sunil over to me. Then she and Jyoti helped Asha into her room and laid her gently down on the bed.

  ‘You can take Sunil to the crib upstairs. In case he starts crying while Asha’s asleep …’ Nidhi told Jyoti.

  Returning to the dining area, Jyoti reclaimed Sunil from me and carried him upstairs. Nidhi went into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

  ‘I just spoke to the doc. He suggested a more customised medication scheme to reduce the frequency of those seizures,’ Shailaja informed Nidhi, re-emerging from the sitting room.

  When Nimmy arrived, Pandy bounced over to him and stood on his hind legs, as if seeking some reassurance. Shailaja pocketed her car keys and emerged at the foyer.

  ‘Is Asha feeling better now?’ Nimmy spluttered.

  ‘She’ll be fine. Just be around her. I’m leaving to pick up your father. He isn’t getting buses from Hillingdon. The quickest cab is a one-hour wait,’ his mother said, scurrying out.

  Nimmy hastily flung his suit over the banister and scuttled into Asha’s room.

  ‘How are you feeling, baby?’ he inquired.

  ‘I’m fine, fine,’ Asha said, attempting to sit up. She pointed to herself. ‘See … I’m fine.’

  I was both surprised and touched to see Asha’s efforts to cheer up a man who looked almost broken upon seeing her. Nimmy sat by Asha’s bedside and smoothed her curls.

  ‘You’ll be all right soon, promise,’ he whispered. ‘When you get well, I’ll take you to Brighton beach. Deal?’

  Asha giggled.

  ‘Have a good night’s sleep.’ Nimmy pinched her nose playfully.

  Nidhi streamed in with a bowl of hot lentil soup and a rimmed coaster that held three pills. Jyoti tied a bib around Asha’s neck and started to feed her.

  ‘Good night sleep,’ Asha echoed, rocking back and forth. ‘No, no, no … no sleep! I told Sunny I’ll play with him.’

  ‘Eat your soup now,’ Jyoti said firmly. ‘You’re unwell. You need rest.’

  ‘How you can forget again? Again? I need to give Sunny that milk.’ Asha tried to stand up but Jyoti pushed her down gently and continued feeding her. Some of the food splattered from the spoon as Asha wriggled. ‘Look … Sunny is calling me.’ She began to sound desperate.

  Was Asha hallucinating? I turned to Nimmy. ‘Who’s Sunny?’

  Nimmy didn’t reply. Instead, he held Asha by her shoulders. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he said. ‘You already gave Sunny milk. Sunny is fast asleep now. You mustn’t wake him.’

  Asha stared at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes,’ Nimmy said firmly. ‘You gave him Milo, his favorite milk drink. Then you had a fall. You must sleep if you want to get better. Okay? Now, let’s tuck you in.’ He kissed her forehead. She reluctantly swallowed the last spoonful of her soup.

  Jyoti held a glass of water to Asha’s mouth and fed her the pills. Nimmy retrieved Asha’s favourite teddy bear, Cuddles, and placed it in her arms. Asha was asleep as soon as her head sank into the pillows. ‘I have to get Sunil from upstairs,’ Jyoti mumbled.

  Nimmy signaled for us to leave.

  As I headed up to my room, Jyoti was on her way downstairs, holding her son in her arms and cooing tenderly to him. A tight lump formed in my throat as a distant memory swam to the fore: My own Ma placing an icepack on my forehead, coaxing me to drink a glass of warm herbal juice when I was in bed running a high fever. I was only six then. I swallowed hard. Sometimes, I wondered if I would ever get over losing her.

  I settled into bed. Goosebumps prickled my arms. The temperature around me seemed to have changed. I smiled through my tears, knowing that my mother was there with me right then, comforting me in spirit. I hugged myself, closed my eyes and paid attention to the first thought that flowed into my mind. There it was: London. A new beginning. Meandering through that flash of insight was Asha’s face. The serenity in her eyes haunted me.

  19 September

  Nimmy squinted at a portable navigation device on the dashboard and punched the postcode as we drove to a classic country pub in the quaint West London market town of Beaconsfield that Saturday. The Charlotte Hale talk show was playing live on the radio.

  A woman was describing how a near-fatal crane accident had turned a young man into a musical savant. A string of mellifluous chords and melodies followed on the piano.

  ‘Incredible, huh?’ I marveled.

  ‘Ever heard of the acquired Savant syndrome? Serious head injuries can rewire brain circuitries,’ Nimmy said. ‘It’s rare, but it does happen.’

  ‘I’d love to do such programmes one day. On TV or radio,’ I said.

  ‘You will,’ Nimmy smiled. ‘But you’ll have to do your time. Charlotte Hale became a raging success with this show. It specialises in interviews with savants, prodigies, writers, poets, musicians and business leaders who have unusual stories to tell. I remember reading that she started out as an unpaid research assistant at a creative learning organization.’

  He pulled into the car park. Off to the right, a classic view of the Chiltern hillside welcomed our gaze as we skipped towards the gardens. ‘The Royal Standard of England is the country’s oldest free house. They’ve been serving ale for nearly a thousand years,’ Nimmy explained, gesturing towards a large round wooden table in the centre of a grassy lawn.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t think pubs are just for getting drunk,’ Nimmy chided lightly. ‘At least, not this one. The Royal Standard is a place to sample Grandma’s cooking at its best. Locally sourced.’

  Keen on tasting traditional English cuisine, I nodded eagerly.

  Nimmy ordered a smoked haddock and spinach along with ginger and ale. I chose a fruit punch, and fish and chips. Nimmy’s friends trickled in as we waited for the food and drinks to arrive. Nimmy sprang to his feet and thumped their backs boisterously.

  ‘Sal, it’s great to see you!’ he bellowed. ‘Looking good, Carl! How’ve you been, Ricky boy?’ Nimmy turned to me. ‘Salvador Flores, Carl Wright and Rick Martinez,’ he introduced. ‘Sal detests being called Salvador. So, Sal and Carl …’

  ‘Hey!’ Sal protested, punching Nimmy’s arm jovially. ‘It’s not that I hate being called Salv—’

  ‘Oh, you do. You think it sounds like Labrador!’ Carl interjected.

  Sal was red haired, wiry and bespectacled.

  Carl was a tall and slim lad with a mop of honey-blond hair, parted in the centre, and spiked and gelled to perfection. In a narco-style, silk blend camp shirt and a summer seersucker dress suit, he seemed like a perfunctory investment banker who seemed ready to ditch his job for a life as a cartel kingpin.

  But Rick was the most arresting of all. With his sandy brown hair, deep-set grey eyes and classic Roman nose, he exuded an aura of rugged allure that made him look like a wild hawk and a bashful schoolboy all at once.

  ‘Carl and Sal,’ Nimmy went on, ‘were my classmates at the London Business School. R
ick is a business development manager at Trychlen Technologies. He’s joining LBS next year.’ He turned to his friends. ‘Fellas, this is Sandy.’

  I smiled. Sandy sounded smart and fun. A byname I had agreed to, upon Nimmy’s request.

  ‘A young journalist from Mumbai,’ Nimmy went on. ‘She’s starting her Masters at LSE next month. She’s only nineteen.’

  A bubble of awed oohs and aahs wafted in the air.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ I shook hands with the three men.

  ‘We’ll place our orders. I’m starving,’ Sal informed Nimmy. He disappeared around the corner with Carl and Rick.

  My fish and chips arrived along with Nimmy’s haddock. Grateful that my family hadn’t railed at my decision to recalibrate the practice of Brahmin vegetarianism, I dug a fork into the crisp fish.

  Nimmy’s friends rejoined us at the table a few minutes later.

  ‘Work is a drag. A darned fussy bunch of Muppets have their heads up their arses,’ Carl groaned good-naturedly. He wasn’t a banker after all, but a manager at a full-service management-consulting firm, EuroFirst.

  More food and drink came by. Shepherd’s pie, sautéed potatoes, braised lamb shank, steak and kidney pudding, a bottle of wine and casks of local Chiltern Ale. Carl and Rick dug into their fare enthusiastically. Sal filled up his glass and poured me some wine.

  ‘That’s fine, thanks,’ Nimmy told Sal. ‘Dude, that’s enough!’ he bellowed suddenly as Sal continued filling my glass. ‘A half glass will do for her, Sal. The lady isn’t used to alcohol!’

  ‘Oops!’ Sal muttered. He offered the brimming goblet to Carl and passed me half a glass.

  I fingered the stem of my glass gingerly. ‘Go on, taste it,’ Nimmy told me. ‘It won’t kill you.’

  I bit my lip. Why did Nimmy lose his temper on one hand, when he was persuading me to drink on the other? He sounded so stern that I raised my goblet and took a huge gulp. I broke into a fit of coughs. Nimmy clamped my arm like a vise. ‘Not so fast, Sandy. Wine should be sipped slowly. You’ll get sloshed if you gulp it down like cocoa.’

  I would be attending one of the best universities in the world. And here I was being admonished like a bumbling first-grader in front of strangers for not knowing how to handle my drink.

  An unsettling lull hung in the air.

  I excused myself and raced towards the bar around the corner. Inside, I found a washroom and leaned against the countertop of a vanity table, panting heavily.

  The motivation I had gathered to bring myself to London was the ultimate gift my boyfriend, Saahil, had given me. But his death also made me emotionally vulnerable. And adapting to a new environment was going to be even harder.

  As Saahil’s face swam into my mind, the objects around me blurred and bled into one another in a halo of blinding white light. I sneezed and coughed. I blinked repeatedly to clear the double vision, but it didn’t help. The dazzling white light clouding over the mirror did nothing to assuage my clogging windpipe. I sniffed into my inhaler and closed my eyes.

  A sharp knock on the door gouged the silence of the washroom.

  ‘Sandy, are you okay?’ Nimmy’s voice.

  I sank into a sofa in the vanity room.

  ‘Sandy?’

  I continued sniffing into my inhaler. The door swung open and Nimmy barged in.

  ‘This is a ladies’ room!’ I collapsed into another fit of coughs.

  Nimmy gasped. ‘Whoa! Sandy, you look sick.’

  The frown on his face bore an uncanny resemblance to Saahil’s expression when he was deep in thought. For a crazed instant, I could swear that Saahil’s spirit was somehow reassuring me through Nimmy. The impression on Nimmy’s face dissolved into swift mindfulness almost as soon as it had appeared. I shook my head and blinked. Maybe I was hallucinating.

  ‘I’m dialing triple nine,’ Nimmy informed.

  ‘No … just a wheezing attack …’ I rasped.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

  I let Nimmy take my arm and guide me back to our table.

  ‘Sandy isn’t too well,’ Nimmy told his friends. ‘Carl, can you get her an Earl Grey, please?’

  Carl rose from his seat and headed towards the bar.

  ‘You lot make such a cute couple,’ Sal said.

  It took a while for me to realise that Sal was referring to Nimmy and me.

  I grimaced. ‘I think there’s some confusion. I’m not dating Nimmy. I have … I had a boyfriend. He died in a terror attack in Mumbai, three months ago.’

  I froze. I hadn’t really meant to say that.

  A snort emerged from Rick. I looked at him, startled. Was he laughing at what I had said? He doubled over and coughed hard. I was probably being paranoid.

  A waiter followed Carl back to our table with a pot of tea and a canister of cream.

  ‘Too much smoking,’ Rick explained to everyone. He straightened himself and turned to me. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better.’

  ‘Good God, Sandy. That must be a tough one,’ Sal commiserated.

  ‘She needs to get some rest,’ Nimmy told everyone once I was done with my tea.

  Nimmy squeezed my hand gently as we returned to the car park.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened with your boyfriend,’ he said softly once we were sat in his VW. I gazed at him blankly. His eyes swam in a billow of emotions ranging from raw concern to intense admiration. After a moment of uncertainty, he wrapped his arms around me. A blanket of warmth and comfort stultified the agony of my loneliness for Saahil as I let my head fall against his shoulder. ‘And sincere apologies for my behaviour over there,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Nimmy turned on the ignition. ‘I do have a fine temper,’ he admitted. ‘Uh, you see, Asha got hammered at a family wedding two years ago. They were passing drinks around. Another nurse, who was around at the time, urged Asha to try some alcohol. Asha got buzzed and her behaviour turned embarrassing. So, the nurse slapped her across her face. After that, Asha went missing. A passing police car spotted her passed out on the road and took her to the Charing Cross police station. We picked her up four hours later. The families of the couple that got married were miffed about it.’

  ‘That sounds awful.’

  ‘You and Asha are nearly the same age,’ Nimmy continued. ‘I felt protective towards you when Sal poured you a full drink. But I didn’t want you to feel caged in any way. So, I urged you to try some. When you took that huge gulp, the longing to protect you took over again. It was no sign of disrespect.’

  We pulled into the Sawants’ residence on Capthorne Avenue. I didn’t want to trivialize that incident from Nimmy’s past, but I wondered why it had influenced his behaviour with me so unnervingly.

  6 October

  ‘I’m glad to be your personal tutor this year,’ Dr Eidoriana began from the dais of a tiered meeting room at the London School of Economics’ St Clement’s Building. ‘One of the key questions we will examine this term is how good governance can encourage media producers to pursue journalism in the public interest. By the end of this year, you’ll also need to have a fair idea of what your Master’s thesis is going to be about. The WebCT has archived samples of previous theses, which earned a High Merit or Distinction. Reading some of these will help you understand the general …’

  The classroom door slammed open. A young man in tight black jeans and a leather bomber jacket sauntered in. He yanked his Ray-Ban sunglasses from the top of his head, tugged his earphones away and shook his longish brown mane, like a wet bulldog fanning itself dry.

  What an arrogant prick!

  ‘… the general formats we entertain at LSE,’ Dr Eidoriana finished. Then she turned to the latecomer and made him introduce himself to everyone.

  ‘Ritchie Johari.’ He pronounced his surname as Jourry in a proud baritone, rolling the ‘r’ with a Californian drawl. He gave everyone a tiny wave. ‘I’m a filmmaker from Los Angeles. Testing the waters in the film spa
ce out ’ere.’

  ‘Thank you, Ritchie,’ Dr Eidoriana said. ‘Now,’ she turned back to us. ‘You’ll each have a library PIN with which you can reserve copies online …’

  Before long, the orientation session was over. As we filed out, several students gathered around Dr Eidoriana outside. I patiently waited for the crowd to clear and edged my way forward just as Dr Eidoriana made for the stairs.

  ‘It was a great session, ma’am,’ I said once I was within earshot. ‘I’m really sorry for holding you up. I’ll need just a minute. I’m Sandhya Raman from the Media and Communications Governance programme. I’m on the research track …’

  A snort of laughter came from behind me.

  I whirled around to see Ritchie ‘Arrogant’ Johari skulking around. ‘Whoa! Can’t imagine facing the music of a research-track programme!’ He cried, plastering a hand over his mouth.

  I turned back to Dr Eidoriana. Her eyes darted towards her wristwatch.

  I got nervous. ‘I’d like to know when I could meet you to discuss the thesis proposal development process. I was thinking about …’

  ‘Drop me an email,’ Dr Eidoriana cut in. She was gone before I could respond. I stared after her, disappointed.

  ‘Hey, girl …’ Ritchie called. My jaw dropped when I saw Ritchie raise a brow, lower his eyes and then look back at me to indicate that I was to stand exactly before him.

  Is he really calling out to me like that? He didn’t seem to think others were worth talking to. What was he possibly going to say to me?

  An untraceable expression layered his aquamarine eyes as I approached him.

  ‘You don’t sound that way when you talk to folks here. “Ma’am” and all.’ He sniggered.

  I wondered if I had committed a gaffe of some sort.

  His expression softened. ‘I’m on a loan, too.’

  ‘Huh?’ I spluttered, wondering if he was psychic.

  His arrogant expression was back. ‘Well, now … you don’t look old enough to be here on a scholarship. You must be … twenty-one? Twenty-two?’

  ‘Actually, I’m nineteen,’ I shot back, peeved at his insolence.

  ‘I guess I’m the youngest next to you then. I’m twenty-one. Haven’t met anyone else who could beat either of us. Many of ’em are old enough to run for office.’