“Just give them a decent bakshis and let them go,” said Jal. “They haven’t delivered a sack of wheat, it’s Pappa they rescued from a ditch.”
She disagreed; what difference did it make, in terms of labour, whether they were lifting Pappa or a gunny of rice or furniture? Load and distance were the main thing. “And just because Pappa is hurt doesn’t mean money grows on trees.”
She had a better idea: the ghatis could carry Pappa across the road to Dr. Fitter’s house. “Remember how obliging he was for Mamma? He took care of death certificates and everything, from beginning to end. I’m sure he’ll help us with Pappa.”
“You’re not thinking straight, Coomy. That was more than thirty years ago. Dr. Fitter is an old man now, he has closed his practice.”
“Retirement doesn’t mean his medical knowledge evaporates from his head. He could at least tell us how serious it is, whether to go to hospital.”
They argued back and forth till Jal said the men should wait while he went to inquire. If Dr. Fitter was willing, he could just as easily examine Pappa here, not put him through the agony of being manhandled across the road.
The doctor didn’t recognize Jal, and seemed annoyed at being disturbed at dinnertime. But when Nariman Vakeel’s name was mentioned, he remembered the long-ago incident at once, and asked him to step inside.
“How can I forget such a tragedy?” He hesitated. “So unfortunate for you and your two poor little sisters …”
“It’s Pappa,” interrupted Jal, “he’s hurt his ankle,” and elaborated on the circumstances.
“Whenever your father leaves in the evening, I watch him from my window. He suffers from Parkinson’s, doesn’t he?”
Jal nodded.
“Hmmph,” the doctor grunted. “I could tell from the way he takes his steps.” He paused, becoming angry. “You people have no sense, letting a man of his age, in his condition, go out alone? Of course he’ll fall and hurt himself.”
“We told Pappa, but he just won’t listen, he says he enjoys his walks.”
“So one of you cannot go with him? To hold his hand, support him?” He glared reproachfully, and Jal, unable to meet the accusing eye, stared at the doctor’s slippers. “Now the damage is done, what do you want me to do?”
“If you could please take a look,” pleaded Jal, “see if it’s broken …”
“A look? Who do you think I am, Superman? I didn’t have X-ray vision in my youth, and I certainly don’t have it now.”
“Yes, Doctor, but if you could just —”
“Just-bust nothing! Don’t waste time, take him to hospital right away! Poor fellow must be in pain. Go!” And he pointed to the door, out of which Jal hurried, glad to get away.
Dr. Fitter secured the latch and went to grumble to Mrs. Fitter in the kitchen that Parsi men of today were useless, dithering idiots, the race had deteriorated. “When you think of our forefathers, the industrialists and shipbuilders who established the foundation of modern India, the philanthropists who gave us our hospitals and schools and libraries and baags, what lustre they brought to our community and the nation. And this incompetent fellow cannot look after his father. Can’t make a simple decision about taking him to hospital for an X-ray.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Fitter impatiently. “Now tell me, Shapurji, do you want your egg on the kheema or on the side?”
“On the side. Is it any wonder they predict nothing but doom and gloom for the community? Demographics show we’ll be extinct in fifty years. Maybe it’s the best thing. What’s the use of having spineless weaklings walking around, Parsi in name only.”
He kept complaining, pacing between kitchen and dining room, till Mrs. Fitter told him to sit. She brought the dinner to the table and served him a generous helping. The aroma of her masala mince, and the egg beaming with its round yellow eye, cheered him up at once.
“Whatever’s going to happen will happen,” he said after chewing and swallowing his first morsel. “In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry. Absolutely delicious kheema, Tehmi.”
Dr. Fitter’s lack of cooperation outraged Coomy, and she was not convinced by the sense of urgency Jal carried back with him. “If it’s that serious, why didn’t he come to help? Before we rush to hospital we should call Pappa’s regular doctor.”
“But even Tarapore will need an X-ray. We’ll end up paying for his visit here, and then again in hospital.”
Eventually, they agreed to go to Parsi General. The two men put Nariman, who was semi-conscious again, in the back seat of a taxi, and she rode in front with the driver. Whenever the wheels hit a bump in the road or went through a pothole, Nariman groaned in pain.
“Nearly there, Pappa,” said Coomy, reaching over her seat to take his hand.
His fingers clutched hers like a frightened child’s. She almost snatched her hand back, but the impulse passed, and she left her hand in his. After a moment, she gave his fingers a comforting squeeze. Through the rear window she could see the second taxi in which Jal was following with the ghatis.
The X-rays were studied and Dr. Tarapore consulted with a specialist, for the fracture was complicated by osteoporosis and Parkinsonism. Surgery was ruled out. Nariman’s left leg was encased in plaster of Paris from his thigh down to his toes.
The assistant who performed the task wore glasses that speckled with white dots as he proceeded. He kept up a constant stream of chatter, hoping to distract the old man from his pain. “How did this misfortune happen, sir?”
“I slipped into a trench.”
“You are having difficulty with your bifocals, I think?”
“My spectacles can’t be blamed. There was no barrier around the trench.”
“That is so shameful.” The assistant, whose name was Rangarajan, paused to check the consistency of the plaster in its receptacle. “Yes, pavements have become a serious peril. Every few feet, dangerous obstacles are threatening life and limb of the citizenry.”
Nariman thought the chap would get on well with Jal and Coomy, he shared their phobia of pavements.
Then Mr. Rangarajan chuckled, “With so much daily practice, we could all become gold medallists in the obstacle race, we Bombayites. Or should I say, Mumbaikars.”
He lowered his voice, but only half-jokingly, “These days you never can tell who might be a Shiv Sena fanatic, or a member of their Name Police. It is my understanding that some Shiv Sainiks have infiltrated the GPO, subjecting innocent letters and postcards to incineration if the address reads Bombay instead of Mumbai.”
He started to layer the paste, wetting it as necessary to ensure gradual induration. “May I please inquire about something, Professor Vakeel?”
Nariman nodded. He was enjoying the touch of archaism in the educated South Indian’s diction, and grateful for his garrulity.
Mr. Rangarajan asked if he had any friends or colleagues in foreign countries who might help him find a job, because he was trying to emigrate. He had sent applications to several countries including U.S.A., Canada, Australia, England, New Zealand. “Even Russia. Although after the collapse of the Soviet Union, welcome for Indians is not as warm as before. In the old days there was love between us – how many Russian boy-babies were named Jawahar, girl-babies named Indira. Nowadays, I don’t think any Russians are naming their children Narasimha or Atal Behari.”
“Nowadays,” said Nariman, “they probably name their children Pepsi or Wrangler.”
Mr. Rangarajan laughed and wiped up a stray dab of plaster. “The age when great leaders flowered among us is gone. We have a terrible drought.”
“The problem is worldwide,” said Nariman. “Look at U.S.A., U.K., Canada – they all have nincompoops for leaders.”
“Nincompoops,” repeated Mr. Rangarajan. “That is too good, Professor Vakeel, I must remember the word. But it’s more tragic for us, in my opinion. This five-thousand-year-old civilization, nine hundred million people, cannot produce one great leader? How much we need a Mahatma these days.”
Mr. Rangarajan giggled endearingly, scraping the bottom of the plaster container. He returned to the topic that had engendered this digression. “I used to work in a Kuwaiti hospital. But after Gulf War everyone was kicked out. George Bush killed the Iraqis, and killed our jobs. Now my main objective is to go somewhere else for better prospects. And U.S. is best.”
And what about his soul’s prospects, thought Nariman. Would they improve in a foreign land?
When Mr. Rangarajan finished, his hands and arms and apron were as white as a pastry chef’s. Nariman was wheeled away on a gurney to his bed in the male ward.
Later in the day, the doctor came to see him again.
“How are you feeling, Professor Vakeel?” he asked, taking his pulse as he spoke.
“My wrist is fine. The problem is in my ankle.”
Dr. Tarapore smiled with pleasure, the vintage Vakeel sarcasm was undiminished even in pain. And that was a good sign. The doctor, who was in his early forties, had been Nariman Vakeel’s student long before the latter became his patient. Compulsory English courses that science students were force-fed during their first two years at college had brought them together.
But seeing Professor Vakeel in the stark hospital surroundings last night had left him unsettled. Running through his mind this morning was a welter of feelings – nostalgia, sorrow, regret for lost time, lost opportunities – and he was unable to understand the pathology of these human phenomena.
Also running relentlessly through the successful doctor’s mind were lines from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” And the confused man of medicine gave vent to the poem that Nariman used to teach the science students: “ ‘It is an ancient Mariner, / And he stoppeth one of three. / By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, / Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?’ ”
Nariman frowned. He noticed for the first time that Tarapore’s longish hair was unusual for a doctor – on an advertising executive it would have been normal, he felt.
The wardboy went past, distracting them with the rattling trolley that he pushed among the beds. He was a young man who did his work in a dynamic manner. The washed urinals were placed under the beds with a forcefulness that declared his urge to establish order. His counterpart in the female ward was not called wardgirl or wardmaid, but ayah. Ayah, looking after children, thought Nariman. That’s what the old and the sick were in this place.
Dr. Tarapore finished taking the pulse and made a note in his chart before continuing the poem, “ ‘He holds him with his skinny hand—’ ”
“Excuse me, Doctor. Why are you reciting Coleridge? Your prognosis about my fracture would be infinitely more welcome.”
Dr. Tarapore grinned like a schoolboy. “For some reason I was thinking of your class, sir, in college. I loved your lectures, I still remember the ‘Ancient Mariner,’ and ‘Christabel.’ And all the stories of E. M. Forster that we studied from The Celestial Omnibus.”
“Stop bluffing. I have Parkinson’s, not Alzheimer’s, I remember those classes too: the room packed with a hundred and fifty science rowdies, hooting and whistling, wallowing in their puerile antics to impress the ten girls in the class.”
Dr. Tarapore blushed. “That was the university’s fault – not counting English marks for the final average, only attendance. The fellows didn’t care. But I promise you, sir, I never took part in that hooliganism.”
Nariman raised one eyebrow, and his ex-student modified the disavowal: “Maybe I whistled once or twice. Without enthusiasm.”
He was silent after his confession, feeling he was gushing. He went on with his work, putting the stethoscope to his ears, making notes in Nariman’s file, taking the blood pressure. But what he really wanted from his old professor were some words of wisdom about life.
He tried again. “Sir, the Ancient Mariner’ has brought back the happiest years of my life, my years in college.” He paused, added, “My youth,” and immediately regretted it.
Doctor has a sensitive conscience, thought Nariman. Over a quarter-century and still feeling guilty for misbehaving in class. Or was this chit-chat part of his bedside manner?
He decided to abjure his cynicism. “What year were you in my class?”
“In First Year Science – in 1969.”
“So you are in your forties now.”
Dr. Tarapore nodded.
“And you dare speak about youth as though you’d lost it?”
“Actually, sir,” said Dr. Tarapore, “I do feel old when I —”
“Hah. And how do you think I feel when former students talk to me about their youth? ‘Let the dead Past bury its dead,’ ” he said to close the topic.
“ ‘Act – act in the living Present!’ ” completed Dr. Tarapore, and awaited kudos for recognizing the quote.
“Excellent. So let us follow Longfellow’s advice. Tell me when you will return my ankle to me.”
Sufficiently inspired, the student strapped on the years he had shed. Dr. Tarapore was restored to the bedside, tapping on the hard, white plaster of Paris carapace and pronouncing, “The cast is sound.”
His action seemed frivolous to Nariman. “Of course it’s sound – there’s enough cement here to resurface my flat. Your plasterer got carried away.”
Dr. Tarapore laughed. “The tarsus is one of the most troublesome group of bones, especially at your age. We must give it sufficient support, shield the metatarsus, immobilize the leg. We have to be extra careful because of Parkinsonism. We’ll take another X-ray in four weeks, but you can probably be discharged tomorrow.”
He shook hands and left to speak with Jal and Coomy in the corridor, to give instructions about Nariman’s care.
During the two days at Parsi General, Jal gave up his daily session at the share bazaar to spend the hours with his stepfather. Coomy too stayed the entire day at the hospital. Nariman was touched, and urged them to go home, relax, there was very little they could do here.
“It’s okay, Pappa, we’ll keep you company.”
He asked if Roxana and Yezad had been informed.
“We decided not to worry them right now,” said Coomy.
Then, to amuse him, they related Edul Munshi’s visit to their flat, who had overheard someone in the building talking about the accident. The only words he had caught were “Nariman Vakeel” and “broken,” but that was enough to make him hurry over with his tool box, offering his services.
“Wait till you hear what Coomy told him!”
“ ‘Sure, Edul,’ I said, ‘we’ll be very grateful for the repair. Only thing is, you have to go to Parsi General.’ He was puzzled: ‘Why Parsi General?’ ‘Because Pappa is there,’ I said. ‘So?’ he asked. ‘The broken item is Pappa’s ankle,’ I said.”
“You should have seen his face, Pappa,” said Jal.
“I had no idea he was that desperate,” chuckled Nariman.
His dinner arrived, and they helped him with the tray, sharing his custard because he didn’t want any and it seemed a shame to waste good food. They put the tray outside for collection and said good night.
He did not mind being alone. The wardboy on the night shift was an older man, much older than the dynamic day fellow. Early sixties at least, thought Nariman, and wondered if his shaking hands were also due to Parkinson’s, or something else. He made up for the imperfection of his hands with the perfection of his smile. A smile of enlightenment, thought Nariman, so like Voltaire’s in old age, in the portrait that graced the frontispiece in his copy of Candide.
And how did one acquire such enlightenment, he wondered, here, in a grim ward, collecting faeces and urine from the beds of the lame and the halt and the diseased? Or were these the necessary conditions? For learning that young or old, rich or poor, we all stank at the other end?
Nariman wanted to draw him into conversation, but hesitated each time he came by. The aging wardboy asked him how he was feeling, did he need anything, were the pillows comforta
ble.
Then he smiled – and Nariman felt as though they had just concluded a long and heartfelt exchange of ideas.
Next day Mr. Rangarajan returned to inspect his handiwork. For the most part, the cast had set uniformly, without weaknesses. But there were two places where he wanted to apply more plaster. “Better to be on the safe side than the sorry side.”
Concerned about Nariman’s haggard appearance, he tried to regale his patient with more stories and anecdotes from his working life. “This is a really good hospital, Professor Vakeel, a five-star hotel compared to some. After my unforeseen departure from Kuwait, I came back to our motherland and got a job at a government hospital in Indore. What a truly dreadful place. Rats running everywhere, and nobody getting upset about it.”
“Must have been just before the plague outbreak.”
“Oh yes. Two terrible things happened while I was there. One patient’s toes were chewed up. Then, a newborn was eaten by rats – partially, but fatally.”
Nariman shook his head.
“And rats were not the only problem,” continued Mr. Rangarajan. “There was one man with his leg in a full cast, even bigger than yours. He was complaining that the leg was burning, driving him crazy. All day like a madman he was screaming, begging for help. The doctors thought he was being fussy. Finally, he couldn’t bear it any more and jumped out of the window. When they removed the cast from his corpse, they found his flesh raw, crawling with bedbugs.”
Nariman shuddered. He was glad Mr. Rangarajan had finished his work and was packing up his implements.
Dr. Tarapore saw Nariman once more, on the eve of his discharge. This time he did not recite any poetry, but had another word with Jal and Coomy, reiterating the do’s and don’t’s: “Please see that my dear professor gives his ankle complete rest – not an ounce of weight for four weeks.”
“Yes, doctor, we’ll make sure,” said Coomy. “Pappa will be good now, I think he has learnt his lesson. Haven’t you, Pappa?”
Nariman would not dignify her question with an answer. Dr. Tarapore said with a smile that silence was consent.
Family Matters Page 6