by Vikas Swarup
I nod. Perhaps it is the neatest way. Sometimes the big decisions in life have to be left to pure, cold chance.
Neha rummages through her clothes drawer and comes up with an old one rupee-coin, its surface tarnished by time. We gather in the middle of our bedroom, like two duellists about to meet their destiny. Neha shows me both sides, confirming that it is not a trick coin. Then, without further ado, she tosses it up. Though aged and well-worn, the coin catches the sunlight streaming through the open window as it spins in the air. Neha catches it expertly on the downward arc. She slaps it down on the back of her free hand, sheathing it. ‘Our decision is sealed. There will be no second chance, agreed?’ she asks in a shaky voice.
‘Agreed. Heads or tails, it will be God’s decision, not ours. Let’s resolve to honour it.’
Neha nods. ‘I repeat: heads it will be me, tails it will be you.’
‘Now remove your hand.’ I swallow hard. ‘Let’s see our fate.’
Slowly, ever so slowly, like a plot twist being revealed on a soap opera, Neha slides away her hand. Sunlight bathes the coin, and the three lion heads from off our national emblem glint at me.
Neha’s face crumples with shock. A sob catches in her throat at the terrible finality of the verdict. But she regains her poise equally quickly, displaying the same stoic resolve she showed in Mumbai. ‘If it is me, so be it. I will gladly give my kidney to Ma.’
We have finally reached closure, but instead of making me feel better it makes me miserable. I want to hug my sister and tell her, You will do no such thing. I will fulfil my duty as an elder. But what emerges from my throat is a gargled, ‘Sorry! Tough luck!’
We are shortly on our way to the hospital for our rendezvous with Dr Mittal. Today being a weekday, the hospital is less crowded. But it has the same smell of blood and antiseptic that makes me want to puke.
As we step onto the landing on the third floor, a dark, swarthy man accosts us. I recognise him as Tilak Raj, who works as a ward boy at the hospital. His son Raju is part of my Sunday English class.
‘Madam-ji, can I have a word with you?’ he whispers, drawing us into a secluded corner.
‘Yes?’ I say cautiously.
‘I am told your mother needs a new kidney.’
‘That is correct. How did you know?’
‘I overheard Dr Mittal tell the duty nurse. So how are you arranging the kidney?’
‘Neha is donating hers.’
‘Tch, tch.’ He shakes his head. ‘What is this? Such a beautiful girl. You want to kill her future? After donating her kidney she will fade like a wilted flower. Take my advice, don’t take this step.’
‘Then what can we do? We cannot afford permanent dialysis.’
‘There is another way.’ He winks.
‘Tell me!’ Neha almost clutches his arm.
‘You can buy a kidney.’
‘Buy? But that is illegal,’ I remark. ‘The Transplantation Act does not allow it.’
‘Are you going to look at the law or the future of your sister? You want a kidney, I can get you a kidney, and dirt cheap too.’
‘How cheap?’ asks Neha.
‘You will find out when you go to this address.’ He takes out a slip of paper from his top pocket and passes it to me. It gives the contact particulars of a Dr J. K. Nath, a nephrologist working at the Unity Kidney Institute, a private hospital located in Sector 15 of Rohini.
‘Isn’t the hospital owned by our local MLA, Anwar Noorani?’ I ask, recalling the politician with the dyed hair and long sideburns I once encountered in the metro.
‘Exactly.’ Tilak Raj nods. ‘MLA sahib is very helpful. It was he who got me this job here. He’ll help your mother too. His hospital specialises in kidney transplants.’
‘And what about the cost?’
‘Tell Dr Nath I sent you. He will give you a good price.’ Tilak Raj smiles knowingly and slinks silently down the stairs.
‘I didn’t know Tilak Raj was a tout, running an illegal kidney racket,’ I muse aloud as I watch his disappearing back.
‘I don’t care if it’s illegal or not, didi,’ says Neha. ‘I would like to meet Dr Nath.’
‘I think that would be a mistake. We should first discuss with Dr Mittal.’
‘Because it’s my kidney, not yours, isn’t it?’ Neha says with sudden vehemence. In that unguarded moment her mask of bravado slips. She sinks down to the floor and all her pent-up anxiety and frustration comes flooding out in uncontrollable sobs.
I feel a surge of compassion for her, accompanied by a flare of hope. Perhaps a miracle is about to take place. ‘I won’t go to work today,’ I tell Neha. ‘Come, let’s go meet Dr Nath.’
We step out of the hospital and hail an auto-rickshaw for Sector 15. Thirty rupees and fifteen minutes later, we are at the gates of the Unity Kidney Institute.
From outside, the hospital looks like an office building, with an all-glass façade. Inside, it resembles a hotel lobby, all marble and stone, spotlessly clean.
The reception area has the bustling efficiency of a military cantonment. I am surprised to see quite a few foreigners in the registration queue. A smart young receptionist beams at us. ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’
‘We are here to meet Dr J. K. Nath,’ I say.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. Can you get us one?’
Dr Nath sees us after an hour’s wait. He is a bald, diminutive man in his early fifties, with a fleshy, clean-shaven face and yellow teeth. Even though he is in his doctor’s uniform, there is something about him that reminds me of Keemti Lal, that weaselly clerk in the subdivisional magistrate’s office. He gives us a kindly smile, but the hungry glint in his eye betrays him, makes me wary.
‘We were referred to you by Tilak Raj from the government hospital in Sector 17,’ I begin hesitantly.
‘Good.’ He nods. ‘It means you need a kidney. Is it for her?’ He jerks his thumb at Neha.
‘No. It is for our mother. She has ESRD.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. I can arrange a replacement kidney for your mother once I know her blood profile.’
‘From a deceased donor?’
‘No, a living one. This is the great thing about the market economy of the twenty-first century. You can buy a kidney as easily as you can buy a car. It’s all a matter of demand and supply.’
‘But won’t that be illegal? I am told only close relatives can donate their kidney.’
‘You have obviously not read the 1994 Act fully. There is a clause for altruistic donation under which even unrelated persons can donate their kidney provided they feel emotionally attached to the recipient.’
‘But we don’t know anyone like that.’
‘You leave that to me. I’ll find the donor and it will all be perfectly legal. You’ll be surprised to see how quickly emotional attachment can be formed once we bring money into the equation.’
‘So how much are we looking at?’
‘At UKI, we charge a flat rate of six lakhs for a kidney transplant package, all inclusive.’
‘Six lakhs? That’s way beyond our budget.’
He passes a hand over his bald pate. ‘Then you better go somewhere else. Just know that more than a hundred and fifty thousand Indians need a kidney transplant every year, but only three thousand five hundred kidneys are available. That’s why it’s a bit expensive. And we have enough patients, both from India and abroad, who are willing to pay the price. Six lakhs is a steal. It’s less than fifteen thousand dollars. In America you would have to pay more than ten times that for a kidney transplant.’
It is clear that we are dealing with a wheeler-dealer businessman rather than a principled physician. And there is no way we can afford his fancy prices. ‘Let’s go.’ I tug Neha’s arm. ‘It’s pointless wasting any more time here. Dr Mittal must be waiting for us.’
‘No, didi,’ Neha says with a firm shake of the head. ‘Whatever happens, I am not going back to the government ho
spital.’
I am struck speechless at the sudden, insane idea that takes hold of Neha. She is desperate to buy a kidney, and cost be damned.
Neha takes over the negotiations from then on. ‘I’m just a student. Can’t you give me a student discount?’ she asks Dr Nath, her lips curving into a smile that is simultaneously pleading and teasing.
The doctor is instantly smitten. ‘Okay, just for you I will reduce the price by a lakh. How does five lakhs sound to you?’
‘That is also way too high.’ Neha pouts.
I watch in silence as she trades figures with Dr Nath like an expert haggler. Finally, the kidney specialist throws up his hands. ‘What do you think this is, a grocery shop? My last price is two lakhs, and only because I take pity on you. Take it or leave it.’
‘We’ll take it,’ Neha says quickly.
I lean into Neha’s ear. ‘How the hell are we going to rustle up so much money?’ I demand, my voice a furious whisper. ‘Even Ma has no more jewellery left.’
‘You leave that to me,’ she says confidently as she rises to shake Dr Nath’s hand. ‘Thank you, Doctor. You’ll get the money in less than a week.’
‘In that case let’s begin the preliminary procedures right away. Bring in your mother tomorrow for a blood test,’ says the doctor.
As we exit the hospital, Neha momentarily looks up at the heavens, searching the sky. I crane my neck too, squinting at the clouds floating across the blue expanse. I do not know what Neha saw, but I fail to glimpse any sign of a miracle.
Neha reveals her strategy only when we are halfway to the house. ‘I have many friends who are stinking rich. They will lend me the money. Two lakhs is chickenfeed for them, probably less than their poodle’s monthly food bill.’
I feel like asking her where these friends were when we needed money to retain the flat, but decide against it. Who am I to judge her? After all, it’s her kidney at stake. And she can beg, borrow or steal that money for all I care.
* * *
There is a big crowd gathered in the courtyard when the auto drops us in front of the LIG Colony. I learn from Dhiman Singh that Mrs Nirmala Mukherjee Shah, our most famous tenant, is leaving B-25 to shift into Gandhi Niketan, a community centre for the practice of Gandhian values, situated in the premium and upscale locality of West End in South Delhi.
The move does not come as a surprise to me. Nirmala Ben is no longer the simple Gandhian with the frugal lifestyle that I used to know. She has acquired the trappings of a well-heeled guru. Her hair is now immaculately made up, her plain chappals have been replaced by designer sandals, and even her trademark sari looks whiter. Nowadays she is constantly surrounded by a retinue of loyal followers, admirers and hangers-on. Even though her flat is just three doors down from ours, her fame has created a distance between us, a chasm too deep to be easily crossed.
‘Arrey, Sapna beti,’ she calls out the moment she spots me. ‘How have you been?’ She embraces me warmly.
‘I’m fine. But why are you deserting the colony?’
‘Shoo karoon? What to do?’ she sighs. ‘I didn’t want to go, but my comrades insist that this place is too small for my daily talks.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ I tell her, genuinely meaning it, too.
‘Arrey, I am not leaving the city, only going a few kilometres away. You and Susheela must come and visit me whenever you want homemade dhoklas and rasagullas.’
As I watch her get into the back seat of a sleek Hyundai Sonata, I have the distinct feeling that I am seeing her in person for the last time. Henceforth I will be able to meet her only in the pages of the newspaper and on the TV screen.
At least she is using her newfound stardom to touch lives and inspire positive change. Her campaign against high-level graft has continued to gather momentum. There are daily news reports that the noose around Atlas Investments is tightening. Government investigators claim to have secured crucial bits of evidence from Mauritius, igniting a wave of speculation that the names of the individuals behind Atlas will be revealed soon.
* * *
Inside our flat, Ma is slumped at the dining table, crying silently. She is disconsolate at Nirmala Ben’s departure. ‘My best friend in the colony has gone,’ she laments. ‘I wish I could go away from this world.’
‘You are not going anywhere,’ I tell her sternly.
‘What’s the point?’ She spreads her hands. ‘My two daughters never tell me anything. They treat me like a child, do things behind my back.’
I share a wry glance with Neha. Ma is in one of her periodic bouts of depression, imagining conspiracies everywhere.
‘What is it that we have kept from you?’ I challenge her.
‘I know you and Neha are up to something. Is it something to do with my test results? At least tell me what Dr Mittal said. How much time have I got left?’
I sense the moment has come for full disclosure. ‘Dr Mittal said you have a disease called ESRD, in which the kidneys become less effective. That is why you have been feeling tired, losing your appetite, having muscle cramps. What you need is a new kidney. And we are arranging one for you.’
‘How? By giving me one of yours?’ Ma’s hand flies to her lips as she contemplates the horror of that implication. ‘May God strike me dead before I cause harm to my children. A mother’s job is to give, never to take.’
‘It won’t be our kidney,’ I assure her. ‘It will be another donor’s.’
‘Why rob someone of their kidney for my sake? No one knows how much time they have left in this life. Perhaps my time has come,’ she says with the world-weary air of a much older woman. ‘No point wasting any more money on surgery and medicines for me.’
Mothers have this awesome ability of instantly humbling their children. All our lives we never thought of Ma as separate from the kitchen. Just because she was a simple housewife from the rustic town of Mainpuri, a Class 8 pass who didn’t know Camus and computers and didn’t speak English, we never took her seriously, never really tried to understand her. Alka was the one who was closest to her. Papa’s attitude towards her was one of haughty superiority, and Neha and I subconsciously imitated it. We relegated Ma to a background presence, someone who kept the house running and kept track of religious occasions and the network of family relationships with distant aunts and even more distant cousins, while we wrestled with more important stuff like quadratic equations and Hamlet. Even after Papa’s death, it never crossed our minds to try to find out how she was coping. Did she feel lonely or weighed down by the trivia of life? She killed off all her wants and needs for everyone else’s. And now, when her life is on the line, she is prepared to sacrifice even that for our sake.
I rush forward and embrace Mother, guilt welling up inside me like a tearless sob. ‘You’re only forty-seven,’ I remind her. ‘Your time has not come and neither is it going to come any time soon. You have fulfilled your duty as a mother; now we will fulfil our duty as daughters.’
‘Not we, I,’ Neha interjects. ‘I am the one arranging a replacement kidney for you from the best kidney hospital in the city.’
I gape at her in astonishment. It is not just what she said but the way she said it, simultaneously taunting and patronising me.
‘But it must cost a lot,’ Ma agonises.
‘You don’t have to worry about money as long as I am there to look after you,’ Neha says, directing yet another barb at me.
‘My darling daughter!’ Ma dabs at her eyes and pulls Neha to her chest.
I feel sequestered, cast out from this family scene, like an uninvited guest at a party. Neha is suddenly acting all grown up and I am finding it difficult to come to grips with it. But, then, I myself am responsible for it. By abdicating my responsibility as an elder, by forsaking my duty as a daughter, I have allowed Neha to usurp my place. And now she has cut me out, made me a pariah in my own house.
I go to bed with a bruised ego and a nagging conscience. Money can buy you a kidney, but it can’t buy you a sister’s re
spect.
* * *
Dr Mittal calls me the next day, just when I am busy explaining the unique features of the Sony BX420 series of LED TVs to a customer. ‘What happened? I thought you and Neha were to meet me yesterday.’ He sounds irate and a little agitated.
‘There has been a change of plan,’ I inform him. ‘We are exploring the possibility of obtaining a kidney under the altruistic-donation category.’
There is silence at the other end. Finally he asks, ‘And who is this altruistic donor?’
‘A friend of ours,’ I lie.
‘Then you better bring him in. I need to check him. It’s imperative we perform the transplant within the next five to seven days. Your mother’s condition is quite serious. She’s dying a little every day.’
‘I understand, Doctor.’ I quickly end the call, feeling drained and shaken.
It is impossible for me to concentrate on work after that, earning a reprimand from the manager, who is already annoyed at my unauthorised absence yesterday.
* * *
Two more days pass and all Neha is able to manage is ₹10,000. Apparently, her buddies were not as generous as she thought. Still, she is not willing to concede defeat. ‘Some of my friends are out of town. I’m waiting for them to come back. You rest assured, I’ll get the full amount.’
The only bit of good news comes from Dr Nath. ‘Success!’ he exults on the phone to Neha. ‘I have found an excellent donor for your mother. She is an extremely young and healthy girl. And all her parameters match your mother’s perfectly. So when are you coming to make the payment? We would like the amount in full, and in cash.’
‘Soon, Doctor,’ Neha assures him. ‘I’m working on it.’
* * *
Monday, 2 May, opens with the news of Osama bin Laden’s death. We are stunned to learn that he has been killed in a firefight with American commandos deep inside Pakistan.
The news of Osama’s death does not excite me as much as the news Neha gives me that evening. ‘I did it, didi! I got the two lakhs.’
‘Really?’
She retrieves her handbag, a fake Gucci. ‘Ta-da!’ She imitates a trumpet fanfare as she dumps two thick bundles of thousand-rupee notes on the bed. ‘Each bundle contains a hundred thousand.’