Mayank Bhatt

Over the next few months, Nupur and I turned from colleagues into close friends. We were almost always together. I managed to have on the same shift as me. We went to the local Irani café for lunch, and we went home together in a cab. Then, one day, without any warning, she pulled a box from the bag after we had had our lunch.

Give me your hand, she said. She put a pastry in my palm.
I love you, she said, and giggled nervously.

I gaped at her.

You’ve nothing to say? she asked, her smile quickly evaporating, and tears forming in her eyes.

I was sweating. The café had suddenly become more humid than usual, and everything seemed quiet.

Why this sudden confession? I mumbled.
We’re no longer colleagues, and I think we’re more than just friends.
but love…?
It’s love, you know it as much as I do. I told dad about us. He wants to meet you.
It’s a bit too soon for that. We hardly know each other, I said.

However, that evening she convinced me to accompany her to her home and meet her dad. Anand Vanmali was a cheerful man, the kind of man who usually made others uncomfortable with his affability.

Have dinner with us, he said, as he shook my hand. How’s your stomach, he asked her, sounding concerned, but continuing to smile.

Better, no ache today, she said, and went to the kitchen.
You work together and you’re quite close, she tells me, he said, and pointed me to sit on the couch.

I nodded and sat beside him.

Are you serious about her? he asked.

I didn’t know what to say, glanced at him nervously, and then looked around the living room.

She’s serious about you, otherwise she wouldn’t have told me, he said.

***

September 1994

Nupur wanted to do different things as a journalist and began to take on reporting assignments that took her out of the city. Within a short time, she had become seasoned. Then, one evening, about a year after I had met Nupur, in September, our lives changed permanently.

Your sister’s husband called from Surat; Neeta’s in hospital – she has plague, Dadi told me when I reached home from work.

This is the 1990s. Nobody has plague, I said.
That’s what he said. He wants you to call him. It’s an emergency. Bal said Neeta is very sick, she may die.

We didn’t have a phone at home, which was a bit unusual, but with just Dadi and me at home, it wasn’t a necessity, and there was a telephone booth on the street below our home. Long-distance phone calls were a bother at night because everyone wanted to make them then to take advantage of cheaper rates. I went out and joined the queue at the telephone booth below our home. I spoke briefly to Neeta’s husband, and he confirmed everything that Dadi had told me. He sounded tired. I agreed to go to Surat the next morning and help him move his family temporarily to Bombay. Then, I called and told Nupur about my plan.

I’m coming with you. I’ll talk to Cyrus. I’ll file news reports, she said. She didn’t wait for me to agree. Early next morning, I called Cyrus from the train terminus, only to discover that Nupur had already spoken to him, and he had heartily approved of her plans. I was waiting at the ticket counter when she entered the terminus, guileless of the affect she was having on everyone around her.  

You’re going to Surat not Paris, I said, looking at her.

Oh shut up. I’m not feeling good. My stomach hurts.

You shouldn’t have come.

And miss this opportunity? No way. Cyrus said I could report for Associated Press; he knows the India bureau chief; my first international assignment. Her voice trilled nervously.

We reached Surat in the afternoon and checked into a hotel. The hotel manager was unconvinced that we had a genuine reason to be in the city.

Everyone who can is leaving, he said.

***

Surat was dirtier than I’d imagined. The auto-rickshaw ride to the hospital was short but terrifying. The hospital was desolate and Neeta had been made to lie on a filthy bed, with tubes running through her nose and her arms.  She looked emaciated, shrunken, but smiled weakly.  We were meeting after many years.  I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to stop:

Bal should be coming any minute now. He had to go to work to complete some urgent tasks. He’ll get the two other kids from home; this is the youngest, Neeta pointed at the toddler sitting on the floor, busy with her dolls. She can’t be without me, she said.

I sat beside her and held her hand. She tried to smile, looked at me and then at Nupur.

This is Nupur, I said. She works with me. She’s here to report on the plague.

Neeta looked at her blankly. Nupur wanted to talk to the doctors and other patients. She went looking for someone to talk to.

Have you seen Maa, she asked.

I hadn’t seen Maa in a long time. She was in what I called a happy space – unconnected to the real world – but for her it was hell. The last time I visited her, she flung her bedpan at me. It wasn’t empty. The assistants who came to take me away from the room said she didn’t recognise anyone.

She must be okay, I said and shrugged.

Bal reached the hospital with the other kids. I had forgotten their names. He greeted me warmly and told me he’d heard that the city administration was planning to quarantine. He’d already hired a private cab to take everyone to Bombay, and he told me to inform Dadi that they were coming.

You two shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe, Neeta said.

We’ll be fine, you take care, I said.

***

In the evening after Nupur had interviewed some more patients, their families, the municipal officers, we went to the post office to wire her report through the telex machine. She called Cyrus, and told him that more than a hundred patients had what doctors believed were plague-like symptoms.

I tried calling the telephone booth to leave a message for Dadi about Bal and Neeta’s imminent arrival in Bombay, but couldn’t get through so sent a one-line telegram: Neeta-Bal coming to Bombay 20 September. We returned to the hotel. She was exhausted. It’d been a hectic day. After dinner, she sat by my side and again complained of stomach ache.

Nupur, what’s with your recurring stomach ache?

I don’t know. I have these sudden bouts of severe pain on the left side of my stomach, she said. 

Cyrus called from Bombay late at night to tell her that AP had splashed the story across the world.  A TV news crew was coming and the agency wanted Nupur to coordinate. She as excited and wanted to call her dad but decided against it because he’d ask her about me, and she didn’t want to lie.  

Within a week since, the plague in Surat was global news. Nupur was the first journalist to represent an international wire service. She had a head start over others. Her despatches covered all angles – the human tragedy, the administrative lapses, the absence of hygiene, the excessive use of force in quarantine. Her face was on television news across the world. I admired her transformation, her discipline. She was meticulous and confident.

She was up early, leaving the hotel by 7:00, returning for lunch in the afternoon, leaving again for field reporting. By the time she returned, it was dinner time, and often she skipped dinner because she was too tired even to keep awake. She slept peacefully, but often complained of stomach ache. The rigour wasn’t doing her any good. Her face was swollen and she looked tired. Often the pain in her stomach became so severe that she had to stop everything and just lay down. After ten days of such hectic pace, Nupur fell ill. She was forced to cancel her appointments. I gave her a sedative, a tablet to bring down her fever.

We must do something about that constant pain in your stomach, I said.

I’ll talk to Dr. Kapadia, she said. Dr. Rajesh Kapadia was the chief medical superintendent at the same hospital Neeta had been admitted. Nupur and he had become good friends; she spoke to him every day to get an update.

I’m worried about plague, I said, when we met the doctor.

The evening fever is a symptom of a swelling of the liver. That could be because of both a strain and an infection. It’s not stomach ache; it’s probably your liver that’s the cause of pain. He took blood samples for tests and the report confirmed his prognosis. There seemed to be some infection in the liver and a prominent swelling. He touched Nupur on her liver, and she stifled a scream.

You must take complete bed rest, the doctor said.

But that’s impossible, Nupur said, I’ve many deadlines to meet. 

***

Finally, after about three weeks, the media frenzy began to dissipate, and we returned to Bombay. I dropped her off at her home and went home. Dadi was up, watching Neeta’s kids sleeping – the eldest one was still awake; Bal was snoring on the couch. Neeta was on my bed, she looked better. There was no room for me to sleep. Just as I was to go to sleep in the kitchen, the guy from the phone booth down on the street hollered for me. I went to the window.

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