March 1993<\/p>\n
She smiled uncertainly; unsure if smiling was the right thing to do when people around us were dying. I was on a bed; she on another, in a hospital ward surrounded by an overpowering smell of disinfectants. The doctors and the nurses vainly attempted to bring order to the mounting chaos as more victims were being brought in. Her head was bandaged, but the bandage had been wrapped hurriedly and was smeared with blood on the left just above her eye. Her green salwar khameez had a Hawaiian floral pattern. Her nose was hooked at the bridge; I told her later that it resembled an eagle\u2019s beak, she smiled. The nose and the brown eyes were the most striking part of her face.<\/p>\n
It was probably the cops who brought me to the hospital in Bandra. I had passed out after I was thrown off the bus when the bomb went off at Worli. My co-passengers had turned into mangled heaps of ripped flesh and shredded bones. A thick black smoke engulfed the bus. The smell of burning flesh and tar was nauseating; it\u2019d stay with me forever. My clothes were smeared with blood, not all of it was mine. I don\u2019t know how, but I survived.<\/p>\n
I saw her when I opened my eyes. She was on the bed next to mine.
\nWere you on the bus, too, I asked, trying to sound friendly but not succeeding.
\nNo, I was walking on the pavement, she said.<\/p>\n
From the two nurses who were cleansing wounds of a victim on another bed, I heard that 13 bombs had ripped through the city. I sat up on the bed. This was serious. I\u2019d have to call my newspaper. I examined myself, looking at my hands and arms, raising my legs a bit; my bloodstained clothes were in tatters, I was sore in the back and my arms and knees were bruised, but I hadn\u2019t broken any bones. I gingerly got up from the bed and took a few steps. I decided I didn\u2019t need medical attention. I was unlikely to get any even if I did because the hospital ward was teeming with people who were more seriously injured.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m leaving, I said, looking at her.
\nI should, too, she said.
\nAre you OK?
\nYes, I\u2019m fine. I just have stomach ache. My home isn\u2019t far from here. I\u2019m at Carter Road, she said.<\/p>\n
I called the news desk at the newspaper from the public phone in the hospital lobby. The news editor told me to return to work. I wasn\u2019t keen to do that, but he insisted I return because Bombay hadn\u2019t seen anything like this before, and the newspaper would need everyone.<\/p>\n
We left the hospital together, and got into an auto-rickshaw that was waiting outside the hospital. The traffic on the street was surprisingly smooth.<\/p>\n
Carter Road and then Andheri, I told the auto-rickshaw driver.
\nI\u2019d have to go home. Dadi would be worried.
\nI\u2019m Sharad, I said.
\nNupur.
\nI\u2019m a journalist. I work for The Morning Star. I was returning home in the bus when the bomb exploded, I said.
\nI know, she said.
\nWhich part?
\nThe newspaper part; I saw you when I was interviewed last week. You looked familiar and I was trying to remember where I had seen you but couldn\u2019t, she said.
\nYou must have met Cyrus, I said.
\nYes.<\/p>\n
Cyrus Modi was the newspaper\u2019s editor. Everyone generally disliked him; I disliked him more than anyone else. Not sure what this would lead to, I kept quiet and looked outside the speeding three-wheeler. She smiled when she got off, and briskly walked inside the building.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
When I reached home, my Dadi panicked when she saw my bloodstained shirt.<\/p>\n
It isn\u2019t my blood. I helped an accident victim, I lied.<\/p>\n
Dadi would have had a heart attack if I told her I was in the bus that blew up.<\/p>\n
After chai, I left for work again. Trains were on time and the streets bustled, as always. It didn\u2019t seem like Bombay had been battered by one of world\u2019s worst terror attacks; three-hundred people had died within a span of half-an-hour.<\/p>\n
The reporting department at the newspaper was buzzing with excitement; everyone had theories for the cause of the serial bomb blasts. I didn\u2019t tell anyone that I was in the bus that blew up. I didn\u2019t want to be at the centre of everyone\u2019s attention. At that moment, I was more annoyed that I\u2019d miss my weekly off. Cyrus summoned me.<\/p>\n
Our coverage must be better than the others, he said.
\nIt\u2019ll be, we\u2019ve got a great team, I said.
\nAfter all this bomb business is over, I want you to handle the features sections in addition to your present responsibility, he said.
\nBut Cyrus, I can barely manage reporting, I said.<\/p>\n
We\u2019re hiring new staff, he said, impatiently.<\/p>\n
He then told me of Nupur\u2019s impending appointment, and then dismissed me with a wave of his hand, as he began to dial a number on the telephone.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
A couple of days later, when I was on the day shift, Nupur came for her final interview. She wore a pink linen khameez and a white salwar and went into Cyrus\u2019s office. About 15 minutes later, they walked out, smiling; Cyrus introduced her to the staff. Then he came to my desk.<\/p>\n
This is Sharad. You\u2019ll be working with him, Cyrus said, looking first at her and then at me.
\nNupur is joining us from tomorrow, he said to me.
\nWe\u2019ve met, she said, and shook my hand.
\nNot recently, I said.<\/p>\n
Nupur raised an eyebrow, as Cyrus looked at me; he wanted to know more but couldn\u2019t ask.<\/p>\n
Shard will tell you what to do, he said, and walked away slowly.
\nWhy did you lie, she asked, when Cyrus had returned to his office.
\nI haven\u2019t told anyone I was at the hospital, I said.<\/p>\n
Nupur wanted to know the reason but didn\u2019t ask. She was an eager learner; that evening we went home together in a cab.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t commute in the train, my stomach hurts, she said.<\/p>\n
In the cab, we were quiet for a while, but then her questioning commenced. She wanted to know about my family. I told her I lived with my Dadi \u2013 my grandmother, and my sister Neeta, about my father\u2019s death and my mother\u2019s insanity.<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t call it insanity, she said, shaking her head in disapproval, and then told me about Anand Vanmali, her dad; her mother died when she was young. What\u2019s your mother\u2019s name, she asked.<\/p>\n
Premeela. She has Alzheimer\u2019s. She is in a sanatorium in Khandala.<\/p>\n
When I reached home, Dadi was sitting by the kitchen window on her wooden chair and watching the traffic go by, and fanning herself desultorily. She looked at me as if she was seeing a ghost.<\/p>\n
No booze today, she asked, and cackled.<\/p>\n
I switched on the fan, and went to have a shower. Then, I served myself dinner. It was the same everyday \u2013 rice and dal. My silence irritated her.<\/p>\n
What\u2019s the matter, why\u2019re you home so soon?
\nDo you want me to go back and return later? I asked.<\/p>\n
She glowered at me, and returned to scrutinizing the traffic. After dinner I tried to sleep early, but couldn\u2019t and lay awake thinking of Nupur.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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 caf\u00e9 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.<\/p>\n
Give me your hand, she said. She put a pastry in my palm.
\nI love you, she said, and giggled nervously.<\/p>\n
I gaped at her.<\/p>\n
You\u2019ve nothing to say? she asked, her smile quickly evaporating, and tears forming in her eyes.<\/p>\n
I was sweating. The caf\u00e9 had suddenly become more humid than usual, and everything seemed quiet.<\/p>\n
Why this sudden confession? I mumbled.
\nWe\u2019re no longer colleagues, and I think we\u2019re more than just friends.
\nbut love\u2026?
\nIt\u2019s love, you know it as much as I do. I told dad about us. He wants to meet you.
\nIt\u2019s a bit too soon for that. We hardly know each other, I said.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Have dinner with us, he said, as he shook my hand. How\u2019s your stomach, he asked her, sounding concerned, but continuing to smile.<\/p>\n
Better, no ache today, she said, and went to the kitchen.
\nYou work together and you\u2019re quite close, she tells me, he said, and pointed me to sit on the couch.<\/p>\n
I nodded and sat beside him.<\/p>\n
Are you serious about her? he asked.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t know what to say, glanced at him nervously, and then looked around the living room.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s serious about you, otherwise she wouldn\u2019t have told me, he said.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
September 1994<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Your sister\u2019s husband called from Surat; Neeta\u2019s in hospital – she has plague, Dadi told me when I reached home from work.<\/p>\n
This is the 1990s. Nobody has plague, I said.
\nThat\u2019s what he said. He wants you to call him. It\u2019s an emergency. Bal said Neeta is very sick, she may die.<\/p>\n
We didn\u2019t have a phone at home, which was a bit unusual, but with just Dadi and me at home, it wasn\u2019t 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m coming with you. I\u2019ll talk to Cyrus. I\u2019ll file news reports, she said. She didn\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n
You\u2019re going to Surat not Paris, I said, looking at her.<\/p>\n
Oh shut up. I\u2019m not feeling good. My stomach hurts.<\/p>\n
You shouldn\u2019t have come.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Everyone who can is leaving, he said.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
Surat was dirtier than I\u2019d 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\u2019t know what to say. She didn\u2019t want to stop:<\/p>\n
Bal should be coming any minute now. He had to go to work to complete some urgent tasks. He\u2019ll 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\u2019t be without me, she said.<\/p>\n
I sat beside her and held her hand. She tried to smile, looked at me and then at Nupur.<\/p>\n
This is Nupur, I said. She works with me. She\u2019s here to report on the plague.<\/p>\n
Neeta looked at her blankly. Nupur wanted to talk to the doctors and other patients. She went looking for someone to talk to.<\/p>\n
Have you seen Maa, she asked.<\/p>\n
I hadn\u2019t seen Maa in a long time. She was in what I called a happy space \u2013 unconnected to the real world \u2013 but for her it was hell. The last time I visited her, she flung her bedpan at me. It wasn\u2019t empty. The assistants who came to take me away from the room said she didn\u2019t recognise anyone.<\/p>\n
She must be okay, I said and shrugged.<\/p>\n
Bal reached the hospital with the other kids. I had forgotten their names. He greeted me warmly and told me he\u2019d heard that the city administration was planning to quarantine. He\u2019d already hired a private cab to take everyone to Bombay, and he told me to inform Dadi that they were coming.<\/p>\n
You two shouldn\u2019t be here, it\u2019s not safe, Neeta said.<\/p>\n
We\u2019ll be fine, you take care, I said.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
I tried calling the telephone booth to leave a message for Dadi about Bal and Neeta\u2019s imminent arrival in Bombay, but couldn\u2019t get through so sent a one-line telegram: Neeta-Bal coming to Bombay 20 September. We returned to the hotel. She was exhausted. It\u2019d been a hectic day. After dinner, she sat by my side and again complained of stomach ache.<\/p>\n
Nupur, what\u2019s with your recurring stomach ache?<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know. I have these sudden bouts of severe pain on the left side of my stomach, she said. <\/p>\n
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\u2019d ask her about me, and she didn\u2019t want to lie. <\/p>\n
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 \u2013 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.<\/p>\n
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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
We must do something about that constant pain in your stomach, I said.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ll 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.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m worried about plague, I said, when we met the doctor.<\/p>\n
The evening fever is a symptom of a swelling of the liver. That could be because of both a strain and an infection. It\u2019s not stomach ache; it\u2019s probably your liver that\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
You must take complete bed rest, the doctor said.<\/p>\n
But that\u2019s impossible, Nupur said, I\u2019ve many deadlines to meet. <\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
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\u2019s kids sleeping \u2013 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.
\n<\/p>\n
Call from Bandra. I ran down to take the call.<\/p>\n
She in pain, I\u2019m taking her to a nursing home next door. She\u2019s asking for you, Nupur\u2019s dad said. He sounded annoyed, desperate.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ll be there soon.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s on pain killers and sedatives, he told me when he saw me.<\/p>\n
I told him about her recurring fever in the evenings in Surat. He didn\u2019t hide his irritation.<\/p>\n
You should\u2019ve told me you were together, he said.<\/p>\n
There was no time for recriminations. When I told the doctor on duty about her evening fever and Dr. Kapadia\u2019s treatment, he advised Nupur should be moved to a hospital. I called Cyrus. I had forgotten how late it was. He sounded gruff, but eager to help.<\/p>\n
Take her to Breach Candy, I\u2019ll make arrangements, he said.<\/p>\n
The ambulance sped through the empty roads. Nupur\u2019s pain had subsided thanks to painkillers and sedatives. I held her hand. Cyrus had left instructions at the hospital and Nupur was admitted without any delays or fuss.<\/p>\n
Dr. Umang Pathak was on duty. He examined her and wanted to wait for the blood report.<\/p>\n
Is it serious? I asked.<\/p>\n
He looked at me impassively. These are classic symptoms of autoimmune hepatitis, he said. It\u2019s a rare ailment. The body\u2019s immune system attacks the liver cells and that causes the liver to inflame. It\u2019s genetic and inflicts women between the ages of 15 and 40, and it gets worse swiftly if not treated in time. It may have caused cirrhosis of the liver.<\/p>\n
So, it is serious, Nupur\u2019s dad said.<\/p>\n
I hope not, Dr. Pathak said.<\/p>\n
Nupur must have had these symptoms for some time, but she only complained of stomach ache, her dad said, his voice a whisper.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s not her stomach; it\u2019s liver inflammation that\u2019s the cause of pain, Dr. Pathak said.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s what Dr. Kapadia had also said, I said.<\/p>\n
But aren\u2019t these disease related to alcohol, Nupur\u2019s dad asked.<\/p>\n
We waited outside intensive care, exchanging worried glances. A long time later, a nurse came out of the room. She went to Nupur\u2019s dad.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s still critical, the nurse said.<\/p>\n
Finally, Dr. Pathak came out. He was candid.<\/p>\n
Nupur\u2019s liver has failed, he said. Unlike the usual cases of liver failure that occur over a long period, this was the rare form where the failure occurs within 48 hours. There could be multiple causes. The most common cause is the hepatitis virus infection. She\u2019s being treated for viral infection. We\u2019re hoping that the infection will run its course.<\/p>\n
Will she be okay? Nupur\u2019s dad asked.<\/p>\n
Dr. Pathak put his hand on his shoulder. I wish I could say yes. We\u2019ve tried everything. She\u2019s not responding to the treatment, he said.<\/p>\n
Nupur\u2019s dad staggered. I had to hold him by his arm. Then, I sat down on the couch, pulled my legs up and began to cry loudly. The intensive care room remained closed. In the middle of the night, a nurse came to me and said the doctor wanted to see us. We ran. The doctor quietly led us to Nupur\u2019s bed.<\/p>\n
Her eyes were shut. She was breathing heavily and with difficulty. There were tubes in her nose, her mouth, her wrists and her stomach. Her dad went and sat beside her. She didn\u2019t respond to his touch. I held her hand. She stirred and opened her eyes. She tried to smile, but the effort was painful and she gasped.<\/p>\n
I love you, I whispered.<\/p>\n
She tried to speak, and moved her lips, but she couldn\u2019t. Tears rolled down her face. She gripped my hand. Her eyes stayed on me. We looked at each other for a long time. Her heavy breathing turned normal and then slowed. Then it stopped. I didn\u2019t realise when.<\/p>\n
The nurse closed Nupur\u2019s eyes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Plague<\/strong>
\nIt was probably the cops who brought me to the hospital in Bandra. I had passed out after I was thrown off the bus when the bomb went off at Worli. My co-passengers had turned into mangled heaps of ripped flesh and shredded bones. A thick black smoke engulfed the bus. The smell of burning flesh and tar was nauseating; it\u2019d stay with me forever. My clothes were smeared with blood, not all of it was mine. I don\u2019t know how, but I survived.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2124,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1008","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1008","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1008"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1008\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2125,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1008\/revisions\/2125"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2124"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1008"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1008"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1008"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}