A Burning(24)

My father sat on the bed and, keeping his neck stiff, swung his legs up. He listened to my mother.

But I knew something was wrong. If I did nothing, Ba would suffer. At least, we had to show the X-ray plates to the doctor.

A rickshaw-driver friend of Ba’s gave us his service one morning, rolling gently over the potholes that led out of the block of apartment buildings and on to the main road. Ba’s eyes filled with water. He arrived at the hospital, defeated by the ride.

“Hmm,” said the doctor, after we had waited for three hours, and Ba had nearly fallen and broken one more bone while going to the slippery toilet. “The bone is broken, do you see here?”

He pointed a pen at the ghostly image.

“But there is a more serious problem,” he continued. “This disk has been affected, and that is serious. He needs absolute bed rest, otherwise there will be a chance of paralysis. And I see he is in pain, so he needs stronger medicines. Take this twice a day, with food.”

“I said he was in pain,” I complained, leaning forward in my chair. “He has been in pain since we first came to see you.”

    “Listen, why are you being so agitated?” The doctor put down his pen and glared at me. “For some people an ant’s bite is also serious pain.”

Then he continued writing in his prescription book. In a penholder, a pen printed with the name of a pharmaceutical company shined.

“And what about the rickshaw, doctor shaheb?” my father asked. “I have to go back to work soon.”

“Work?” said the doctor. “Be patient, mister. It’s enough that you walked in here on your own. You can’t drive a rickshaw anytime soon.”



* * *



*

AFTER WEEKS OF RUNNING to a municipal tube well early every morning and carrying water up five flights of stairs, Ma and I began going to the water board office, complaining about the rust-colored water spat out by the taps.

At the water office, a man with a ring of hair surrounding a bald head waved us away—he had begun to recognize us—as soon as we approached.

“Later, come later,” he said. “I told you I can’t do anything about the water in two–three days.”

“Sir, we came seven–ten days ago.”

“Is that so?” he said. “Now you know my schedule better than me?”

“We still don’t have clean water, sir,” said my mother, “and they said that by July—”

“Who said?” charged the man, pausing in the chewing of gum. “Who said such things? July, August, am I in charge of carrying the water from here to your house?”

    Ma said nothing, and I felt like a small child next to her, though I was as much a grown-up as anybody in that office.

It was too much. “Sir, actually,” I said, “you told us last time that the water supply would be fixed soon. My father is sick. He can’t climb down five flights of stairs to the municipal tap for his baths.” My cheeks were hot. My voice was hoarse. “Please do something, sir.”

The man stared at me, eyes bulging, before picking up a phone.

“Yes, good morning,” he said softly into the phone, a polite professional. “What happened to the work order for the water pipes…” He went on in this way, while we stood and looked at him. I was delighted, though the only expression I could wear was one of pleading.

Three days later, when the taps in our building deposited clean water into our buckets, my mother told everyone it was all my doing.

“Jivan spoke to the water supply man,” she recounted to the neighbors. “Oh, you should have seen her!”

Later, in the quiet of the kitchen after we had eaten, she said to me, “The system doesn’t always work for us. But you see that, now and then, you can make good things happen for yourself.”

And I thought, only now and then? I thought I would have a better life than that.





PT SIR


A POLITICIAN’S HOUSE IS marked by an atmosphere like a fair at all times. Feet from the door, reporters wait idly, smoking cigarettes and tossing them in the gutter. Clerks and lackeys keep an eye on those coming and going, occasionally stopping to chat with this or that person. Citizens with grievances arrive, holding folders. Less frequently arrive packages, sometimes a bouquet or a gift basket of dried fruit. Down the road, policemen assigned to the politician wait inside a vehicle. They sit, rifles strapped to their backs, the doors open for air.

On the porch, where PT Sir takes off his shoes, grateful for his clean socks, an assistant asks him: “You have an appointment?”

“No, I mean,” says PT Sir, “I got a lunch invitation, so—”

“Oh,” says the assistant, opening the door. “You are the teacher.”

The house is ordinary. Apart from a few framed photographs of parents and grandparents, garlanded by fragrant white flowers, the walls are bare. Two sofas, with rather regal upholstery, face each other, and beyond them stands a dining table with six chairs. The floor is laid with flecked tiles, as in any middle-class home. Some of the tiles are cracked.

    PT Sir stands on this cold floor in socked feet, unsure of himself, until Bimala Pal emerges from an inner office. She invites him to sit at the dining table, whose plywood surface is covered by a plastic cloth which mimics lace. Dishes appear from the kitchen. The food is humble—rice, dal, and fried eggplant, followed by rui fish curry. When, PT Sir wonders, will Bimala Pal tell him why he has been invited? She seems unconcerned.