Hats and Doctors: Stories Page 11

  Who knows what got into Vimlesh. Softly he said, ‘That’s not quite the way it is. The truth is that our government is a government of the people and it wants to enlighten first-class passengers by means of these small inconveniences about the realities of the common man’s travel in third class.’ And he showed him the torn vinyl on the seat underneath his bedding. Whether or not it was ripped up, it was still better than a third-class seat! ‘I’ve also heard,’ he continued, ‘that the government is going to install fans in the third class and remove them from the first.’

  For a second, the party boss stood over him, glaring, trying to figure out if he was making fun of him or not. But Vimlesh just sat there, looking innocent and completely serious.

  ‘You heard wrong,’ the boss replied, looking even more disgusted. ‘The government definitely wants to erase the difference between high and low, but that doesn’t mean they will remove the fans from the first class. Do they give people like me first-class fare so that we can broil in the heat on our way to committee meetings? We too used to travel without fans in the third class.’

  Vimlesh wanted to add that Mahatma Gandhi had travelled only by third class even to take part in big important conferences, not just ordinary committee meetings. His glance, however, fell on the party boss’s face, distorted with anger, and he realized that, who knew, this man might become a cabinet minister some day. And R.K. Laxman’s cartoon party boss flashed before his eyes and he felt as if the man might knock him down on the compartment floor and start jumping on his chest at any moment. He kept quiet.

  When they passed through Prayag station, the speech was still in progress. When the train slowed down at Phaphamau the party boss went and stood by the window. When the train had stopped, he jumped out on to the platform and ran towards the guard shack. But he probably hadn’t even reached the guard’s compartment when the engine whistle blew. The next minute, he came rushing back. The train had started to move by the time he climbed in. After getting back, he informed them that the train only stopped here for a couple of minutes. He would talk to the guard at the next station.

  When the train started moving a nice breeze began to drift in. It was almost eleven o’clock, so Vimlesh lay back down. He usually rested in the afternoon, but that day—like any other day when he had to travel—he had been too nervous to relax. Now he wanted to get up and turn out the light, but the party boss was still pacing around like an angry, caged bull, so he put a handkerchief over his eyes instead to keep the light from hindering his sleep. But just then the gentleman from the opposite lower berth, who had gone to the bathroom, returned in his pajamas, his clothing draped over his arm. He quietly hung them on a peg, then put his hand on the light switch and said, ‘Sir, I am turning the lights off. Please turn your own berth light on.’ He definitely was getting his revenge for having his greeting ignored.

  The party leader turned around, startled. Grabbing hold of the chain on his berth, he put one foot on the lower berth and climbed up. Resting on his elbows like Vimlesh, he turned on his night light. The man opposite had turned out the lights and stretched out on his berth.

  But it was stifling in the upper berth. The next moment, he took his kurta off. Vimlesh felt like telling him, ‘Sir, just forget about the fan. It’s a first-class compartment, with a clean, spacious floor. Spread out your bedding down here in the open space between the two doors. The windows on both sides will provide cross-ventilation. You can sleep in comfort.’ But he was afraid to come straight out and say this. So, pretending to talk to himself, he said, ‘Once, years ago, I was travelling in the first class. I had an upper berth. It was summer, as it is now, and the fan was broken. I couldn’t stand lying up there, so I spread out my bed right on the floor between the two doors and slept soundly. That’s the advantage of the first class; seats are reserved. There’s no worry of someone coming in from the outside. The floor is wide and clean. When necessary, a man can easily spread his bedding out.’

  The party boss glared down at him for a moment, but his face was in the dark. His eyes were implying, ‘What a stupid thing to say! Spending money for a first-class ticket just to sleep on a bare floor.’ But he didn’t say it aloud. What he did say, however, also as if talking to himself, was in reply to Vimlesh. Lying flat on his back, as if speaking to the ceiling, he said, ‘Actually, it’s really nothing special. I’ve slept in third-class upper berths all my life. But I have to participate in an urgent meeting in the Agricultural Ministry tomorrow. It would be great if I could get some sleep!’

  Vimlesh said, ‘Sir, you seem to be an important leader. Why don’t you speak to the Railway Minister and stop this nonsense: a trip in the summertime, a first-class compartment and a broken fan!’

  Clearly Vimlesh wanted to dispel the party boss’s irritation with him.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll catch hold of that guard at the next station.’

  Vimlesh wanted to tease him and say, ‘Don’t worry. My seat is getting plenty of air,’ but he kept quiet. Gusts of wind, the jerking train, his tired body: Vimlesh fell asleep.

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes and found that the train was standing at some small station. The party boss was standing in the compartment door arguing with someone down on the platform.

  Raising himself up a bit Vimlesh peeked out the window. It was the guard, a Sikh, and he was showing the green light for the train. Who could guess what the party boss had said, but these words of the guard’s reached Vimlesh:

  ‘Report it to the station master at Pratapgarh. This is a flag station. There’s no repairman here. You come running to me at every stop! I’m not a repairman, I’m a guard!’

  The train started to move so he closed the door, chained it, locked it and returned to his berth. It was so humid that even in the moving train the breeze barely reached the lower berth. Vimlesh lay right next to the window, sometimes stretching his feet outside. In the upper berth there wasn’t even a trace of air. The party boss removed his kurta, which he had again put on. He hung it on the hook and lay down again.

  It must have been about one o’clock in the morning when Vimlesh was awakened by a racket outside the train. Just then, someone scrambled aboard. The light came on. The gentleman opposite just rolled over but otherwise didn’t move. Vimlesh noticed that behind the party boss was the station master and a workman.

  The workman turned the fan switch on. He opened its casing and jiggled it. Joining some wires together he tried to get it going. Then he said, ‘Sir, this fan is broken. It will have to be replaced, but the job can’t be done here. It can be done only in a workshop. This compartment looks condemned anyway. I don’t know why they’re using it!’

  And the workman picked up his tools and left. Right behind him went the station master. Outside, the guard blew the whistle. Standing in the doorway the party boss screamed, ‘But I’m a first-class passenger! I can’t travel in this heat without a fan! I won’t let the train leave. I’ll pull the chain!’

  The station master said, ‘Sir, it’s not our fault. You should have reported it back there in Allahabad.’

  Just then the Sikh guard walked up, swinging his torch. The party boss thundered at him, ‘I told you to get the fan fixed back in Allahabad, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘You told me right at departure time. What was I supposed to do then?’ the guard responded sharply. ‘Where were you before that? Now just go and relax. The train’s late as it is.’

  ‘I’m not letting the train leave! What are you thinking? Do you think I got a reservation in first class just so I could roast in this train?’

  ‘Please make your complaints to the authorities.’

  ‘You attach another compartment. I’m going to pull the chain.’

  ‘You pull the chain and I’ll have you arrested.’

  ‘What’s your name? I’m going to report you to the railway minister.’

  ‘If you’re such a big leader why don’t you also tell the railway minister that before initiating new programmes
every fourth day, they ought also to figure out how to carry them through so that short-tempered passengers like you won’t be inconvenienced.’

  ‘You are very rude!’ the party boss lost control of himself. ‘What’s your name? I’ll have you dismissed!’

  ‘My name is Sardar Banta Singh. Please make a note of it. I don’t know any ministers. I am subordinate to the district superintendent and he knows my work. He is also familiar with complaints from people like you. If he were to listen to you people the whole railway staff would be dismissed. Have me fired if you wish, but right now please go and relax. It’s after one. Please think of the other passengers.’ And he blew loudly on his whistle and waved his torch. The train started.

  Fuming, the party boss shut the door, turned off the lights and climbed up on to his berth. This time he even took off his undershirt.

  Vimlesh went back to sleep. Since it was so late at night, the air was somewhat cooler. He had completely forgotten about the party boss’s predicament. If he created another fuss in Rai Bareilly, Vimlesh wasn’t conscious of it. He was sound asleep. When he opened his eyes the next morning, the train was entering Lucknow station. The compartment light was on and the man opposite was rolling up his bedding. The party boss’s berth was empty. Vimlesh saw him when he sat up; he was asleep over on the left by the door, half-naked, his bedding spread out in the middle of the floor. His dhoti was rumpled and his snores reverberated loudly in the morning silence.

  Mr Ghatpande

  Mr Ghatpande changed his clothes and sat down on the bed. ‘You needn’t worry,’ he said. ‘Of course, some ten or fifteen years ago, T.B. was considered a dreadful disease, but since then, science has made great strides; and now even the most hopeless cases are cured.’

  I coughed violently and spat up some clots of blood. Then I told him in my feeble voice that I was like a sinking ship. My family was trying to save me in vain. It was written in my fate that I should sink deeper with each passing moment.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Mr Ghatpande cut me short. ‘You just don’t know enough about this disease. The doctor who sent me here is a renowned T.B. specialist from Poona. Would you believe it, he has an artificial lung made of steel? That’s right, steel! He was operated on in America. It is my belief that methodical treatment is not as important in this disease as the patient’s self-confidence. Never pay any attention to what others say and have confidence in yourself. When I was diagnosed with T.B., I weighed only eighty-six pounds, and now, after a month’s rest, I’ve gained twenty-five pounds; my sediment is normal now and my fever has vanished completely. I wouldn’t have come here, but it was getting so hot in Poona, I thought, why not use this as an excuse to visit Panchgani. Mahatma Gandhi used to come here all the way from Wardha and, living as I do so close to this veritable Ganges of health, I thought, why not take a dip myself!’

  I wanted to say something, but I had another coughing fit and spat up more blood along with a lump of mucus. Mr Ghatpande was not fazed by this and continued with the same zeal:

  ‘To tell you the truth, when the doctors suspected an infiltration in my left lung it alarmed everyone at home. They thought, there! Now he’s finished. But a great man once said that you should never allow sickness to get the better of you; and you should always maintain strong self-confidence. To tell you the truth, when my relatives had lost all hope of my survival, I consulted the doctors and girded myself to fight this disease to the finish. Four things are considered necessary for gaining victory over T.B.—rest, a nutritious diet, clean air and freedom from care. But, in the light of my experiences of the past month, I can add a fifth item as well, which is extremely important when it comes to this illness. As you may know, Marshal Stalin once said when speaking about the security of his country’s new-found freedom, “Comrades, I believe that there are three things necessary for the defence of our nation: first, military power; second, military power; and third, military power.” If anyone were to ask me what it takes to beat T.B., I would say, just as Marshal Stalin did—three things: first, will power; second, will power; and third, will power. Will power is that veritable cure-all …’

  But Mr Ghatpande did not get an opportunity to expound on his views regarding that veritable cure-all—will power—because Sister Blake came into the room and broke in on his oration, caring little that some poor person was drinking in his every word as though it were nectar.

  ‘Sir!’ she pounced upon him like a mother jackal. ‘This is rest time. You must rest; don’t disturb others.’

  Mr Ghatpande’s enthusiasm subsided like hissing soda bubbles, to the point that he lay down flat on his back. Then the sister turned to me:

  ‘Your case is quite severe, sir! You shouldn’t talk, you shouldn’t get up, you shouldn’t sit up. You must rest all day. If you need anything, ring the bell.’

  Then she placed a little brass bell, the kind that vendors use, on the teapoy near my bed, and went back inside the ward, muttering to herself.

  I plucked up my courage and threw a glance at Mr Ghatpande. He was lying on his bed with his eyes closed. Fifteen minutes later, his nostrils, by way of soft snores, began to give evidence of that strong will power of his, the exertion of which had caused him to fall into a deep sleep, unmindful of the sister’s scolding.

  We had both been admitted to the sanatorium that day. Mr Ghatpande had arrived two hours after I had. As a rule, newcomers were first sent to the Acute Ward. If they didn’t run a fever for nine or ten days, they were sent to a different ward. If a patient in another ward showed signs of developing a fever, he was transferred back to the Acute Ward.

  Summer was on with all its fury, and every day more and more patients poured in. The doctors and the nurses usually entered the ward through the verandah, but the main ward was full to capacity by now so we had been given beds there. The beds were set along a wall with two lattice windows of glazed glass that could be opened and closed. Initially, I had been given the bed which Mr Ghatpande now occupied. After I had been put in the bed there, and the sweeper had placed the spittoon and the chamber pot next to my bed, and the sister had instructed me to rest, and my family had left for home after trying to buoy my spirits with words of encouragement, my eyes—exhausted from a sleepless night and the long journey—dropped shut, despite my fever and coughing. But I had scarcely closed them when I was awakened by the pathetic coughing of a patient lying on the other side of the window, inside the ward. The patient, as I came to know later, was from a wealthy Bohra family of Bombay. He had been lying in the sanatorium for the past five years and his condition was very serious by now. He had great difficulty coughing. The phlegm hardly ever moved from his throat. He could only spit it out with great effort. He coughed as though he were a rickety whimpering baby. All of a sudden I could no longer sleep. Even though my own condition was extremely serious, he was even worse off than I was. It made chills run up and down my spine. How will I be able to sleep right next to this pathetic coughing, I thought; and, overwhelmed by a natural spirit of self-defence, I asked the ward boy to get my bed changed. When the sister came, she saw that I was lying on a different bed. She glared angrily at the ward boy, so he said, ‘This gentleman’s eyes are sensitive; over there, the light was shining directly into his eyes.’ After the sister had gone away again, I placed four annas for tobacco and paan in the ward boy’s hand as a token of my gratitude and I promised to always keep him happy.

  Although the sun was fairly high and everyone was walking around with their shirt collars open, I had started to feel cold, being terribly weak, and had fallen asleep with the blanket pulled up to my neck. I don’t know how long I slept, but I was suddenly awakened by the sister’s harsh voice. I opened my eyes and saw her coming in from outside; close behind her was a healthy-looking young man, followed by a coolie carrying a suitcase and bedding on his head. A few steps away from the verandah, the sister called out loudly to the ward boy, ‘Gannu!’

  Just as she entered the verandah from one direction, Gannu came
running in from the other. A new bed was made up in minutes. My anxious eyes strained to look up through the window. I thought the patient would be carried here slowly on a stretcher, as I had been. But no stretcher came and, a few minutes later, an older man wearing a good suit came walking slowly towards the ward. I thought this must be the patient, and the young man who accompanied the sister was his son, and he had come to leave his father off here. Two more men came in with him. The old man went over to the sister and told her in English that he had just met with the Residential Medical Officer and made the appropriate arrangements.

  The sister said to him, ‘It’s rest time right now, why don’t you go? You must be tired, why don’t you rest a little. You can come in the evening after six-thirty.’ The old man replied that he was returning to Poona by the next bus and would come again the following Sunday. Turning to the young man, he told him not to worry at all, and if there were any problems to tell the sister or the R.M.O. If he needed anything, he should write to him and he would bring things from Poona on Sunday.

  It was then that I learnt that the young man hadn’t really come to leave someone off, but was himself a patient, and that the older man was not the patient, but the patient’s father. The young man was Vinayakarao Ramarao Ghatpande. He introduced himself while changing his clothes soon after his father and the sister had left.

  On the ward side of Mr Ghatpande’s bed—on the other side of the window—the Bohra patient continued to cough pathetically. The thin sound of his coughing hardly reached my bed, but I thought that the moaning cough must be incessantly hammering away at Mr Ghatpande with all its intensity. However, it appeared that Mr Vinayakarao Ramarao Ghatpande was actually sleeping quite peacefully on his side of the room. I envied his peacefulness. I was in much worse shape than he was. I suffered from insomnia. If I did manage to fall asleep, I was visited by horrible nightmares, in which I felt as though dying of tuberculosis was similar to descending slowly, step by step, into a vast chasm veiled in darkness. One day, my feet would touch the bottom. Whenever I felt my feet reaching that final step, I woke up instantly. The thought that one day I would no longer live in this world kept stabbing at my heart like an invisible dagger. I always took a deep breath and turned over, perhaps to get the sense that I was still alive.