Thursday, December 06, 2018

Dawn was a strange time, straddling night and day, as though time was unsure whether to let go of the darkness or embrace the light. It was a philosophical thought if one wanted to be charitable, maybe he was being stupid. Nature and space had no such compulsions or emotions, the sun rotated in its place and Earth rotated and revolved around the sun. It was mere physics, not metaphysics; and he had no use for either of them.

He stepped out of the car and leaned against the side, looking towards the temple. Situated on the outskirts of Hyderabad, on a small hillock, it was an old one and its carved central spire stood tall against the dim sky. In the growing light, he could make out the silhouettes of his family; his wife and parents. Who were currently engaged in yet another mind-boggling, logic-defying act, hoping to appease the Gods or at least one of the thirty-three million of them in the Hindu pantheon. This time, the ritual consisted of washing each step of the temple stairs with water and then anointing it with turmeric and vermilion. A little over a hundred stairs.

They hoped for a miracle. He thought it was an exercise in futility.

He saw his mother, who at sixty-eight, still had strength but was now bent with grief. And then there was his wife, forty-two years old who had aged by over ten years in the past few months. He watched his father, seventy years old, struggling with the bucket of water he carried. Despite that, he held himself tall and straight, one could retire from the army, but the military left its mark on its soldiers.

His sigh misted in the cold morning, he had lost track of the places they had visited and the rituals that had been performed. He believed in God, though it was more an expression of expected behaviour, rather than explicit faith. And he rarely took part in those worship rituals, stating that such senseless acts would not beseech the divinities to grant their wishes. A conviction that hardened with each passing day. He always argued that God, whom they believed to be an omnipresent, omnipotent being, did not exist. Now he questioned if his refusal to display his faith had invited God's wrath. But then if God was omniscient too, he would know about each creature's faith and disbeliefs, so why was he blind to his wife's devotions? Maybe he was dispassionate and did not care about his creations and creatures, why else would evil and misery be abounding in the world?

But this was not the time for those arguments either, he thought as he strode towards the temple, he would help them if only because he was not going to allow his father to trudge up and down those stairs carrying buckets of water. He might not believe in the appease-the-Gods-rituals, but he would help his family.

Three hours later, they were done; wet, hungry and exhausted. All that they could do was hope it would be enough, that somehow, some God would consider washing temple stairs as adequate reparation and grant their wish. He held his wife as she struggled to walk the short distance to the car, while behind him his parents helped each other. 'It was not fair,' he wanted to scream, 'there was no reason why they had to suffer this way.'

The vibrating mobile disrupted his train of thoughts and the initial irritation he felt vanished when he saw the caller's name, "Yes, Khaleed?

He could hear the soft smile in the reply, "Never a man for courtesies, though between friends, it is not needed. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that we are running late, so we might not come to your place. We will come directly to the hospital."

He mumbled, "It is fine, do not rush..."

His voice broke, he wanted to have his friend beside him yet was unwilling to insist on it. But then Khaleed and his wife had gone to Ajmer, to visit Salim Chisti's Dargah and pray for them, and could not be faulted if they were delayed.

His despair must have been evident for Khaleed said, "Inshallah, it will be fine. Have faith."

He almost laughed at that, faith was a little difficult to find these days, though each of them pretended to be strong; if only to reassure each other.

On the way back, they would stop for a late breakfast, which they would eat for they needed sustenance, not that they enjoyed food and mealtimes. And the drive would be silent, each lost in their thoughts, wondering and hoping that there would be a change, some improvement, even a tiny one.

The drive, as he anticipated, was in silence. How quickly things change, almost overnight.

A year ago, they had been a happy family, celebrating the news that Tarun, their son, had cleared the written examination and the interview for the admission to National Defence Acadamy. He was one of the six thousand candidates selected out of around five hundred thousand entrants. All that was left was the medical tests and there was no doubt that he would clear that too, he had always been a fit and healthy child. So they had gone out for a celebratory dinner which was preempting things. Especially when all of them were not in a celebratory mood, but he was too elated to care.

Trisha, his daughter sulked, for girls were not allowed into the NDA and she had set her heart on joining, what she termed as, the 'family business. His mother and wife were worried, not too happy with the fact that yet another man in the house would join the armed forces. He and his father, though reticent by nature, could not stop the pride shining in their eyes. And Tarun, the 'star' of the evening was subdued.

He knew the reason. Tarun had never been enthusiastic about joining the army, not like Trisha, but then he had never objected either. Tarun loved art and would have liked to be an architect though he never voiced it out. He had been told that he was meant for the army, almost from the minute he had been born.

That night, his wife had prayed for a miracle, a miracle that somehow her son would not join the NDA. How he had laughed at her, though there had been irritation too, 'Was it not too late to pray for that, it was a done deal. His son would be an army man, like him, like his father and grandfather before him.'

It had only made her pray a little more fervently. And God had answered her prayers but it was not a miracle. One could doubt his existence but not his morbid sense of humour.

Tarun did fail the medical tests; because the radiation detected a thickened filum and the panel recommended additional tests. Further radiological tests identified a mass at the lower lumbar region of the spinal cord, an ependymoma of the spine, which was rare. It was rarer that a primary spinal tumour was not benign. Further, it was even rarer that Tarun had not exhibited any of the attendant symptoms until the age of seventeen and the tumour had been detected only in the radiology tests. And though the five-year survival rate for his was at seventy-two per cent, the location of the tumour rendered surgery impossible. Hence his chances of survival were much lower.

Disbelief and shock were the first reactions. Followed by grief and anger. He still reeled in those two states while his family moved on to fear and desperation.

The last six months had seen them take turns to make the trips to the hospital and rounds of the doctors, interspersed with visits to temples and holy places. While they did rely on medical advice and opted for the suggested radiation therapy, his family did not hesitate to seek divine intervention.

And as hope on medical solutions dwindled, their reliance on prayers had increased. Temples, shrines, churches and mosques, not a single place was left out, as though they were not sure which God would answer their prayers.

The highway was not crowded and as he drove, he wondered how long they would have to pray before their hopes gave out. How long before...

A shadow flickered in the corner of his eye and startled, he braked hard, his shoulder jerking as the seat belt flexed and tightened. Pulling over, he stopped to check that no one else was hurt and answered his worried wife, "Nothing happened, I just thought I saw something and braked a little too hard. Are all of you alright?"

At their nods of assurance, he started the car when the mobile rang again and he was surprised to see Khaleed's name.

"Raghu, why did you call again? Did anything happen?"

It surprised him, he had not called, the number must have dialled when he had braked suddenly, and he mentioned the same to Khaleed. After he cut the call, he knew that there was no way any number could be dialled, for he had the screen lock on, but he was too tired to reason it out. Shrugging the incident away, he started the car and drove back to the city, where they had another meeting with the doctors.

He had anticipated what the doctors would say, had known it all along but was not prepared for the finality of the verdict. And it seemed, his family expected it too. All had that dull look of resignation; that in the end, everything they did was futile, that even their prayers were in vain. He wanted to protest, but the doctors had done their best, they could not be blamed for the final diagnosis; radiation was no longer an effective choice and surgery was too risky.

Tarun had a maximum of six months to live.

There was no memory of the drive back from the doctor's place, he knew that Khaleed had driven them home, though he did wonder why he had not taken his car. But he was too shocked by the inevitability of his son's death. Everyone else seemed to accept it, maybe their faith imbued them with fatalism. But the news filled him with helpless rage.

A part of him accepted that his reaction was not rational, if not ironic. If Tarun had joined the army, he would know death, intimately and regularly. That was an army man's lot, one that every soldier and his family accepted. And if Tarun had died fighting, he would have been proud that his son had been martyred for the country. Yet, he could not accept that his son would die from an incurable tumour, that he would die before his eighteenth birthday. That thought left him breathless with fear and anger.

He was familiar with death. He knew the fear that accompanied every soldier's family when a member went to war, he had felt it when his father had been called up for the Sinchan Conflict. He had seen that fear in his family's eyes when he had been in the Kargil War. He had been witness to friends dying and had been responsible for conveying that news to their families.

That had been the hardest. He had done it twice, visiting the grief-stricken families, voicing those words which everyone knew were mere politeness but required in the circumstances. And both times he had wondered 'how does one recover from a loss like that? The loss of a father, or a husband, or a son, or a brother. Does one simply stay alive for life goes on? How does one try to piece their life back together? How far would one go to gather the lost pieces of their lives? And if they had known that something could be done to make things go back as they were before, would they do it?'

He now knew the answer, they would do anything. As would he. He was not only willing to die to save his son from dying, but he was also ready to sell his soul.

That is the first chapter, finally done.

And if you, my dear reader, have like it and would let me know, well, that would be wonderful.

love,
Nyna