The Selector of Souls (37 page)
In his file she records his blood pressure and physical status: Poorly built and nourished. She records his respiratory rate, that he has no pallor, icterus, edema, but that there’s clubbing in his fingers. There’s no box on the form for it, but she writes
Smoking history:
Beedis, 10/ day x 20 years.
Complains of:
“Saans nahin aata.” Chunilal had said he couldn’t catch his breath even when lying down, and Dr. Gupta’s stethoscope picked up a sound like dry leaves rustling in his lungs, below the clavicle. Chunilal’s x-ray will probably say pneumonia or pleurisy. She writes: Cough, fever, fatigue. By roundabout and repeated questions she has the answer to
Itching in genital area:
Yes. No history of broken bones but
Stitches:
Yes.
History of Presenting Complaint:
Feverish feeling in the evenings, non-productive cough, night sweats, weight loss, decreased appetite for past six months. Unable to work since April or May.
Chest examination
: crepts right infra clavicular area.
Investigations:
Complete blood count—ESR raised.
And here’s his chest x-ray, which was the first on Bread of Healing’s x-ray machine. Right anterior segment lesion in PA and lateral films.
Plan:
Investigate for TB; sputum for AFB, TB and fungal culture. No history of contact with TB patient. Although, misunderstanding her question, he did volunteer he has a Binami brand TV.
Under
Family
she writes: Wife, Leela. If he does have TB, the family should be tested.
Children:
One girl—Kamna. One boy—Mohan.
But what Chunilal had said was: “One mistake, then one son.”
Pay 5,000 now or 50,000 later.
Advertisement for sex selection
January 1995
Dear Anu Mama
,
How are you? I am fine. Rano Mummy is teaching me email
.
I collected fifteen Canadian Tire dollars
.
Jatin Papa cooks rotis in the kitchen at our gurdwara. He doesn’t mind
.
Last Sunday, we went to a kirtan. Everyone was singing in Punjabi. But I don’t yet know the words. Rano Mummy doesn’t know them either. But I can sing “The Woman in Me” like Shania
.
I made up a song in French. I wish you could hear it
.
I wrote to Vikas Papa. He doesn’t answer. I don’t care
.
Love
,
Chetna
.
p.s. Please send me 5 Star chocolate bars, an Indian Barbie, and a light pink dupatta with spangles. Little India shops on Gerrard Street don’t have these. When you come, I’ll take you there
.
Beijing, September 1995
My dear Anu
,
Writing this email from the Indian Embassy in Beijing and the Conference on the Status of Women. The first few days were interesting. Mrs. Clinton said we need to take bold steps, and that women’s rights are human rights, even as thousands of Chinese women could not gain access to the sessions. My speech wasn’t blacked out like hers, I didn’t stumble at all. The conference declaration is actually going to say we will
“take all necessary measures to eliminate all forms of discrimination against women and the girl child.”
Your Sharad Uncle says he’s already tired of managing servants, deciding the menu for each meal, purchasing food, staying within a budget, making sure clothes are washed, and servants fed and paid. And he says, “Next day it begins all over again!” (I wanted Rano to come and look after him, but she doesn’t have enough vacation time left this year, and my daughters-in-law are all in Canada. Maybe I should have asked you.)
BBC TV in my hotel room showed milk being poured on Lord Ganesh and other statues and just vanishing! They showed temples mobbed by worshippers in Delhi. They reported that shops selling milk near Indian communities in England ran out. A scientist on BBC explained it as capillary action, and a saffron organization chap said it’s a miracle. I think it’s mass hysteria. How to explain to delegates from other countries why in the world we are giving our gods milk and letting children go without? Even I am having trouble swallowing this one
.
Will write again from Delhi
.
Much love
,
Purnima
ANU
A
T THE SINGLE WINDOW OF THE POST OFFICE IN
Jalawaaz, Sister Anu signs a registration card for an order of pills from Delhi, another for a parcel of donated medicines, and the last for a letter from Rano.
She opens the parcel of donated medicines immediately—everything from Disprin pills to eye drops to antibiotic samples is more than a year past expiration. Yet donating companies receive tax write-offs for their dumping. She must decide what is and is not usable—another issue. Along with power failure issues, water shortage issues, drinking water issues, latrine and sewage issues, waste incineration issues, patients-with-no-toilet issues, no living quarters suitable for paid nurses issues, dangerous unlit road issues, no-ambulance issues, last week’s oxygen-cylinder factory strike issues, villagers’ distrust of her city-accented Hindi issues, villagers-who-speak-incomprehensible-Hindi-mixed-with-Pahari issues, and the issues of patients who trust the ojha’s alternative medications over Dr. Gupta’s prescribed medications, and all the case-reporting to the Department of Health … sometimes she can’t stand Gurkot for another minute.
Most of the time, though, she is having the time of her life.
People here may padlock their doors just as they do in Delhi, but
she finds them more sharing, caring and courteous. They keep their word, so promises are not made lightly.
Working in the clinic, she no longer needs to stop to think but is all movement and doing. The training and reading for the nursing certificate she was granted in Shimla makes sense now. With limited resources, she and Dr. Gupta must be creative generalists, diagnosing with the most rudimentary of tests, sometimes doing surgery and minor ortho work—setting bones that would require specialists in city hospitals. Just listening and praying can bring comfort, maybe even healing.
This dev-luppment work, as the sub-district magistrate calls it, feels more patriotic than standing for “Bande Mataram” in a movie hall. Better than faking admiration for the ideas of Swami Rudransh, or feeding the pampered glitterati of New Delhi, or teaching spoiled children of VIPs. And though a second transcendent experience of god has not yet happened and distance makes her feel an outsider to the community of nuns in Shimla, she’s on the Path, doing the Work.
Still her heart writhes in guilt for having the time of her life without Chetna. For answering no to the question, the friendly inquiry directed at every woman, “Have you any issue?” She confessed to Father Pashan that she finds it possible to love the children who attend Sister Bethany’s one-room school in Gurkot as much and as easily as Chetna, but he merely said he wished more people could love children equally for who they are, and gave her no penance. She still hasn’t confessed that her divorce is still wending its way through the courts—but she will, she will, as soon as Mrs. Nadkarni says it’s final, and before she takes her vows.
The convent jeep is parked before the sub-district magistrate’s office compound. At Sister Anu’s approach, Shafiq Sheikh quickly flips his boat-shaped karakuli cap over his head, and jumps out to hold the back door open. “No, no—you rest,” says Sister Anu. She hands him the parcels and takes the driver’s seat.
“I don’t need rest, Sister,” the driver says. But he puts her parcels in the back seat, and gets in beside them.
In the rear view mirror, Sister Anu sees him stroking his beard, as well sculpted as a Mughal garden. He’s needlessly worried that she will decide she doesn’t need him.
As Sister Anu fires up the jeep, a few shawl-wrapped men sitting on their haunches, warming their hands over the coals of a bukhari, give her only a passing glance. The jeep, her nurse’s cap, maybe even her leaf-shaped scar have become a familiar sight. She drives slowly down the street, avoiding yipping stray dogs, wandering children and trash-collecting cows. Past the fruit seller, the dry goods store, the chemist, the astrologer, and the Jalawaaz Fertility Clinic with the signs “Pay Rs. 5000 now or Rs. 50,000 later” and “Only Son will be Born.”
Outrageous! She met with the SDM six months ago to tell him the clinic just down the street from his office is flouting the 1994 Prenatal Diagnostic Techniques Act, the anti-gender-selection law and laws against advertising gender selection. The SDM said he understood that the Jalawaaz Fertility Clinic was competition for Bread of Healing Clinic. Which it is not. How can a private clinic run for profit be competition for a free clinic? Still he promised to “look into the matter.” He’s been looking into it ever since.
A woman in a sari that may once have been green is standing at the minibus stop, a blue and white umbrella shading henna-orange hair. Well-worn bulbous boots peep from below her sari border. Sister Anu slows. The extended arm requesting her to stop has no bangles at all—she must be a widow. Sister Anu steps on the clutch and brakes. She leans from the jeep. “Going to Gurkot?”
The umbrella folds. The woman approaches, her boots crunching. She narrows her large curious eyes, appraising Anu. “Main aapko jaanti hoon.” I know you. Said with certainty, directness and assurance. Most women would say main aapko pehchanti hoon—I recognize you.
“I saw you first time in Delhi at a lady-lawyer’s office,” says the old woman. “Then at the train station in Kalka. You gave me an orange.”
It’s the red-haired woman who persuaded Loveleen to go to St. Anne’s. In the rear view mirror, Shafiq Sheikh’s ears are twitching, but having transport is such a privilege. She leans over and opens the passenger door. The woman sits down and swivels her legs in like a city woman. She doesn’t cover her henna-red head as most local women would when riding with an unrelated man. Well, she’s old.
“You had a scar,” the woman says. “It looked like the skin that forms on cold tea. But now I had to come this close to see it.”
Sister Anu’s hand rises to her cheek—her facial nerves are less sensitive on that side. Thank god for the Vitamin E oil and concealer Rano sends. These and toilet paper cannot be renounced. “Yes,” she says. “Some of us have scars on the inside, some on the outside.”
“I am Damini,” the old woman says.
T
HE
J
ESUS-SISTER IS THINNER THAN SHE REMEMBERS
, with a marked resemblance to Rekha in the movies. “I have to go to the last minibus stop.”
“My home is near the stop” the sister says.
Damini clings to the armrest as the jeep turns on the switchbacks. She’s hitching a ride so she can to avoid a lonely uphill walk on the ghost-trail, and memories of brown eyes shining like twin fireflies. The spirits of the last two girls she stopped tormented her this morning as she led another worried pregnant woman down the hill to Jalawaaz and the ultrasound clinic.
When will it be safe for us to come again
? The spirits asked.
What do they think she is—an astrologer?
She asked them, Is it better for you now you have released your woman-bodies and become spirits? They laughed—what could that
mean? She called on her Piara Singh to help her, but he remained in the shadows. Maybe he’s forgotten her. No—he’s angry. He too never expected that Damini could kill.
She tells herself all actions are ordained, that no one but the gods are to blame, just as Krishna told Arjun in the
Gita
. But whenever she does, her own forefinger comes before her. Again it pushes the wad of chewed tobacco between those tiny lips.
Jalawaaz Fertility Clinic paid her a commission today when she brought the young woman to their general physician. And today the nurse let Damini watch as she applied jelly to the probe and rubbed it on the young woman’s body.
Damini, who was a pair of ears for so many years, has learned that goonj—echo—can turn into pictures. The ultrasound looked into the dark box of the young woman’s womb and the wavy black and white pictures answered all the young woman’s unspoken questions.
Will I be safe in my home after this child? Will I be respected, will I get enough to eat, and will my old age be comfortable or will I go begging? Will my husband send me home and take another wife? Will we be paupers and have to begin again from scratch?
When the doctor told her she could prepare to distribute sweets in celebration, the young woman understood her child was a son. She took the minibus home to protect the baby rather than strain herself walking uphill on the ghost-trail. But after shopping in Jalawaaz, Damini couldn’t bring herself to spend an additional ten rupees for the minibus fare—every morning, Chunilal swallows the pills provided by Dr. Gupta, and the cow-and-elephant dung potion provided by the ojha with equal faith, but neither appears to be working. He no longer has energy to finish the feeding trough.
