The Accidental Apprentice (32 page)

Neha reveals her strategy only when we are halfway to the house. ‘I have many friends who are stinking rich. They will lend me the money. Two lakhs is chickenfeed for them, probably less than their poodle's monthly food bill.'

I feel like asking her where these friends were when we needed money to retain the flat, but decide against it. Who am I to judge her? After all, it's her kidney at stake. And she can beg, borrow or steal that money for all I care.

*   *   *

There is a big crowd gathered in the courtyard when the auto drops us in front of the LIG Colony. I learn from Dhiman Singh that Mrs Nirmala Mukherjee Shah, our most famous tenant, is leaving B-25 to shift into Gandhi Niketan, a community centre for the practice of Gandhian values, situated in the premium and upscale locality of West End in South Delhi.

The move does not come as a surprise to me. Nirmala Ben is no longer the simple Gandhian with the frugal lifestyle that I used to know. She has acquired the trappings of a well-heeled guru. Her hair is now immaculately made up, her plain chappals have been replaced by designer sandals, and even her trademark sari looks whiter. Nowadays she is constantly surrounded by a retinue of loyal followers, admirers and hangers-on. Even though her flat is just three doors down from ours, her fame has created a distance between us, a chasm too deep to be easily crossed.

‘
Arrey,
Sapna
beti,
' she calls out the moment she spots me. ‘How have you been?' She embraces me warmly.

‘I'm fine. But why are you deserting the colony?'

‘
Shoo karoon?
What to do?' she sighs. ‘I didn't want to go, but my comrades insist that this place is too small for my daily talks.'

‘I'll miss you,' I tell her, genuinely meaning it, too.

‘
Arrey,
I am not leaving the city, only going a few kilometres away. You and Susheela must come and visit me whenever you want homemade dhoklas and rasagullas.'

As I watch her get into the back seat of a sleek Hyundai Sonata, I have the distinct feeling that I am seeing her in person for the last time. Henceforth I will be able to meet her only in the pages of the newspaper and on the TV screen.

At least she is using her newfound stardom to touch lives and inspire positive change. Her campaign against high-level graft has continued to gather momentum. There are daily news reports that the noose around Atlas Investments is tightening. Government investigators claim to have secured crucial bits of evidence from Mauritius, igniting a wave of speculation that the names of the individuals behind Atlas will be revealed soon.

*   *   *

Inside our flat, Ma is slumped at the dining table, crying silently. She is disconsolate at Nirmala Ben's departure. ‘My best friend in the colony has gone,' she laments. ‘I wish I could go away from this world.'

‘You are not going anywhere,' I tell her sternly.

‘What's the point?' She spreads her hands. ‘My two daughters never tell me anything. They treat me like a child, do things behind my back.'

I share a wry glance with Neha. Ma is in one of her periodic bouts of depression, imagining conspiracies everywhere.

‘What is it that we have kept from you?' I challenge her.

‘I know you and Neha are up to something. Is it something to do with my test results? At least tell me what Dr Mittal said. How much time have I got left?'

I sense the moment has come for full disclosure. ‘Dr Mittal said you have a disease called ESRD, in which the kidneys become less effective. That is why you have been feeling tired, losing your appetite, having muscle cramps. What you need is a new kidney. And we are arranging one for you.'

‘How? By giving me one of yours?' Ma's hand flies to her lips as she contemplates the horror of that implication. ‘May God strike me dead before I cause harm to my children. A mother's job is to give, never to take.'

‘It won't be our kidney,' I assure her. ‘It will be another donor's.'

‘Why rob someone of their kidney for my sake? No one knows how much time they have left in this life. Perhaps my time has come,' she says with the world-weary air of a much older woman. ‘No point wasting any more money on surgery and medicines for me.'

Mothers have this awesome ability of instantly humbling their children. All our lives we never thought of Ma as separate from the kitchen. Just because she was a simple housewife from the rustic town of Mainpuri, a Class 8 pass who didn't know Camus and computers and didn't speak English, we never took her seriously, never really tried to understand her. Alka was the one who was closest to her. Papa's attitude towards her was one of haughty superiority, and Neha and I subconsciously imitated it. We relegated Ma to a background presence, someone who kept the house running and kept track of religious occasions and the network of family relationships with distant aunts and even more distant cousins, while we wrestled with more important stuff like quadratic equations and
Hamlet.
Even after Papa's death, it never crossed our minds to try to find out how she was coping. Did she feel lonely or weighed down by the trivia of life? She killed off all her wants and needs for everyone else's. And now, when her life is on the line, she is prepared to sacrifice even that for our sake.

I rush forward and embrace Mother, guilt welling up inside me like a tearless sob. ‘You're only forty-seven,' I remind her. ‘Your time has not come and neither is it going to come any time soon. You have fulfilled your duty as a mother; now we will fulfil our duty as daughters.'

‘Not
we, I,
' Neha interjects. ‘I am the one arranging a replacement kidney for you from the best kidney hospital in the city.'

I gape at her in astonishment. It is not just what she said but the way she said it, simultaneously taunting and patronising me.

‘But it must cost a lot,' Ma agonises.

‘You don't have to worry about money as long as
I
am there to look after you,' Neha says, directing yet another barb at me.

‘My darling daughter!' Ma dabs at her eyes and pulls Neha to her chest.

I feel sequestered, cast out from this family scene, like an uninvited guest at a party. Neha is suddenly acting all grown up and I am finding it difficult to come to grips with it. But, then, I myself am responsible for it. By abdicating my responsibility as an elder, by forsaking my duty as a daughter, I have allowed Neha to usurp my place. And now she has cut me out, made me a pariah in my own house.

I go to bed with a bruised ego and a nagging conscience. Money can buy you a kidney, but it can't buy you a sister's respect.

*   *   *

Dr Mittal calls me the next day, just when I am busy explaining the unique features of the Sony BX420 series of LED TVs to a customer. ‘What happened? I thought you and Neha were to meet me yesterday.' He sounds irate and a little agitated.

‘There has been a change of plan,' I inform him. ‘We are exploring the possibility of obtaining a kidney under the altruistic-donation category.'

There is silence at the other end. Finally he asks, ‘And who is this altruistic donor?'

‘A friend of ours,' I lie.

‘Then you better bring him in. I need to check him. It's imperative we perform the transplant within the next five to seven days. Your mother's condition is quite serious. She's dying a little every day.'

‘I understand, Doctor.' I quickly end the call, feeling drained and shaken.

It is impossible for me to concentrate on work after that, earning a reprimand from the manager, who is already annoyed at my unauthorised absence yesterday.

*   *   *

Two more days pass and all Neha is able to manage is ₹10,000. Apparently, her buddies were not as generous as she thought. Still, she is not willing to concede defeat. ‘Some of my friends are out of town. I'm waiting for them to come back. You rest assured, I'll get the full amount.'

The only bit of good news comes from Dr Nath. ‘Success!' he exults on the phone to Neha. ‘I have found an excellent donor for your mother. She is an extremely young and healthy girl. And all her parameters match your mother's perfectly. So when are you coming to make the payment? We would like the amount in full, and in cash.'

‘Soon, Doctor,' Neha assures him. ‘I'm working on it.'

*   *   *

Monday, 2 May, opens with the news of Osama bin Laden's death. We are stunned to learn that he has been killed in a firefight with American commandos deep inside Pakistan.

The news of Osama's death does not excite me as much as the news Neha gives me that evening. ‘I did it,
didi
! I got the two lakhs.'

‘Really?'

She retrieves her handbag, a fake Gucci. ‘Ta-
da
!' She imitates a trumpet fanfare as she dumps two thick bundles of thousand-rupee notes on the bed. ‘Each bundle contains a hundred thousand.'

I pat her shoulders. ‘I'm proud of you. So who was this magnanimous friend?'

‘I can't tell you his name.'

‘His? You mean it's a man?'

Neha suddenly becomes cagey. ‘Look, you want to eat the mangoes or count the trees? What's important is that we
have
the money, not how I got it or who gave it to me.'

‘You're right,' I say, conceding the point. ‘The important thing is that we can get Ma's operation done now.'

I go to bed that night with a warm glow in my heart. Osama bin Laden was dead. And Ma was going to live.

*   *   *

Dr Nath's chamber reeks of some kind of cloying perfume when I step into it at 10 a.m. the next day, dressed in a white salvar kameez.

The specialist greets me with the shameless eagerness of an adolescent on his first date. ‘Where's your sister?' he asks, gazing hopefully at the door.

‘Neha has her exams. She won't be coming to the hospital any more,' I reply, almost involuntarily adjusting my dupatta over my chest.

‘Oh.' Dr Nath tries to hide his disappointment by becoming officious and businesslike. ‘I have reserved the OT for the day after tomorrow. You need to admit your mother tomorrow, so that we may monitor her condition.'

‘I'll do that.'

‘You have the cash?'

‘Yes, exactly two lakhs.' I open my purse and start taking the bundles out.

‘Wait.' He stops me. ‘I don't handle cash. You need to deposit it with the cashier downstairs and bring me the receipt.'

‘I have one request.'

‘Yes?'

‘I would like to meet the donor to personally say thank you. Can you arrange it?'

‘Look, in such matters it is best not to know too much. We follow the same policy as in anonymous adoptions.'

‘The donor will be fine after the operation, won't she, doctor?'

‘Of course she will be. Healthy human beings can live quite easily with one kidney.'

‘At least tell me her name.'

‘What good will that do? But if you are desperate to know, it is Sita Devi, like the wife of Lord Ram in
Ramayana.
Satisfied? Now go and get me the receipt from the cashier.'

I step out of his office and take the elevator to the ground floor. The payment window is located on the far side of Reception. Just as I have finished paying the money to the cashier, I hear what sounds like an argument coming from the Reception area.

‘I've told you before also not to come here. Does nothing enter your brain?' a man's voice hisses harshly.

‘What to do,
sahib
? I need the money urgently. My son is very sick,' a woman's plaintive whimper comes in response. I cannot see her because of a pillar blocking my view.

‘You will only get the money tomorrow, after the operation. But let me warn you, Sita, if you set foot here one more time, we are going to stop doing business with you. Then don't blame me if your family starves to death. Now go back to the clinic.'

Sita. My ears prick up at the name. Almost instinctively my head swivels in the direction of Reception and I tilt to one side to see behind the pillar. I am expecting a healthy young girl, but the supplicant who turns back dejected from the counter is a middle-aged woman, dressed in a tattered green sari. She looks like a skeleton, with her sunken eyes, gaunt face and thin, chapped lips. Her hair is dirty and unkempt. Her ribcage is clearly visible under her blouse, the skin shrivelled like some old parchment. She drags her feet slowly, as though suffering the aftereffect of a major operation. In the swanky environs of Unity Kidney Institute she looks as out of place as a meat dish in a Jain vegetarian meal.

No, I tell myself. She can't be Ma's donor. But something about the woman piques my interest, like a story that has to be read. Inserting the receipt into my purse, I follow her as she shuffles out of the hospital's revolving door.

With her head hung low, she ambles to a bus stop adjacent to the hospital. A Delhi Transport Corporation bus bound for Gurgaon arrives within ten minutes and she boards it. After a moment's hesitation I clamber in too, taking the seat directly across from her.

Sitting within touching distance of Sita, I examine her closely. There is a bandage peeking out of her back and her arms are riddled with punctures of surgical needles. It makes me even more curious to speak to her, but she barely notices me, a stranger in a bus full of strangers. From time to time her thumb brushes over the bottom of her eyes, wiping away tears.

The bus traverses an unfamiliar route via the Outer Ring Road, which is congested with traffic. Everywhere I look I see people, cars and more people. As I watch the teeming streets and maddening rush of the city, I am overcome with a strange burst of emotion. How vast the city is, and yet how lonely. No one has time for anyone else. Our lives are ruled by the clock, each one of us trapped in its ticking, stuck in the rat race with no end in sight. Perhaps we are no different from cars, each a self-contained cocoon, each travelling apart from the others, hurtling down a highway to nowhere.