The Unexpected Son (20 page)

V
ishal parked his car along the narrow street, shut off the ignition, and turned to Vinita. “Last chance to change your mind.”

“No way.” Vinita held his gaze. Her brother looked well-groomed and distinguished in his office attire. His hair was combed back from his forehead and he wore a pleasant aftershave. Her brother had always been a sharp dresser. This morning he was going to drop her back home after this visit with the Barves, and then drive directly to his office.

“Let's go, then,” he said in a resigned tone, opened the driver side door, and climbed out.

Vinita stepped out from the passenger side. Despite the town's progress, this street hadn't changed much in thirty years. The potholes were visible on its tarred surface and the reddish dust native to these parts clung to the edges.

The culverts on either side of the street that used to drain the rainwater and some amount of sewage were now covered with concrete slabs. And what a relief that was.

She lifted her gaze to study the Barves' house. Her son's house. It was a single-story structure with an old-style roof of terra-cotta tiles. The whitewashed front and the teakwood door and windows looked clean and cared for. Two small shrubs flanked the concrete steps leading up to the front door. A shade tree cast a heavy shadow on one side of the house. It was a typical middle-class bungalow in suburban Palgaum.

Her hands trembled a little at the thought of meeting Rohit.

Before Vishal or she could knock, the door was opened by a slight, balding man, who looked to be in his seventies or thereabouts. He was dressed in brown trousers and a cream bush shirt. He stared at Vinita for a moment, his small eyes behind the glasses appraising her thoroughly, from head to toe. The look was perhaps no more than one second more than was considered polite when a man looked at a woman, but it was a piercing glance nonetheless. The blood rushed to her face.

“Namaste,”
he said finally, joining his hands in greeting. “I'm Shashi Barve. Please come in.” He held the door wide open.

Returning the
namaste,
she and Vishal crossed the threshold into the drawing room. “My sister, Vinita Patil,” said Vishal, introducing her to Barve.

It was a cool, sparsely decorated room with whitewashed walls and a gray slate floor. A simple black vinyl couch was backed against one wall, a sturdy coffee table separating it from two chairs placed against the opposite wall. Blue and white print cushions and matching curtains on the window provided the only splashes of color. But it all looked scrupulously clean.

What captured Vinita's eye were the photographs monopolizing two of the walls. Mr. Barve was everywhere: flanked by politicians, shaking hands with dignitaries, accepting an award, wearing a garland of red and white roses and smiling broadly, leading what looked like a rally, holding a picket sign.

In person he looked harmless enough—smaller than the men surrounding him. But every one of the pictures was a clear indication of his serious involvement in politics.

Vishal was right. Barve appeared to be a fanatical activist. Something about the intensity of the sentiment behind the photos and the sharp, dark eyes that continued to assess her made her uneasy. This was the man who had raised Rohit. Had he instilled the same radical spirit in his son?

She glanced again at Shashi Barve, taking in more details as he motioned to them to sit down. He had a narrow gray mustache. Not exactly the larger-than-life, charismatic community leader she'd pictured. He looked anything but inspiring.

Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a woman: obviously Mrs. Barve. She was slim, slightly taller than her husband—a bit unusual in their culture. Maybe Barve wasn't the typical macho Indian man who had issues about marrying a woman taller than he. But then he was a hero in his own right.

Dressed in a soft, powder blue sari that made her face seem ashen, the woman looked like her son's illness had taken its toll on her. She was probably in her late sixties, but looked older. The large red
bindi,
the dot on her forehead, stood in deep contrast to the paleness of her skin. Her mostly gray hair was pulled back in a neat braid that reached her waist. A simple woman—living in a simple house.

“My wife, Meenal,” said Barve, and motioned once again for them to sit.

More
namastes
followed before they all settled down, Vishal sitting beside Vinita on the sofa, and the Barves occupying the chairs.

Vinita compared herself to the other woman's austere getup. Her own shoulder-length hair, the touch of lipstick, and the green, pear-shaped
bindi
with a gold outline to match her green sari and matching blouse suddenly seemed fussy and out of place. She tried to put it out of her mind and smiled at the woman—Rohit's mother.

Barve wasted no time coming to the point. “Mrs. Patil, I am told you are willing to help Rohit?” he asked, looking directly at Vinita.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Vinita, her hands in a tight clasp. Somehow
sir
seemed like the right way to address him. He looked old enough to be her father. “I'm hoping I'm a suitable donor.”

She could feel Meenal Barve's eyes boring into her. A mother being protective of her son was something Vinita could understand. But she wasn't sure if the watchful eyes were judging her for her more fashionable ways, her past indiscretions, or assessing her value as a potential savior.

“As you probably know, my wife and I were both tested and declared incompatible,” Barve said.

Vinita nodded. “Vishal mentioned it to me.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, making Vinita shift in her seat. “Can I…may I meet Rohit…if he's here?” she asked finally, unable to stand one more second of the tension in the room.

“No,” replied Meenal Barve.

Vinita's head snapped up. “Oh?” Had she come all this way just to have Rohit's adoptive mother toss her out even before she could utter her son's name? Anger sparked. What did they take her for—a robot to be harvested for bone marrow and then sent home? Without ever being given a chance to see or meet her son?

“He is in the hospital,” the woman explained. “He has a bronchial infection.”

Vinita's temper skidded to a halt. She took a slow breath. “When did the infection occur?” She wondered how serious his condition was. Was she too late in coming to his aid?

“He was admitted yesterday.”

“Will I be allowed to see him?”

Both the Barves nodded in unison, albeit reluctantly. Barve looked at his wristwatch. “A bit early. Visiting hours start at nine o'clock.” He glanced at his wife. “Why don't you prepare some tea, Meenal?”

Vinita was getting reading to say
no thanks
to the tea, but refrained. Her stomach might be in knots, but she needed these people on her side. Refusing refreshment in an Indian home was considered rude, and she couldn't afford to antagonize them. She observed Meenal Barve stand up and walk away to comply with her husband's request.

Her brother and Mr. Barve managed to keep up a polite conversation while the tea was being made. Eventually Vishal asked about Rohit's health problems. Vinita remained mostly quiet, absorbing the facts.

“Rohit's sickness was a complete shock,” explained Mr. Barve.

“Any idea what may have caused it?” Vishal queried cautiously.

Barve shook his head. “Could be anything—his chemistry experiments, the water in Palgaum, the electric power plant. Maybe it is genetic, like his juvenile diabetes.”

“Rohit has diabetes?” Vinita asked, her stomach plunging. Her poor son.

“Since he was a young boy.”

Could it be genetic? Vinita wondered. Was there a predisposition to blood cancer as well as diabetes in her ancestry? But no one in her immediate family had leukemia or diabetes. Could it be Som Kori's genes, then?

“Exactly when was the leukemia diagnosed?” asked Vishal, voicing one of her own questions.

“Two years ago, when Rohit started to get a low fever almost every night. Then his leg started to become painful. Only after that did he go to the doctor.” He explained to Vinita and Vishal some of the tests and treatments that had been tried so far. “They have tried different types of chemotherapy. They have even tried experimental medicines that have not yet been approved.”

“Really? Then how did you manage to acquire the drugs?” Vinita asked.

“The black market, of course,” he said, without batting an eyelash. “They didn't work, anyway. Nothing did.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“In fact, his diabetes got worse every time he was treated with chemo.”

Vinita wondered how much they'd paid for the medication. The very term
black market
implied prohibitive prices.

Several minutes later, Mrs. Barve appeared with a tray of four scalding cups of potent-looking tea, dark brown and thick. “Rohit never told us he was not feeling well,” she said, joining in the conversation. “It was when his fever came daily and his pain became unbearable that we found out.” She put the tray down. “He told us only last year about the leukemia, when we forced him to talk.” Her eyes had begun to glisten with tears.

Vinita was tempted to reach across the table and touch the woman's hand, offer some comfort. But she accepted a cup of tea instead. Mothers often blamed themselves for their children's illnesses. She knew it firsthand. Arya rarely told Girish and her about such things because they'd worry and fuss over her. But how could the Barves not have seen the obvious signs? “Didn't you guess anything was wrong?”

Mrs. Barve shook her head. “Not in the beginning. He has his own flat—quarters provided by the college. We don't see him daily. Maybe once a week. Mostly Sundays.” She handed Vishal a cup. “Sometimes not even that.”

“He has his friends' circle, his own interests,” added Barve. “Staying with parents means lack of freedom for the younger generation.”

“I understand.” Vinita was familiar with that, too. Arya had moved out of their house to go to college at eighteen and never really moved back with them. Besides, the Barves were even older than her and Girish. They must have been approaching middle age when they'd adopted Rohit. The generation gap was so much wider.

“Rohit can be very independent and stubborn sometimes.”

It sounded familiar. Now
that
trait was definitely genetic. Wasn't that what her family said about her? What she herself said about Arya? “What kind of treatment are they giving him right now?” she asked, wondering how much these people were willing to share with her. So far they'd been quite forthcoming.

“Everything possible has already been done,” replied Barve, sipping from his cup. “The only thing left is a transplant.”

They talked a little while longer, until the strong, sweet tea was gone and the clock read nine o'clock. Then they all climbed into Vishal's car because the Barves didn't own one, and drove to the hospital. Vinita and Meenal Barve sat side by side in the backseat, the awkwardness still lingering despite the earlier icebreaker.

When they arrived at the hospital, Palgaum Medical Center, Vinita stared in awe. The brick building with its spacious parking lot and clearly marked signs was quite impressive. While she was growing up, there were a number of small private clinics that could hold no more than a dozen beds, but proudly called themselves hospitals.

This could match any medium-sized American or European hospital. Even as she admired the modern facility, the tension was mounting inside her. The urge to confess to Vishal and the Barves that she'd made a mistake and needed to go home was creeping up on her, but she quickly suppressed it. She wasn't a coward.

They walked through the double glass doors and Barve ushered them into a reception area with a high ceiling and marble-tile floor. He stopped at the front desk and whispered something to the receptionist, then led them down a long corridor. The man had a quick stride, and Vinita hurried to keep up.

Her heartbeat climbed a notch higher. She was about to meet her son. She adjusted her shoulder bag and wiped her perspiring hands on a handkerchief. The tea she'd forced herself to drink was beginning to churn in her stomach. Or maybe it was the butterflies, flying in tight circles.

Stopping at one of the many open doors, Barve entered, motioning to the rest of them to follow him. She glanced at Vishal. He seemed calm. He gave her elbow a brief, reassuring squeeze and propelled her forward.

Ignoring the dry feeling in her mouth, she stepped inside, head held high. She was not going to let the moment make a nervous wreck out of her.

The room was small, with cream walls and one window. Dark green curtains were pulled aside to let the sun in. The bed sat in the center, monopolizing most of the space. An intravenous pole stood next to a night table on one side of the bed, and a wooden chair sat on the other. A single light fixture and fan hung from the ceiling.

After the quick survey of the room, her eyes fixed themselves on the man reclined against a pillow—her reason for coming here. He had set aside the magazine he was reading and was looking directly at them.

Her heart did a quick flip and settled back into her chest with a thump.

She stared at him—drinking in every detail. If she could, she would have cupped his face in her hands and studied his eyes, run her thumbs over the planes, the sharp cheekbones, the length of his nose, the contours of his square jaw, and even counted his eyelashes. But it was out of the question. And gawking wasn't polite, so she quickly looked away.

For a moment it was like seeing a young Som Kori all over again. It appeared that Vishal had deliberately downplayed the resemblance. The likeness to Som was quite remarkable. The arresting gold-brown eyes, the low-slung eyebrows that looked like a perpetual frown, the full lower lip, the angry movie-hero look: all Kori traits. His dark hair was short and spiky. His cheeks and chin bore a shadow of stubble.