A Sister's Promise (8 page)

Sell the factory? The cottage? Oh God, no . . .

‘Have you spoken with your sister?’ The doctor sounds grave.

What is he saying? Is he talking to Ma? What does he mean?

‘Yes.’ Ma stumbles a bit over that one word of assent.

What? Ma’s sister? Ma doesn’t have a sister!

‘She’s agreed to come here.’ Ma’s voice is the colour of rain-washed tamarind gleaming in the morning sunshine.

A sister? Ma has a sister? Am I dreaming this?

Ma and I have laughed about the fact that I am an only child of only children, an oddity in a village where everybody is related to everybody else and have enough relatives to form an army.

‘Well then . . .’ The doctor says. I can picture him nodding.

‘But . . . she did not promise anything . . . we haven’t been in touch for years you see. Things happened in the past and I . . .’ She chokes on her words.

There is a longish pause. The doctor clears his throat.

Then, Ma says, ‘I am hoping that when she sees Kushi she will agree to donate her kidney . . . but in case she decides not to . . .’ Ma’s voice sounds as if it is drowning in a lake of sorrow, swirling with undercurrents of worry and ache. ‘I curse the fact that I have only one kidney. I wish I could give it to her anyway . . . ’

A kidney? So my kidneys have packed up then . . .

Now it comes to me what dialysis means: to purify the blood, as a substitute for the normal function of the kidney.I see the car bearing down. I hear the terrifying roar that crowds out everything else. I taste blood . . .

With effort, I direct my mind away from the memory of the accident and concentrate on what is being said. I still cannot believe Ma has a sister she has never mentioned. Why? She said something happened in the past. What did?

‘We are trawling through donor registries, trying to find a match for Kushi.’ The doctor takes a deep breath and his voice sounds as worn as the soles of a farm labourer’s feet. ‘But her blood group is rare and it is taking time . . . we’ll step up the effort, do all we can . . . ’

‘Thank you, doctor.’ I know Ma is frantic from the way she breaks up her syllables. I can tell that she has ever more questions, but is sealing them behind the barrier of her lips for now.

Suddenly I am beset by a horror worse than any I have envisaged. Will I die if they don’t find a donor for me and the money for dialysis runs out? I don’t want to die. Please God. Not yet. I have so many things to do.

‘When do you think she will wake up?’

‘All in good time. Her body has been traumatised. It is still recuperating. It needs the medium of sleep to heal. Why do you ask?’

‘I have to go to the bank . . .’ Worry paints Ma’s voice the wet brown of muddy meadows.

How much money does dialysis cost? Can we afford it? Which hospital is this? We cannot be in Dhoompur clinic, it does not have the requisite facilities. So where am I?

‘The nurses will keep a close eye on her. And I’ll come by every half hour to check on her. She’ll be fine. Please don’t worry. You do what you have to.’ The doctor is reassuring.

How long have I been sleeping? How much time have I lost? What day is it today?

I push down the rising waves of panic. I hate the fact that I am so completely out of control of my life.

‘Thank you, doctor.’ Ma says, her voice awash with gratitude and fear and anxiety and nerves.

What is this doing to you, Ma? Why did you lie to me, Ma, and tell me you are an only child, like me? Why did you wipe your sister from your life? What else have you lied about?

I hear the heavy drag of footsteps leading away—the doctor leaving, I presume—and then feel Ma’s hand on mine again.

‘Kushi,’ her voice comes softly. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, sweetie, but I have missed talking to you and I will talk as if you can hear me, okay? I have to go away, just for a bit, just to the bank. We are in Palmipur hospital, the dialysis ward—you were moved here from the ICU yesterday—so it will take me some time to get to Dhoompur and back, but the nurses and doctors here are very nice and will keep an eye on you. They have been absolutely brilliant so far, Kushi, and you will be fine, sweetie, that’s a promise.’ A breath, and then, ‘I feel so terrible. This is all my fault.’

How? How is this your fault?

My face is cupped in the palm of Ma’s hand, her touch as comforting as warm shelter on a wet day. I feel her cinnamon-scented breath on my cheeks.

Ma, the car . . . It came right at me, as if, as if, whoever was inside meant to harm me.

Voicing the horror of what I experienced, even in the privacy of my own head, and the suspicion that has been lurking since my memory of what happened has returned, makes me shiver and cringe. It is unbelievable. I am making it up, surely? Why would anyone want to hurt me?

Red letters on faded yellow fluttering beside me as I fall, just before everything fades to black . . .

As if she’s heard what I am unable to utter out loud, Ma says, once again surprising me with her uncanny penchant for interpreting my thoughts, ‘I should have realised those threats were serious. I should have looked out for you.’

Despite my fatigue, I am consumed by a welcome flood of rage that sends the adrenaline pulsing through my rigid body.

‘You are not to blame,’ I want to tell Ma, but the lethargy that pervades my body, instantly snuffing out the adrenaline, robs me of speech.

It is so much easier to pretend to be asleep, to not have to see in my mother’s eyes what this is doing to her, to not have to clock the burden of her fear and heartache—which she will try and hide from me but which I can sense even with my eyes closed—especially when I haven’t come to terms with my own fears yet.

‘When I get better, I am going after the people who did this to me, and I will bring them down,’ I want to say, but I lack the conviction I had in spades not so long ago. Am I going to get better?

Those people who did this to me have not only destroyed my kidneys, they also seem to have robbed me of my self-worth, the belief that I can do anything I set my mind to. I have always felt older than seventeen, I have always felt invincible. But now I am scared, a frightened little girl.

I am someone I do not recognise. Someone I do not want to be.

I am hiding behind my closed lids. It is hard enough to acknowledge my dread to myself; I do not want to see this new, fearful person I have become reflected in my mother’s eyes.

‘The police are looking into who did this and the villagers are on their case. Everyone in Bhoomihalli and beyond are up in arms and will not rest until they have caught and punished whoever did this to their beloved, young leader,’ Ma says, gently. ‘Kushi, the most important thing is getting you better. And you will, sweetheart,’ her voice, shaky but determined, imparts faith. ‘And don’t you go worrying your pretty head about the cost either. I am going to sell the factory. ’

No, ma, not the factory.

I can feel her taking a deep breath. ‘And there is something else, sweetheart. I have wanted to tell you this for a long time. But I . . .’ she gulps and then the words come out in a burning rush like the murky water that gushes from the borewell after several gurgling false starts. ‘Kushi, I have a sister. She is coming here to see you. I’m sorry I did not tell you earlier, Kushi. I . . . I meant to. But . . . so much happened in the past, and she and I . . . we’re not close anymore and . . . the longer I left it, the harder it became.’ A pause, then, ‘I am leaving some letters for you to read here by your bedside, just in case you wake up before I come back, sweetie. They’ll tell you what happened, why I haven’t spoken of my sister . . .’

Letters. The sheaf of papers she’d been clutching when I opened my eyes and saw her beloved self snoozing in the chair beside me.

‘In these letters which I’ve written over the years, I’ve penned our story: yours and mine, every word a prayer and a wish. Like you, I too find solace in words, Kushi. These letters are like my diary. I carry them everywhere with me, tucked into my sari blouse, adding more letters to the pile as and when I feel the need to write. They were with me when this happened to you and I’ve written a couple more and have been re-reading the earlier ones while waiting for you to wake. I hope they’ll tell you what I have tried and failed to do so many times all these years. I hope they will explain what I cannot.’ Her voice makes me think of marshmallow clouds in a rainbow sky at sunset.

‘I am going now, my love. I will be back before you know it.’ I feel her breath warming my cheeks, her lips pressing against my forehead. I am enveloped in her smell: sweat and sandalwood and worry and fear.

Then I hear the soft rustle of paper settling, the breezy swish of her sari skirt, her gentle footfall walking away. She is gone, and I am bereft. The displaced air beside my bed settles with a sigh. My heart is heavy with the weight of words unsaid.

I wait, listening to the sounds around me. The grumbles and the groans of pain. The determinedly cheerful chatter of nurses and the discordant drone of visiting relatives.

Then, slowly, I drag my unwilling eyes open, and look around.

I can make out rows of beds on either side of me, their occupants sprouting tubes like mine; only part of a hand, or a curl of ebony hair, or a flash of skin are visible.

Before I can take in any more, a nurse bustles up, smiling kindly. ‘Awake, missy? And how are we doing?’ She adjusts some of the tubes feeding into my body.

‘Your ma has not left your bedside all this while, not even to eat.’ The nurse nods toward the chair beside me. ‘That’s been her bed you know, that chair and a similar one when you were in the ICU. Just her luck that the moment she pops out, you wake up.’

I feel a stab of guilt.
I couldn’t face you, Ma. Not when I’m all over the place. Sorry, Ma. I need some time to gather myself.

‘She’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, you’ll be seeing rather a lot of me.’ The nurse winks. ‘Your ma asked us no less than twenty times to keep an eye on you before she left.’ She grins, yanking at a tube. It stings.

To distract myself, I look past the row of beds, breathing in the pale lemon smell of medicine and misery, urine and phenyl, hurt and entreaties, anguish and hope. I imagine I can hear the whisper of a thousand frantic prayers, heroic faith trumping desperate odds. I fancy I can taste the greenish orange of wretched despair at war with cautious optimism.

Doctors—fatigued gods in their smudged white coats and sallow grey faces—field, with each impeded step, the pleading, prostrate relatives, with their folded hands and their swollen eyes, begging them to rescue their loved ones from the dominion of death.

‘All looking good. Your doctor will be along shortly. I will look in on you again in a bit. If you need anything just press this button here.’ And with another kind smile, the nurse moves up to the next bed.

The chair beside me is devoid of Ma, but, as promised, she has left letters there in her stead.

I have a purpose now, something to distract me from my misery. My mother’s story and why she has never mentioned her sister all this while.

The other Kushi, the girl I was before the accident, would have been annoyed with Ma for keeping such a big thing to herself, not sharing it with me. Especially when she has always stressed the importance of truth, taught me to prize honesty, and to live my life by it. Especially when I have always believed there were no secrets between us, that she was as transparent with me as I have always been with her, which is why I pretended to be asleep just now, so I didn’t have to lie to her, by having to show a composure I do not feel. I did not want to show her how terrified I am, and for her to have to deal with that as well as the fact of my accident, and the frantic rooting around for funds to pay for my dialysis, and the desperate search for a kidney donor and the very real possibility of my considerably shortened lifespan.

Now though, I am relieved that there is something to divert me from this living nightmare. I am pleased to have something else to focus on other than my uncooperative, wrecked body.

I pick up the first letter, written in Ma’s elegant handwriting.

‘Ma, I know you wanted to be a doctor but you would never have passed muster, not with this beautiful handwriting,’ I had said once.

She had looked up at me, her eyes puzzled, scrutinising me over her glasses.

‘Aren’t doctors’ notes notoriously illegible?’

And she had laughed that cascading laugh of hers.

She has told me she had to give up studying medicine when her parents died, as she was unable to concentrate on her studies and failed her exams. Is that a lie too?

I suppose I will find out; the answers to all my questions right here in these letters, in her words. I remember her holding my hand and helping me form letters as a child. She had sat with me patiently every day until my handwriting became neat enough to pass muster. The teachers at school would mark my work but she would make me redo it until it was up to her standards.

‘Presentation is important,’ she said, again and again, ‘whether you are cooking, or dressing up to go to school, or writing. Your handwriting says so much about the person you are.’

My fine handwriting, (although not as lovely as hers), is thanks to her.

I look at the first letter, my eyes burning. These are letters my ma has written to
her
mother.

I balk, not wanting to go further than ‘Dearest Ma’, but my eyes drag down the page, swallowing her words like brinjal soaking up oil in the cooking pot. She has given me permission after all.

Feeling like a voyeur, I lean back, my head nestling amongst the drug-permeated, linctus-scented pillows and start to read in earnest.

SHARDA—CHILDHOOD

RECIPE FOR A HAPPY FAMILY

Extract from the school report for Sharda Ramesh, Upper Kindergarten, Age 4.

Sharda is a quiet, shy, eager-to-please child who is a delight to have in the class. She is very hardworking and extremely bright also, being proficient at reading and writing, and showing a natural aptitude for numbers.