Someone Like You (23 page)

I stare at his mother, as she hides her face in her husband’s shoulder and cries. They are sitting on the benches right opposite to where I am. Her sobs are heart-breaking, and I feel utterly helpless. I have no idea what to do. I cannot possibly go to her and tell her that it is all going to be okay. As much as I wish that it was true, it isn’t, yet. We don’t know yet.

I turn to Pia, who is sitting on my right. She looks at me, and tears immediately fill both our eyes. We look away. We cannot cry; we have to be strong … or at least pretend to be so. We need to show some strength in front of Tanmay’s parents. They are already devastated, and we don’t want to add to that. I cannot even begin to imagine what they must be going through.

They arrived here at the hospital about a couple of hours ago, around noon. As soon as they came, they wanted to go in and see Tanmay, but the nurses did not let them in. That’s when I realized that the distraught mother screaming for her son was Tanmay’s mother, and the man trying to fake strength while tears threatened to overflow his eyes any minute was Tanmay’s father. His mother was dressed in an old, dull saree with its
pallu
covering her head and his father was wearing a soiled pale-yellow shirt, black trousers that were torn at the
ankle and worn-out rubber sandals. They both looked equally disturbed and confused. It had taken me a lot of courage to go to them and explain everything.

Pia was of no help. Even though I had asked her to keep a check on her tears, she had started crying almost as soon as Tanmay’s mother had first looked up at us. I had then explained the whole situation to Tanmay’s parents and as soon as I told them about the possible major brain surgery, they dissolved into tears again, and I was left with an overpowering feeling of despair. The sadness I had felt last night was nothing compared to what I felt then.

Tanmay was their only son. They have always lived in a small town and his father had worked very hard to send Tanmay to this college. They had nursed a lot of dreams for him. He is probably what matters to them above everything. The possibility of losing him to a careless bike accident seemed way too bizarre. This is not something he deserves. This is not something anyone deserves.

After sitting with them for a while, trying to console them with words we did not completely believe in ourselves, we took seats a little away from them. They did not look too comfortable with us around. I feel Pia’s hand slowly creep up and hold mine. I look up at her to see that she is staring at a group of doctors coming our way. I recognize one of them as the one we talked to in the morning. We get up hurriedly.

‘Dr Ahuja …’ Pia whispers, asking a zillion questions with her eyes, without uttering a word.

The doctor looks at us apologetically. ‘You go on, I’ll be there in a short while,’ he says to the rest of his team, which promptly leaves. ‘His parents?’ he asks.

As soon as Tanmay’s parents join us, Dr Ahuja announces the surgery. ‘Due to the impact, he has suffered from intracranial injury. In simpler terms, we call it TBI—
Traumatic
Brain Injury
. The severity is somewhere between
moderate
to
severe
. His intracranial pressure is very high at the moment, which suggests cerebral haemorrhage. The CT scan strongly suggests so. We need to perform a medical procedure called
decompressive craniectomy
.’

‘A
what
?’ Pia asks. From the little experience that I have with medical terms, I can tell that the unpronounceable term cannot suggest something good.

‘A decompressive craniectomy. It is a neurosurgical procedure. We will remove a part of his skull. There is too much swelling in his brain and not enough space, so that is causing squeezing. We need to take out a part of his skull to provide room for—’

‘Doctor, please,’ I say to stop him from describing more. I cannot understand half of what he is saying and the horrified expressions on Tanmay’s parents’ faces tell me that Dr Ahuja is scaring them. I thank God that he is speaking in English. If they are so scared just by the way the doctor is telling us everything, I do not even want to think what they might have gone through if they knew what these doctors are about to do to their son. ‘Just do whatever you think is necessary and tell us what we need to do.’

Dr Ahuja motions at Tanmay’s parents and says, ‘They need to sign the documents. Actually, this is a complicated procedure and is performed only as a last resort. So we need special permission from them to go ahead.’

‘What do you mean
complicated
?’ Pia asks. ‘It is not safe? I mean—is he … in danger of …?’

‘I cannot say right now. We need this surgery,’ Dr Ahuja says.

‘But … but you said that it is used only as a
last resort
,’ I say, trying to fight my fear as a shiver runs up my spine.

The doctor pauses and meets our eyes, almost pityingly. We brace ourselves. He turns to look at Tanmay’s parents,
then back to us. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, before he says what we have been dreading all this while.

‘This is the last resort.’

‘Here, Uncle,’ Mandar says to Tanmay’s father, pointing to the area where he has to sign. Uncle signs the documents with a shaky hand.

As soon as we got the news about the procedure Tanmay is supposed to undergo—
decompressive craniectomy
—we informed people at the college about it, and the entire football team was here in no time. Still hung-over by last night’s drinking and the shock of the news, they all looked like a bunch of confused lunatics, roaming around the floor, trying to grasp what was going on and what is going to happen next. I could see that the gravity of the situation had finally sunk into their heads. Till last night, it was just another bike accident, by someone who got drunk after the celebration of winning a football match. Now, it is a matter of life and death.

As soon as the papers are signed, the arrangements for the operation start. We see nurses and compounders rush around the corridors, talking hurriedly to each other, and all this makes us panic even more. Tanmay’s mother has finally ceased crying, and we sit with her, trying to maintain outward calm. We wonder if she’s trying to do exactly the same thing.

Half an hour later, the operation theatre is all set and we see the door of the ICU open. The next moment, two compounders come out, pulling the stretcher with them. My heart stops.

‘Aunty, stop,’ I shriek when I see her rush towards Tanmay. I know that it is not going to be a pretty sight. I don’t want her to see it. But she doesn’t listen and keeps running towards the stretcher. I rush after her, Pia following suit.

The image of what we see next will never leave my mind.
Tanmay’s body is covered with a white sheet up to his chest. I can see blood—lots of it—seeping out from under it and staining the sheets. The blood looks fresh and the sight is very scary. But this does not even come close to the scare I get when I see what is there above his chest. There are tiny pools of semi-dry blood in the concave portions of his neck. And his face … it is completely disfigured. His whole head has swollen up to twice its size and is the deepest shade of red, teamed with the sick blue-green colour of blood clots. Had I not known that it is him, I would not have believed it was the same person. His battered face brings a fresh lot of tears in my eyes.

Aunty pauses, clearly unable to move towards her own son. Pia takes a step back. No matter how much she tries to deny it, it’s very clear to me that she loves Tanmay with all her heart. The sight in front of us is unbearable. I have known all along that his condition is serious, but still, with each thing that happens, the situation becomes even more difficult for me to handle. I pull Aunty and Pia back with me, and we stand a little distance away and see the paramedical staff members take Tanmay away to another operation theatre. My knees give up, and I take a seat on the bench, breathing heavily, my forehead moist with drops of sweat. It’s disheartening to see that even Uncle can’t hold back his tears this time, as he holds Aunty.

I can’t take it any more. I suddenly feel the need to get away from it all. ‘Take care of her,’ I whisper to Pia, although I doubt she heard me. I get up and walk down the flight of stairs, trying to find my way out of the hospital. After getting lost a few times, I finally see the huge glass doors of the hospital. I run out and into the parking lot, my breathing erratic.

Once alone, I let go of the tears I have been holding back since forever. Those sobs and silent tears I had been letting
out ever since I got the news of the accident were far from satisfying. I needed a good cry, but I couldn’t let go with Tanmay’s parents and Pia around. Now, in the almost-deserted parking lot, I let them fall. I slide down to the ground and lean against a car, as tears shake my body uncontrollably.

I could see it in the doctor’s eyes, that we have little or no hope here. And that is something that just cannot settle down easily. I cannot believe that something like this is actually happening to me. To Pia. To Tanmay’s parents. The thought of his parents brings tears to my eyes again. This is just so very unfair. What if he …?

I cannot imagine my life without him. Ever since I came to Nagpur, he has been my friend. He has been one of the very few real friends I have ever had. The selfless way in which he takes care of me, those sweet moments when he blushes and looks away when I tease him by mentioning Pia, the sweet shy guy. And the aggressive football player, the new heartthrob of the college … what did he ever do to deserve this? What did his parents do to deserve this?

Between sobs, I try to find out as much as I can about the operation he is going through by using Google on my phone. What comes up is far from encouraging. Two million people suffer from TBI every year, out of which approximately 1,00,000 people die, 5,00,000 more are permanently disabled and 80,000 people experience the onset of long-term disability following a severe brain injury annually. My whole body shakes in terror. When I picture Tanmay—the Tanmay I saw this morning, heavily bandaged, swollen, bleeding, wounded—I cannot help but feel defeated. How can someone whose condition looked as bad as his, come out of such a major injury?

I lose track of the time I spend here, crying my heart out. There is nothing else I can do. I feel completely helpless. Every now and then, I control the volume of my wails, when I hear people move around in the parking lot, where
I sit hidden. My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket, and I finally take it out.

‘Yes, Pia?’ I ask, my heartbeat elevating even more. ‘Is the operation done?’

‘Where are you, Niharika? Why were you not taking my calls? I was worried—’ Pia’s hassled voice says.

‘I’m okay. Just outside. Is Tanmay …? The operation …?’

‘It’s still going on. We’re waiting outside. Please come back … Aunty is not feeling well …’

‘Okay. I’ll be there in a minute,’ I say and hang up. I wipe away my tears and clear my throat before I get up. I dust myself and make my way back to the hospital entrance.

‘Niharika,’ someone says into my ears from behind me. I jerk away, startled.

‘K-Karthik …’ I breathe out. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing here?’

‘I just got to know about what happened. So I came to see
him
…’

‘Oh. You must be talking about my best friend, right? The short, sweet guy with nerdy spectacles and a smile on his face? The guy who used to worship you and respect you more than anything else in the world? Guess what—that guy is gone. You killed him.’

‘What?’
Karthik asks. ‘What are you saying?’

‘What I am saying is that you destroyed him. He is in an operation right now with very, very bleak chances of coming out alive. And if he does, he will be a … a vegetable all his life. Thanks to you, he will never be the same,’ I say. I push my cell phone into his face. ‘Here—this is what Wikipedia has to say about Traumatic Brain Injury. Now, as it says here, the treatment starts in the ICU, followed by a neurosurgical ward. That’s where Tanmay is
right now
. And do you know what happens after this?
The patient dies.
And even if he somehow magically comes out alive, he becomes a
vegetable
.
Coma, brain death, multiple organ failure … and what-not. I cannot even pronounce half of them, let alone know what they mean.’

‘But Niharika … please calm down. We cannot be so negative. Let’s go inside—’

‘And do what? Go inside and tell his parents that he will be okay when it’s actually a lie? Do you want me to do that?’

‘I don’t mean … I am just saying that what has happened has happened …’ Karthik says.

‘And it has happened
because of you
!’

‘I was not even there! How can this be my fault?’

‘I’ll tell you how this is your fault. You taught him to drink. You taught him to drive a bike, hell, you even gave him that death trap of a bike to drive, even when you
knew
he was going to get drunk!’ I let out angrily.

‘But he said he won’t drink.’