1990

I cannot see. I have had an eye operation. I cannot weep. Water and more so saline water is not good for the wounds fresh in the eyes. The eyes are wrapped, bandaged tight, and once they open, I am not supposed to wear spectacles any more. He is not there with me. He has gone to make a few swift telephone calls back home. He has gone to bring some food. It is difficult to find nutritious food for a patient in this part of the world. He has gone to procure a ticket for our journey back home.

He returns, half an hour too late. I complain. He gets angry. He usually gets very angry. He scolds, sounds expletives, goes to the balcony of our ramshackle shelter. He is alone, with a patient, who cannot even see. He has not been able to procure the train tickets. He cannot leave me alone and try his luck at the station. He has asked a friend to arrange for a Tatkal ticket – if it could be arranged. He hasn’t had dinner. He quickly rolls up his tobacco for a smoke, and puffs hurriedly at the balcony. Then he comes back. He finds a clean bowl and a spoon. He washes it and pours some milk. Then he tears the slices of bread into it. And then he remembers. He has forgotten the sugar. He goes to the next room. Another room, another patient – a girl, a bit older than the one in his room and her family. He shyly asks, “Do you have some sugar?” And then he remembers. Sugar is not very good for open wounds – that’s what his mother had taught him. He apologizes and thanks the family and comes back.

He switches on the dim light. I pretend to be asleep. He knows. He says, “Come on. Open your mouth, I will feed you.” No response. He says, “I know you are not asleep. So open up.” His voice does not sound angry any more. I open my mouth. He carefully pours one spoonful. I eat up. I do not complain about the sugar. But still he explains, “Sugar is not good for open wounds.” He brushes his hand within my hair. I fall asleep. He too dozes off. He forgets – he hasn’t had dinner.

The next day, the doctor has just opened up the bandage. He is expectantly standing in front waiting for me to open my eyes. I feel very uncomfortable opening my eyes, the sudden light, the blurring effect, the watery feeling. And slowly the camera seem to adjust its focus. And I can see, clear – no specs. He is happy, very happy. But he knows such operations are not always fully successful. The slightest carelessness can bring back the power to its normal level. No water for the next fortnight at least – he warns himself.

The friend does not return with the train ticket. He has to travel without reservation, with me – an operated patient. He does not care about himself. But it’s a 36 hours journey and a crowded train and an equally dangerous route. As the train chugs in, he throws himself through the door of the unreserved compartment and promptly grabs two side seats. He places the two suitcases between them. He makes me sit on one of the seats.

The thali arrives. He has his dinner – his first morsel in three days. He eats in a hurry. Rice, chapattis, dal, the rag of the vegetable – all in, all at once, as a trickle of the gravy pours out from the corner of his mouth. I watch, he doesn’t notice. He looks up once he has finished. And then he cleans up, goes to the basin and washes up. As the night draws in, he makes me lay over the two seats, the suitcases bridging the gap. He sits on one of the corners of the seat, my head on his lap. He will not lie down. He continues shooing away erratic passengers, who are trying to shove into a corner. I doze off and I can smell – his smell. He smells of tobacco, dust, sweat, after shave, the steel on his wrist watch, the coconut oil on his silken balding hair – all rolled into one.