Free Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry Page A

from his working life. “This is a really good hospital, Professor Vakeel, a five-star hotel compared to some. After my unforeseen departure from Kuwait, I came back to our motherland and got a job at a government hospital in Indore. What a truly dreadful place. Rats running everywhere, and nobody getting upset about it.”
    “Must have been just before the plague outbreak.”
    “Oh yes. Two terrible things happened while I was there. One patient’s toes were chewed up. Then, a newborn was eaten by rats – partially, but fatally.”
    Nariman shook his head.
    “And rats were not the only problem,” continued Mr. Rangarajan. “There was one man with his leg in a full cast, even bigger than yours. He was complaining that the leg was burning, driving him crazy. All day like a madman he was screaming, begging for help. The doctors thought he was being fussy. Finally, he couldn’t bear it any more and jumped out of the window. When they removed the cast from his corpse, they found his flesh raw, crawling with bedbugs.”
    Nariman shuddered. He was glad Mr. Rangarajan had finished his work and was packing up his implements.
    Dr. Tarapore saw Nariman once more, on the eve of his discharge. This time he did not recite any poetry, but had another word with Jal and Coomy, reiterating the do’s and don’t’s: “Please see that my dear professor gives his ankle complete rest – not an ounce of weight for four weeks.”
    “Yes, doctor, we’ll make sure,” said Coomy. “Pappa will be good now, I think he has learnt his lesson. Haven’t you, Pappa?”
    Nariman would not dignify her question with an answer. Dr. Tarapore said with a smile that silence was consent.
    Later in the evening the dynamic wardboy requested a letter of reference. He cautioned it was against hospital rules, so please to keep it a secret.
    Nariman wrote on hospital stationery procured by the resourceful fellow that Mr. Yadav was a diligent worker who exuded genuine concern for patients, and was meticulous in his duties; it had been a pleasure to make his acquaintance; and he wished Mr. Yadav well in his future endeavours.
    He examined the page when he finished, curious about his wobbly handwriting. The letters grew progressively smaller from beginning to end, he hadn’t been able to control their size. This was something new – another symptom of Parkinsonism, he assumed.
    The wardboy was overwhelmed without having read a word. He took his benefactor’s trembling hand in both of his, reluctant to let go.
    On the morning of Nariman’s departure, Mr. Rangarajan stopped by to wish him good luck. But the elderly wardboy from the night shift was nowhere around, and Nariman was disappointed not to learn his name. Never mind, he would remember him as an incarnation of Voltaire.
    Then it was time to go home. Jal rode with him in the ambulance. Soon after emerging from the hospital gates, they came to a standstill near the main intersection where a political procession was making its way.
    “What party is it?” asked Nariman.
    “Who knows. It’s hard to read the banners from here. BJP, JD, CP, VHP, BSP, doesn’t matter, they’re all the same. Did you sleep well last night?”
    Nariman responded with a vague gesture of his hand. They waited for the traffic to start moving again.
    N ariman expected to find the door open and Coomy waiting by it with a tray of flowers, vermilion, and a husked coconut. Instead, Jal used his latchkey. The ambulancemen followed him inside with the stretcher. There was no ceremonial tray, no one to perform the aachhu-michhu.
    “Coomy isn’t home?”
    Jal shook his head. “At fire-temple. For Mamma’s prayers.”
    Of course. It was the death anniversary. He had forgotten.
    “And then she’s going to buy some things for you – bedpan, basin, all that stuff.”
    The Parsi traditions around birthdays, navjotes, weddings, arrivals, departures normally earned Nariman’s indulgence. He had never set great store by rituals.