“Hahnji, don’t worry, sister.”
“I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. Five children I already have, and my husband won’t let me stop. This way he has no choice — government stops it.” She began singing again, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan …”
By and by, the constable beckoned to her, and she removed the child from her breast. The swollen nipple separated with a tiny pop. Om watched her tuck her breast back into her choli. Ishvar eagerly held out his arms and took the child. It started to cry as the mother was climbing down from the truck.
He nodded to reassure her, and rocked the child gently in his lap. Om tried to distract the infant by making funny faces. Then Ishvar began singing like the mother, imitating her little tune, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan.”
The baby stopped crying. They exchanged triumphant looks. Minutes later, tears were rolling down Ishvar’s cheeks. Om turned away. He did not need to ask the reason.
Frustrated by the malfunctioning equipment, the doctors operated slowly through the afternoon, and the Nussbandhi Mela was extended beyond its closing time of six p.m. The second autoclave had broken down as well. Around seven o’clock, a senior administrator from the Family Planning Centre arrived with his personal assistant.
The constables shuffled their feet and stood a little more erect while the camp was inspected. The administrator conveyed his displeasure regarding the number of patients still in the trucks. Then he came upon the doctors by the gas stoves, waiting for a fresh pot of water to boil, and decided to give them a piece of his mind.
“Stop wasting time,” he snapped as they wished him good evening. “Have you no sense of duty? There are dozens of operations left to do. A chupraasi can make tea for you.”
“We are not making tea. The water is for cleaning instruments. The machine is not working.”
“Instruments are clean enough. How long do you want to heat the water? Efficiency is paramount at a Nussbandhi Mela, targets have to be achieved within the budget. Who’s going to pay for so many gas cylinders?” He threatened that they would be reported to higher authorities for lack of cooperation, promotions would be denied, salaries frozen.
The doctors resumed work with partially sterile equipment. They knew of colleagues whose careers had suffered similarly.
The administrator watched for a while, clocking the operations and working out the average time per patient. “Too slow,” he said to his personal assistant. “A simple job of snip-snip-snip they turn into a big fuss.”
Before leaving, he delivered the final threat in his arsenal. “Remember, Thakur Dharamsi will be coming later to check the totals. If he is not pleased with you, you may as well send in your resignations.”
“Yes, sir,” said the doctors.
Satisfied, he went to inspect the other tents. His personal assistant stayed by his side like an interpreter, letting his facial expressions illuminate his superior’s speech.
“We have to be firm with the doctors,” confided the administrator. “If it is left to them to fight the menace of the population explosion, the nation will drown, choked to death, finished — end of our civilization. So it’s up to us to make sure the war is won.”
“Yes, sir — absolutely, sir,” said the aide, thrilled to receive this private pearl of wisdom.
The sun was disappearing at the horizon when it was the tailors’ turn. Ishvar said beseechingly to the constable who gripped his arm, “Police-sahab, there has been a mistake. We don’t live here, we came from the city because my nephew is getting married.”
“I cannot do anything about that.” He lengthened his stride.
Ishvar’s feet skipped in an effort to keep from being dragged. “Can I see the man in charge?” he panted, his voice uneven.
“Doctor is in charge.”
Inside the tent, Ishvar spoke timidly to the doctor. “There is a mistake, Doctorji. We don’t live here.”
The exhausted man made no response.
“Doctorji, you are like mother-father to us poor people, your good work keeps us healthy. And I also think nussbandhi is very important for the country. I am never going to marry, Doctorji, please do the operation on me, I will be grateful, but please leave out my nephew, Doctorji, his name is Omprakash and his wedding is happening soon, please listen to me, Doctorji, I beg of you!”
They were pushed onto the desks and their pants were removed. Ishvar started to weep. “Please, Doctorji! Not my nephew! Cut me as much as you like! But forgive my nephew! His marriage is being arranged!”
Om said nothing. He blocked out the humiliating appeals, wishing his uncle would behave with more dignity. The canvas ceiling undulated slightly in a breeze. He stared numbly as the guy ropes creaked and the electric lights swayed.
Dusk had turned to night when the tailors were helped off the table by the nurses. “Aiee!” said Om. “It hurts!”
“Soreness is normal for a few hours,” said the doctor. “Nothing to worry about.”
They were led limping through the dark field towards the recovery tent. “Now why are you keeping us here?” sobbed Ishvar. “Can’t we go home?”
“You could,” said the nurse. “But better to rest for a while.”
Half a dozen steps later, the pain was sharper. They decided to heed her advice and lie down on the straw mattresses. No one took notice of Ishvar’s crying; grief and tears were general throughout the tents. They were given water and two biscuits each.
“Everything is ruined,” he wept, passing his biscuits to Om. “The four families will never accept us now for their daughters.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are a stupid boy, you don’t understand what it means! I have let down your dead father! Our family name will die without children, it is the end of everything — everything is lost!”
“Maybe for you. But I still have my dignity. I’m not crying like a baby.”
A man on the next pallet was listening intently to their conversation. He raised himself on one elbow. “O bhai,” he said, “don’t cry. Look here, I’ve heard the operation is reversible.”
“But how can that be? After the nuss has been cut?”
“No, bhai, it’s possible. Specialists in big cities can reconnect the nuss.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure. Only thing is, it’s very expensive.”
“You hear that, Om? There is still hope!” Ishvar wiped his face. “Never mind how expensive — we will get it done! We will sew like crazy for Dinabai, night and day! I will get it reversed for you!”
He turned to his benefactor, the creator of hope. “God bless you for this information. May you also be able to reverse it.”
“I don’t want to,” said the man. “I have four children. A year ago I went to my doctor and had the operation of my own free will. These animals did it on me today for the second time.”
“That’s like executing a dead man. Don’t they listen to anything?”
“What to do, bhai, when educated people are behaving like savages. How do you talk to them? When the ones in power have lost their reason, there is no hope.” Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch, he lowered his elbow to lie down.
Ishvar wiped his eyes and lay down too. He reached over to the next mattress and stroked his nephew’s arm. “Bas, my child, we have found our solution, no need to worry now. We will go back, reverse the nussbandhi, and come next year for the wedding. There will be other families interested by then. And maybe by then this accursed Emergency will also be over, and sanity will return to government.”
A sound like a tap was heard, and a hissing; someone was urinating outside. His loud stream hitting the ground angered the twice-vasectomized man in the tent. He rose again on his elbow. “See? Like animals, I told you. These policemen don’t even have the decency to go to the end of the field to pass water.”