Darkness was falling, and the doctors were down to their last few operations when Thakur Dharamsi arrived. The policemen and Family Planning workers flocked to bow before him, jostling to touch his feet. He spoke briefly to the doctors and nurses, then strolled through the recovery tents, waving to the patients, thanking them for their cooperation in making the sterilization camp a success.
“Quick, turn your face, Om,” whispered Ishvar urgently, as the Thakur approached their row. “Cover it with your arms, pretend you are asleep.”
Thakur Dharamsi stopped at the foot of Om’s mattress and stared. He murmured a few words to someone at his side. The man left, returning a moment later with one of the doctors.
The Thakur spoke to him softly, and the doctor recoiled, shaking his head vehemently. The Thakur whispered again. The doctor went pale.
Shortly, two nurses arrived and helped Om to his feet. “But I want to rest,” he protested. “It still hurts.”
“Doctor wants to see you.”
“Why?” shouted Ishvar. “You already finished his operation! Now what do you want?”
In the operating tent, the doctor was standing with his back to the entrance, watching the water come to a vigorous boil. The scalpel lay at the bottom, shining below the bubbles. He motioned to the nurses to get the patient on the table.
“Testicular tumour,” he felt obliged to explain to them. “Thakurji has authorized removal, as a special favour to the boy.” The quaver in his voice betrayed the lie.
Om’s pants were taken off for the second time. A rag soaked in chloroform was gripped at his nose. He tore at it briefly, then went limp. With a swift incision the doctor removed the testicles, sewed up the gash, and put a heavy dressing on it.
“Don’t send this patient home with the others,” he said. “He will need to sleep here tonight.” They covered him with a blanket and carried him to the recovery tent on a stretcher.
“What have you done to him?” screamed Ishvar. “He went out on his feet! You bring him back senseless! What have you done to my nephew?”
“Quiet,” they admonished, sliding Om from the stretcher onto the pallet. “He was very sick, and Doctor did a free operation to save his life. You should be grateful instead of simply shouting. Don’t worry, he’ll be all right when he wakes up. Doctor said for him to rest here till morning. You can also stay.”
Ishvar went to his nephew’s side to see for himself. He sought verbal assurances. Sound asleep, Om did not answer. Ishvar pulled down the blanket and began examining him: his hands, fingers, toes were intact. He checked the back — there were no bloody welts of whiplashes. And the mouth was fine, the tongue and teeth were undamaged. His fear began to abate, perhaps the Thakur had left him alone.
Then he found bloodstains on the underside of the trouser crotch. Could it be from the nussbandhi operation? He looked down at himself — there was no blood. Fingers shaking, he undid Om’s trousers and saw the large dressing. He unbuttoned his own trousers to compare: there was only a small piece of gauze and surgical tape. He put his fingers on Om’s bandage and felt the absence. Swallowing hard, he moved his fingers around frantically, hoping to locate the testicles somewhere, refusing to believe they were missing.
Then he howled.
“Hai Ram! Look! Look what they have done! To my nephew! Look! They have made a eunuch out of him!”
Someone came from the main tent and told him to be quiet. “What are you shouting for again? Didn’t you understand? The boy was very sick, that part had a dangerous growth in it, a gaanth full of poison, it needed to be removed.”
The twice-vasectomized man had already departed. The remaining occupants of the tent were busy nursing their own sorrow and trying to cope with nausea and dizziness. One by one, when they felt strong enough, they rose and returned shamefaced to their homes. There was no one left to comfort Ishvar.
Alone through the night, he howled and wept, slept for a few minutes when exhausted, then wept once more. Om came out of the chloroform past midnight, retched, and fell asleep again.
After the roundup in the market square, Ashraf Chacha had been carried to the municipal hospital, and his relatives at the lumberyard were notified. He died a few hours later. The hospital, following standing orders, put down the cause of death as accidentaclass="underline" “Due to stumbling, falling, and striking of head against kerb.” His relatives buried him beside Mumtaz Chachi the next day, while Ishvar and Om were still making their way back from the sterilization camp.
Apart from a soreness in the groin, Ishvar felt no discomfort. But Om was in grave pain. The bleeding resumed when he took a few steps. His uncle tried to carry him on his back, which was more agonizing. Flat in his arms like a baby was the only comfortable position for Om, but too exhausting for Ishvar. He had to put him down every few yards along the road.
Towards afternoon, a man passing with an empty handcart stopped. “What is wrong with the boy?”
Ishvar told him, and he offered to help. They placed Om on the cartbed. The man removed his turban to make a pillow. Ishvar and he pushed the handcart. It was not heavy to roll, but they had to move very slowly over the rutted road. The jolts knifed their way through Om, and the distance was measured by his harrowing screams.
It was dark when they reached Muzaffar Tailoring. The handcart-man refused payment. “I was travelling in this direction anyway,” he said.
Ashraf’s nephew from the lumberyard was inside, come to secure the shop. “I have sad news,” he said. “Chachaji had an accident and passed away.”
The tailors were too distraught, however, to be able to mourn the loss or fully comprehend it. Yesterday’s events in the market square had merged with all the other tragedies in their lives. “Thank you for coming to inform us,” Ishvar kept saying mechanically. “I must attend the funeral, and Om will also come, yes, he’ll be better tomorrow.”
The man repeated it four times before they realized that Ashraf Chacha had already been buried. “Don’t worry, you can stay here till you are well,” he said. “I haven’t yet decided what to do with this property. And please let me know if you need anything.”
They went to sleep without eating, having no desire for food. To avoid climbing the flight of steps, Ishvar prepared a mattress downstairs beside the shop counter. During the night Om thrashed around in delirium. “No! Not Ashraf Chacha’s shears! Where’s the umbrella? Give me, I’ll show the goondas!”
Ishvar awoke in fright and groped for the light switch. He saw a dark blotch on the sheet. He cleaned Om’s wound and sat up the rest of the night to restrain him, lest the dressing tear open.
In the morning he half-dragged, half-carried him to a private dispensary in town. The doctor was disgusted by the castration but not surprised. He treated victims of caste violence from time to time, from the surrounding villages, and had given up trying to get the law to pursue the cause of justice. “Insufficient evidence to register a case” was the routine response, whether it was a finger or hand or nose or ear that was missing.
“You are lucky,” said the doctor. “This was done very cleanly, and stitched properly. If the boy rests for a week, it will heal.” He disinfected the wound and put a new dressing on it. “Don’t let him walk, walking will make it bleed again.”
Ishvar paid the fee out of the wedding money, then asked, despite knowing the answer, “Will he be able to father children?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Even though the pipe is intact?”
“The vessels which produce the seed have been cut off.”