Remembering the doctor’s advice, Ishvar staggered home with his nephew in his arms and put him to bed. He found a bottle and a pan so Om could relieve himself without having to walk to the lavatory. Ashraf Chacha’s neighbours avoided them. In the tiny kitchen where Mumtaz Chachi had cooked for her family of six, plus two apprentices, Ishvar prepared the joyless meals. The friendly ghosts of his childhood were unable to comfort him, and they ate in silence at Om’s bedside.
At the end of seven days, Ishvar carried him again to the private dispensary. In the street it was easy to spot the victims of forced vasectomies, especially among those who possessed only one set of garments. Pus stains at the crotch told the story.
“The healing is almost complete,” said the doctor. “It is all right to walk now — but no hurrying.” He did not charge for the second visit.
From the dispensary they took small, careful steps to the police chowki and said they wanted to register a complaint. “My nephew was turned into a eunuch,” said Ishvar, unable to control a sob as he spoke the word.
The constable on duty was perturbed. He wondered if this meant a fresh outbreak of inter-caste disturbances, and headaches for his colleagues and himself. “Who did it?”
“It was at the Nussbandhi Mela. In the doctor’s tent.”
The answer relieved the policeman. “Not police jurisdiction. This is a case for the Family Planning Centre. Complaints about their people are handled by their office.” And in all probability, he thought, it was just another instance of confusing sterilization with castration. A visit to the Centre would sort things out.
The tailors left the police chowki and walked very slowly to the Family Planning Centre. Ishvar was grateful for the unhurried pace. A terrible ache had grown around his own groin since the last three days, which he had ignored in his concern for his nephew.
Om noticed the peculiar walk, and asked his uncle what the matter was.
“Nothing.” He winced as waves of pain rolled leisurely down his legs. “Just stiffness from the operation. It will go.” But he knew that it was getting worse; this morning, a swelling had begun in the legs.
At the Family Planning Centre the moment Ishvar said eunuch, they refused to listen further. “Get out,” ordered the officer. “We are fed up with you ignorant people. How many times to explain? Nussbandhi has nothing to do with castration. Why don’t you listen to our lectures? Why don’t you read the pamphlets we give you?”
“I understand the difference,” said Ishvar. “If you take just one look, you will see what your doctor has done.” He motioned to Om to drop his pants.
But as Om began undoing the buttons, the officer ran and grabbed the waistband. “I forbid you to take off your clothes in my office. I am not a doctor, and whatever is in your pants is of no interest to me. If we start believing you, then all the eunuchs in the country will come dancing to us, blaming us for their condition, trying to get money out of us. We know your tricks. The whole Family Planning Programme will grind to a halt. The country will be ruined. Suffocated by uncontrolled population growth. Now get out before call the police.”
Ishvar begged him to reconsider, to at least take one quick look. Om spoke in his uncle’s ear, warning him not to start crying again. The man kept advancing threateningly. They were forced to back up. When they were out in the street, the door was shut and a Closed For Lunch sign hung on it.
“You really thought they would help?” said Om. “Don’t you understand? We are less than animals to them.”
“Keep your mouth shut,” said Ishvar. “Your foolishness has brought this on us.”
“How? For my foolishness I lost my balls. But how is your nussbandhi my fault? That would have happened anyway. It happened to everyone in the market.” He paused, then continued bitterly, “In fact, it’s all your fault. Your madness about coming here and finding a wife for me. We could have been safe in the city, on Dinabai’s verandah.”
Ishvar’s eyes filled with tears. “So you are saying we should have stayed hidden on the verandah for the rest of our days? What kind of life, what kind of country is this, where we cannot come and go as we please? Is it a sin to visit my native place? To get my nephew married?” He could walk no further, and sank to the pavement, shaking.
“Come on,” hissed Om, “don’t do a drama on the street, it’s looking bad.”
But his uncle continued to weep, and Om sat down beside him. “I did not mean it, yaar, it’s not your fault, don’t cry.”
“The pain,” shivered Ishvar. “It’s everywhere … too much … I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s go home,” said Om gently. “I’ll help you. You must rest with your feet up.”
They rose and, with Ishvar limping, dragging, trembling with agony, they reached Ashraf Chacha’s shop. They agreed that a good night’s sleep would cure him. Om arranged the mattress and pillows comfortably for his uncle, then massaged his uncle’s legs. They both fell asleep, Ishvar’s feet clasped in his nephew’s hands.
A week later Ishvar’s legs were swollen like columns. His body burned with fever. From the groin to the knee the flesh had become black. They returned to the Family Planning Centre and peered timidly from the entrance. Fortunately, a doctor was present this time, and the man they had spoken to on the last visit was not around.
“The nussbandhi is fine,” said the doctor after a cursory glance. “It’s not connected to the sickness in your legs. There is a poison in your body which is causing the swelling. You should go to the hospital.”
Seeing that this was a reasonable man, Ishvar mentioned his nephew’s castration, and the doctor was instantly transformed. “Get out!” he said. “If you are going to talk nonsense, get out of my sight this moment!”
They went to the hospital, where Ishvar was given a course of pills: four times a day for fourteen days. The pills reduced the fever, but there was no improvement in his legs. At the end of the fortnight’s treatment he could not walk at all. The blackness had spread downwards like a stain, towards the toes, reminding him of the leather dye that used to impregnate his skin as a boy, when he worked with his father and the Chamaars.
Om found the handcart-man in the market that afternoon, and requested his help. “It’s my uncle this time. He cannot walk, he has to be taken to hospital.”
The man was unloading a consignment of onions from the cart. A few bulbs had been crushed during transit, and the air was charged with the pungent reek. He wiped his eyes, hoisted a sack over his shoulders, and took it to the godown. The vapours travelled into Om’s eyes too, though he stood at some distance.
“Okay, I’m ready,” said the handcart-man twenty minutes later. He dusted off the cartbed and they went to Muzaffar Tailoring to collect Ishvar. They positioned the cart close to the steps and hoisted him upon it. The neighbours watched, hidden behind curtains, as the rickety wheels trundled off towards the hospital.
The handcart-man waited outside the building while Ishvar huddled in the entrance and Om went in search of the emergency ward. “The pills have not worked,” the doctor on duty announced after the examination. “The poison in the blood is too strong. The legs will have to be removed in order to keep the poison from spreading upwards. It’s the only way to save his life.”
Next morning the blackened legs were amputated. The surgeon said the stumps would be observed for several days, to make sure all the poison had drained out. Ishvar spent two months in hospital. Om went every morning with food, and stayed till night.
“You must send a letter to Dinabai,” Ishavar reminded Om repeatedly. “Tell her what happened, she will be worrying about us.”