Part 8 (2/2)

Bhanu looks with surprise from Genevive to the doctor. She sees how tenderly he is gazing at her, as if genuinely concerned about her well-being. And Genevive, Genevive is blus.h.i.+ng!

*I'll come back later,' Genevive mumbles to the floor, and speeds out of the room.

Dr Hussain walks up to Bhanu's bedside, as she stares at him. He is a pleasant person, studious and mild. Not Genevive's type at all. But earlier in their conversation, Genevive had said something about a doctor. How can the doctor be involved with Genevive? Is it possible that he is ... the father? No, Bhanu thinks, for Dr Hussain is married with two sons. But who can put anything past anyone nowadays? Especially with Genevive. A married doctor is better than all the men she's been with before.

She will ask him, Bhanu decides.

*So ...' Dr Hussain says. *I didn't know the two of you knew each other.'

*We're childhood friends,' Bhanu says flatly.

*Oh, I see.' He sits down on the chair where Genevive had been sitting, leans over and says sympathetically, *You have been crying. I guess Genevive told you about the baby and the whole situation.'

*Well, in her own way she did.'

*It's difficult for her right now. She had told me that she would talk to her friend today. I didn't know that friend was you. Small world.'

*Small world, indeed,' Bhanu says, wondering how the doctor goes home to his wife when he's been with another woman.

*So, did you say yes?'

*No, I did not,' Bhanu replies indignantly. *She can take care of the baby herself. And maybe you should help out as well.'

Dr Hussain tilts his head at her in puzzlement. *What? How will she take care of the baby after she's pa.s.sed on?'

Silence fills the s.p.a.ce of Bhanu's anger.

She blinks in confusion. *P ... pa.s.sed on?' Her voice comes out in a shout, much louder than she expects. *What are you talking about, Dr Hussain?'

Dr Hussain observes her for a moment before speaking, *Well, her cancer has left her with four, maybe five months at most.'

Memories of Genevive and Bhanu, laughing, playing and hugging in this room, push against the stillness that's gripped the room by its neck.

*She wasn't very clear,' Bhanu hears herself mutter weakly. *I don't understand. So you are not the father of her child?'

*Father?' Dr Hussain asks in shock. *There is no known father, my dear. Genevive got pregnant through artificial insemination.'

*Artificial? How? How could she even afford it?'

*She took a loan using her apartment as collateral.'

*But ... why? Why would she do this? She never cared about having a baby.'

*Genevive didn't do this for herself. She came to my clinic one day, more than a year ago, asking if it was possible for her to have a baby for a friend of hers. The friend couldn't conceive, she told me. I had many long consultations with her about it, over several weeks. It was a difficult decision. What will people say? How will it change her life? Affect her relations.h.i.+p with her friend? We discussed it all. Obviously, I didn't know that friend was you,' Dr Hussain says.

He picks up the fallen packet of wafers from the floor and places it neatly on Bhanu's bedside table. *She did all this for you.'

*For me? Then why didn't she tell me?'

*I guess she wanted to spare you another loss. She wanted to be absolutely sure that the baby was healthy, especially since she was sick.'

Genevive wanted to spare Bhanu any further loss.

*How serious is Genevive's-' Bhanu can't even say it *-her condition?'

*Very serious.'

*There must be some mistake, Dr Hussain. She is so young, my Genevive. It can't be.'

*I wish there was a mistake. But she was diagnosed with lymphoma in her first trimester itself, while undergoing a routine health checkup. I advised her, as did her oncologist, to terminate the baby. It would take a further toll on her body. But she was determined to leave something behind for her friend, for you.'

*You are a lucky woman,' the doctor adds.

A lucky woman indeed.

*She said that she couldn't think of anyone who deserved a child more. I hope you agree to adopt that baby.'

Bhanu turns towards the window.

Her reflection fades into the dark of the night, like the end of a promise.

*Hope,' she says to it.

In the far distance a star twinkles, despite knowing that it is dying from the inevitability of its own brightness.

LEMON AND CHILLI.

It's six o'clock. I hear the key turning in the lock and slip into Karan's room, which he shares with me. Preeti is home from work, as usual an hour before my son Rahul. My grandsons-Jay and Karan-run to greet their mother. Their voices and laughter ring through the house.

I sit on the bed and look around. Karan's Yankees Ts.h.i.+rt, which I'd ironed for him earlier this morning, lies discarded on the oak-panelled floor, beside his Nintendo console. On the blue wall he's tacked a poster of John Cena whose muscles burst forth, almost angrily. I contrast his arms with mine-sixty-seven years old with jagged aches and pains. I wonder if his glistening skin will ever look cratered like mine, or his eyes become soft, as mine are, jailed behind their spectacles.

A half hour later, I hear Preeti go into the kitchen. After my wife Karen's death, Preeti insists on cooking alone, but she doesn't seem happy about it. Often she sets the pots down noisily or mutters curses I wish I couldn't hear. I'd help, but dare not offer. I had tried to surprise her once-when I didn't know any better-by making a meal for our family. But she hadn't allowed anyone to eat my food, saying that an elderly man working in the kitchen reflected badly on the woman of the house.

The mustard seeds begin roasting in the pan. I catch a whiff of cardamom and cloves.

Soon after, I smell fresh coriander. The meal is ready.

Rahul is home. Father and son, we walk quietly to the table.

*This looks delicious,' I say. I know Preeti will not acknowledge the compliment, and she doesn't.

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