The Medicine Burns (20 page)

By the time we had taken our chai, I was ready to lie down, and the boy walked me to a room and placed my bag inside. I stretched out on my cot and closed my eyes, and the boy started singing one of the popular Indian songs I'd heard reproduced in every wedding procession and played in the streets from every radio. He sang it very quietly as he began to sweep the corners of the room.

The fever escalated rapidly, as it so often did. There was always the exhaustion, but the fever didn't allow sleep. My mind was moving restlessly like a fly. The delirium is often sensual - the whole body remembers.

With my fingers on the porch screen, a memory surfaces with the heat and chill of fever. A man my father had employed to cut down a diseased tree that grew in our backyard. I was very young then, but I remember his features, a skinny laborer with moles on his neck and shoulders, some self-performed tattoos on his arms and chest that had faded and looked more like bruises or natural markings. I watched from the screen porch. The man, every now and then, would look over his shoulder and wink.

When the tree fell, the man ran his hand over the wet, open trunk.

“Wanna look at this, kid?” he asked. I went out and stood beside him. His sweat smelled like chicken soup. He pointed out the maggots spawning in the tree's center. The trunk was soft and stank like garbage. “Imagine living in that,” the man commented. “Now stand back.”

The tar emerged with a slow, thorough, and suffocating precision. The man rubbed his hands on his jeans, the smoke rising up before his face. “Pity we couldn't have yanked out the whole thing.” He pointed at the roots running under the porch, thick as pipes.

Then the fever felt like fingers on my throat, and I was gasping. The boy was sitting with me then, and by his bare feet he had a pail of lake water, and using an old rag, he wet me down with it. He did it with patience, as though tending to me was all he had to do for the day, and he continued singing, a melody that wove its way in and out of my delirium.

He did this for days that I could not keep track of—keeping me in the shade during the day, and carrying first my cot and then me out to the lawn at night where it was cooler. He fed me curd and bananas in the afternoon, dahl at night. Finally the fever broke, and he quickly took the bedding from my room to wash.

At sundown, I left the room and sat weakly in a chair facing the lake. The sky was divided—a band of fiery orange and, just above it, a night sky, black and heavy with stars. There was no one on the lawn, just the long shadows of the trees from behind me. There was a cool breeze coming off the desert, and the patches of grass felt cool on my bare feet. This is how I will die, I thought, just after the pain breaks, and I can feel again.

I sat there silently until Acharya drew up a chair beside me. “You feel better?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And thank the boy. He was a great comfort,”

“He is a hard worker, I was lucky to have found him. He was very sick when I first saw him. It cost me a great deal to have him taken care of.”

“You are his uncle?” I asked.

“I suppose so,” he laughed. “He is convinced of it.”

“He must be grateful to you.”

“Yes,” he said. “I let him live here. He cooks and cleans. He is quiet.”

Just then, I heard some music, faint but beautiful, which made our shadows on the lawn and the surface of the lake seem as luxurious as life depicted in a miniature painting.

“That's him,” he said. “He is a good musician. All of his family played.”

I remembered the melody. He had been humming it at my bedside. I looked over my shoulder and there was a fire burning in the storage room, and in that light the boy was playing.

“Both of his parents died. They were villagers, musicians. His father died when he was young. His mother died slowly; she was very sick. She could not see, she could not walk. He would come miles by foot to Pushkar to play the instrument his father left him. He would make money and bring back food and medicine to her. He was always playing, and he was always serious. Then one day he came out of the desert. I noticed him, from far off. He looked so broken and so old, like a sadhu. But he was just a boy, crying over the loss of his mother. I could see he was very sick himself. I told him he could work for me when he got well. He has worked for me for five years.”

He turned toward the storage room where I was watching the boy's shadow flicker along the wall, and shouted out for chai. The boy put his instrument down and went for glasses.

Acharya leaned toward me from his chair. “I have alcohol,” he whispered, “the boy picks it up for me in Ajmer. Pushkar is dry. It is not acceptable for a Brahmin to drink.” I could smell the liquor on him then and his eyes were deep with his confession. “That makes me an unacceptable Brahmin.”

The boy came with chai in tall glasses. He handed us each a glass, and smiled at me as though he were pleased with his nursing and my recovery. He said goodnight and walked back to the room where the fire was burning. I saw him take his lungi off and spread it on the floor, and that is where he slept.

Acharya spiked his tea with whiskey he had transferred to a plastic water bottle. “The inspectors come whenever they want,” he said. “They come to look for drugs in the rooms. They look over everything. It would be a disgrace for me to have alcohol found here. They would ask for baksheesh, more than I could pay.”

“Have you had any trouble in the past?” I asked.

“No problems yet,” he said. “But they came at night once, and I had been drinking and the boy had to talk to them for me. He told them I was sick.”

He pulled his legs up to his chest and sat rocking for a while, like a child, but with a troubled face.

“He was so happy after they'd gone. I felt relieved, but not happy. I felt ashamed of myself for having involved him. I could not accept his help, even though I had pulled him out of the desert.”

In the morning I awoke to the shrill cries of peacocks, hysterical in the trees, as though they were stranded there. Acharya was still sleeping, in a cot near mine.

I walked down to the lake. There were groups of monkeys huddled by its shore, and a swimmer at its center. I took off my shirt and pants and left them in a pile at the edge of the lawn. I walked down to the water and put my foot into it, and watched it, blurry under the surface. I worried that someone would take notice of my illness, which seemed to afflict my whole body in one way or another. I had the ravaged look of a Holocaust survivor. The patch on my chest had grown, and there were other small, irregular marks on my legs and thighs.

The swimmer had made his way back to the shore, and was only a few yards away before I recognized him as the boy who'd taken me here and nursed me. He began to call for me, waving his hands above his head.

“The water is good for you,” he said, laughing. “Don't be afraid.”

I stepped carefully into the water, then pushed myself away from the edge using my feet on the algae-covered rocks. He swam toward me and grasped my hand when he could reach it. We kept ourselves afloat with just our legs paddling in the currents beneath us. He put his hands on my shoulders.

“Try to stay still,” he said. He was smiling and drawing me close to him.

“What's that?” I asked, almost jumping out of the water.

“That's the fish,” he laughed. “They're kissing us.”

It felt suddenly like there were hundreds of them, brushing between our legs, lightly connecting their mouths to us.

“I should go back,” I said.

“I'll go with you.” He offered his hand again and we swam back together. He pulled me up on shore and carried my clothing down to me.

“Do you want chai?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Today I am going to walk and see the rest of Pushkar.”

“Let me take you?”

“Yes,” I said, “you can be my guide.”

He was wearing Rajasthani shoes that point at the toe, his lungi, and turban with multiple knots and gatherings. He carried his instrument with him. The shops were quiet. The tailors sat on their folded fabrics smoking bidis and reading newspapers. Cows wandered through the streets with flowers in their mouths. When we passed a tourist, he lifted his instrument to his chest the way country musicians in America hold their violins. And he started to play, something that repeated itself, with the bells dangling on the bow keeping time. It was a sad, serial melody that developed slowly and slighdy, music that is sweet and painful, returning mournfully to its themes like a memory of childhood. There is even a resonance to pain—a nostalgia—that makes it hard to die.

He kept his eyes averted as he played; he wanted the music to ask for coins. He wanted to slip behind his sorrowful invocation, invisible. He wanted the music and not his eyes to make the listener sympathetic.

The woman he played for stopped and watched him, then handed him a five rupee note. When she had walked off, he continued playing for me, and even as he looked at me, his eyes were following the music.

We sat down in a restaurant boasting pizza. “The prices are too high here,” he said.

“I'll buy,” I said. I was already out of breath.

When the food arrived, I couldn't eat. I was sweating heavily. Suddenly, my circumstances terrified me. I would barely be able to afford another week here before the money ran out, and there was perhaps less time than that before my health would fail me entirely.

I sat there squeezing my head in my hands, trying to stop the anxious thoughts. But I couldn't stop them. I could not accept the arrangements I had made for myself. I had cornered myself: I had to die or beg for charity. But I couldn't beg.

The boy asked me, “Are you going to be sick?”

“Yes,” I told him, and I put my hands over my eyes so that he wouldn't see me crying.

“What's wrong with you?” he asked.

“I'm tired. My resistance is down.”

“We will go back now,” he said, standing.

He took up his instrument and walked a few paces behind me, playing. It seemed as though I was walking through my own funeral procession, with people turning their heads as we walked. The desert whistling behind the awninged shops made the whole town seem like a painted curtain. He followed me halfway around the lake before I turned to him and asked his name.

“Sanjay,” he said.

Someone called out from a chai shop and I turned around. It was the German I'd met in Jaipur. I walked back to see him. He was sitting in a large wicker chair, smiling.

“It's good to see you here. The last time I saw you, you were telling me how much you needed a rest. It's restful here, though I can't say you look any better for it.”

“It's worse,” I said, joining him at the table.

Sanjay sat down, too, but looked uncomfortable and kept his attention on the street. Eventually, another musician boy, a little older than him, approached. They spoke to each other, often glancing back at the German and myself, until I asked Sanjay to go on without me.

He looked sadly at me, but didn't question the suggestion. He gathered his instrument and bow, and asked if I would see him later. I assured him I would, and he and his friend walked off.

“Have you seen a doctor yet?” the German asked.

“No, I don't have the money for it.”

“There's a public hospital in Jodhpur, just across the street from the train station.”

“I don't need a hospital. The boy is taking care of me.”

“He's lovely,” the German said, winking, “how long have you had him?”

“A few days. He helped me through a fever.”

“What kind of medicine is he treating you with? Are you in pain?”

“No medicine, just cold rags and simple food.”

“If you're in pain I can help you,” he said. “I have an opium connection here.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I had a problem with heroin before, and I don't have any money.”

“That's OK,” he said. “You'll feel rich.”

He offered to bring it by the Lotus Lodge later that evening.

“I'll have to leave India,” he confided. “My permit ran out years ago. I read tarot cards to make a living. Tourists sometimes pay me in American money. I tell them my story and most of them are horrified by the idea of being trapped in India, and they sympathize with me. But I've loved India. It changes you. In Hamburg, my goal was to work in a bank, or to sell good German cars. In India, I'd be content to have a group of young boys who would follow me out into the desert like a holy man.” He laughed and looked over his shoulder as though he expected the desert to present him with a mirage, a preview of his enlightenment. “They'll catch up with me soon,” he said, growing more serious. “Otherwise, I'm afraid if I do stay in India, I'll be tempted to walk out into the desert, even if I can't find anybody foolish enough to follow me. It sounds crazy, but it's a fantasy of mine.”

It was late afternoon when I left the chai house. Sanjay was waiting on the street. He hesitated, though, until I called him over. Then he quickly took my arm and asked me if I would write my name on the face of his instrument.

“Write it under that tree,” he said, pointing.

It was a beautiful spot he had chosen. We sat in the shade and he handed the instrument over to me. I took out my pen and scratched my name over the bleached, leather face. My markings were tentative. He watched over my shoulder and I could hear the anticipation in his breathing. I felt at first I was defacing the beautiful instrument which had four taut strings running along the wooden neck and over the gourdlike body, but he squeezed my arm to encourage me further. I thought it strange that he might remember me, sitting there and writing under that tree, by some markings he could not read.

We stretched out under the tree. He laid on his back with the instrument on his chest, plucking the strings with his long fingernails. He inclined his head so that it almost touched my chest. His eyes were closed and he was smiling.