The Unexpected Son (31 page)

R
ohit flipped the switch to turn on the overhead fluorescent lights in the laboratory and blinked. Bright light bothered his eyes lately. He wondered if it was a natural result of his condition or yet another side effect of the drugs he'd been subjected to.

But he loved the clinical, sterile comfort of the lab. It was like coming home when he stepped into the long, narrow room that served as Shivraj College's chemistry lab. The smell of it, the feel of it, and the stark look of it—they were all so familiar.

Most people tried to get away from their place of work when they needed rest and relaxation. But Rohit often came to his lab to relax, where scarred wooden tables and tall stools ate up most of the space. Row upon row of jars, pipettes, test tubes, and beakers stood at attention, like soldiers ready for battle. They sparkled in the harsh light. He insisted on neatness in his lab and his students complied with his command. Most of the time.

He smelled the pungent odor of bleach in the air. Someone had probably left a jar of chlorine open, despite his rule of extreme caution in working around unsafe substances. He located the offending jar and tightened the lid. Careless kids.

There had been a time, not long ago, when he'd have lost his temper at such carelessness when handling chemicals, even harmless ones. But today he merely shook his head. The thought of imminent death was humbling enough to make an emotion like anger at a student seem trivial.

He inhaled deeply, let the mingled odors of the chemicals sink into his weakened lungs. This was his world. Ever since he was a young boy in school, he'd loved chemistry for some reason, perhaps because his father was a chemical engineer. The idea of combining different substances to form odd and interesting mixtures that could produce anything from a flu remedy to a bomb had fascinated him.

Cricket and chemistry—the two
C
s had consumed his high school and college days, and thankfully his parents had encouraged both.

He could memorize so many chemical formulae and retain them that his teachers used to be astonished. He'd even given up cricket to pursue that doctoral degree. He had never regretted his decision.

Nevertheless, lately he'd been speculating about it, wondering if his obsession with chemistry could have something to do with his leukemia. It was entirely possible that working with potent chemicals for many years could have led to cancer.

He hadn't discussed his suspicions with his doctor or his parents. It was something he had pondered in private. He didn't want his parents to try to convince him to give up his career and take up something else. He could never be anything other than a chemistry teacher.

Even if his suspicions held weight, it was too late to do anything about it. He had chosen his occupation despite knowing the hazards associated with it. He prayed his students knew the risks, too.

He ambled over to the far end of the room and sat down on one of the stools, then opened a chemistry textbook someone had left behind. The book looked almost new. He flipped through the pages. There were no handwritten notes or scribbles anywhere. It was nice to come across a neat student for a change. They were young, often thoughtless, sometimes sloppy, but this one was not.

Turning to the cover page, he looked for a name. Perhaps he could find the owner and have it returned to them. Textbooks, especially the thick, hardcover science books, were prohibitively expensive and few students could afford them. Many of them ended up buying used books from the previous year's students.

Finding no name to identify the owner, he started turning the pages once again. Then he found it. Not exactly what he was looking for, but something else—much more interesting.

It was a crudely written note on a piece of ruled paper. There was no name, but it was obviously meant for Rohit.
Cancer will kill you soon, you Marathi bastard! Ha-Ha!

His stomach jumped in response, causing a sudden spurt of nausea. He'd faced his share of practical jokes. What professor at Shivraj hadn't? Students loved to torture their teachers with itchy powder sprinkled over their chairs, wads of chewing gum stuck where their shoes would rest, mobile phones pilfered, and missing pens and notebooks.

But this didn't feel like a practical joke. The message was packed with malice, despite the humor inserted at the end. He could sense it in his bones.

Did he have students who hated him that much, enough to delight in the fact that he had a life-threatening illness? He tried to visualize as many faces and personalities as he could, at least the Kannada ones. But there were so many—too many to remember them all.

Any one of them could have done this. It could have been more than one—an entire group of hate-mongers. It could be a coworker, even a fellow Marathi, hoping the blame would automatically be laid at the feet of the Kannada faction.

Maybe it was best to turn over the book and the note to the police. He carefully closed the book without touching the note. He'd read enough crime fiction and seen plenty of movies to know one wasn't supposed to touch anything that might become potential evidence. But in the next instant he realized this was no crime, and there was no threat involved. It was just a statement of the cruel truth.

Someone was trying to remind him his end was near. As if he needed reminding. He didn't want any more damned reminders.

If that silly note was meant to scare him, the sender had failed. What was there to fear anymore? He was standing on the brink of a precipice, looking into a black, yawning chasm. He could get pushed off the edge in a heartbeat, with or without the transplant.

He looked around, studying every piece of steel, glass, plastic, ceramic, and wood. He'd worked so damn hard to be able to work in a lab like this, teach in a small, privately funded college, and make a difference in the lives of at least a few students. He wasn't a greedy sort. He hadn't asked for too much in life. Suddenly his modest dreams were crumbling faster than termite-infested wood.

Somewhere, halfway across the world, he even had a half sister, a young woman whose existence he'd only recently discovered. A girl he'd probably never get to meet. At first he had hated the idea of having to face his real mother, and the thought of having a sibling, a new cluster of cousins, uncles, and aunts.

Suddenly all those strangers, most of them faceless, were becoming very real—the people who were his kin. He'd been thinking about them a lot lately. The strangest part was discovering that the Shelke twins, whom he'd taught in the recent past, were his cousins. On the paternal side, there were the Kori sisters—his half sisters. Both were his students at the moment—both quiet, rather shy.

And the Kori girls and the Shelke boys didn't know of their odd connection to each other. At least he didn't think they did.

The whole tangled web was mind-boggling yet endlessly fascinating. Some weeks ago, he had thought himself an orphan, an only child, adopted. Now Palgaum was exploding with relatives—his real family.

What would have happened if he'd grown up in their midst, surrounded by Shelkes and Koris? He dismissed the notion. The staunch Marathi Shelkes would never have mixed with the un-bending Kannada Koris. It would have been one long, never-ending feud.

He wondered if any one of them had suffered from leukemia. Was it hereditary? If so, which side could it have come from?

Setting aside his thoughts about family for a moment, he ran his palm across the book's cover. He knew almost every page of this primer on the principles of analytical chemistry. How long would he be able to turn those familiar pages, face a classroom full of eager faces, and introduce them to the magical world of chemistry, a subject that touched every little thing in their lives, including their own bodies? Not long at this rate.

This could even be his last glimpse of his precious lab.

Some of the more expensive equipment in this room was here because he had convinced the board members it was a necessity if they wanted their students to learn and compete with other colleges. He had spent long hours canvassing each tight-fisted member. His efforts had paid off to some extent. The lab was now cleaner, brighter, and better equipped. If nothing else, he had made a small difference to Shivraj College's chemistry department. It would be his legacy after he was gone.

His left hand shook as it lay splayed on the book. His body convulsed.
It's only a side effect of those drugs,
he told himself. The damn shivers set in very easily these days. It was nothing to worry about.

It wasn't until his right hand started to throb that he realized he was pummeling the table with everything he had. Pounding, pounding till the knuckles were skinned and bleeding. An empty test tube had overturned and fallen down, the shards scattered over the tile floor.

Blood streaked the table. He was clearly losing his mind along with his body.
Why, God? Why me?
His chest started to heave without warning and hot tears started to roll down his face.

He was crying. Oh, for God's sake! How much more pathetic could he get? He quickly pulled out a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed his eyes, then his injured hand. Good thing he was alone. His doctor would have scolded him for hurting himself. Between the drugs and the diabetes, even minor injuries were dangerous in his condition.

What the hell was the matter with him? He never cried, and almost never surrendered to fits of rage. Grown men weren't supposed to cry. For any reason. And they weren't supposed to beat their hands to a pulp, either. It had to be those blasted drugs, messing with his brain and body—whatever was left of them.

The nausea rose higher now, and the bile shot up into his throat. He raced to the sink at the far end of the lab in the nick of time—and vomited. Damn disease! Rinsing his mouth and his bloodied hand at the tap, he wiped both with his none-too-clean handkerchief and headed back toward the door.

He had plans to meet some friends for dinner later. It was a party at a married friend's home. The couple was celebrating their second anniversary, and the impending arrival of their first child, due in three months. Except for one, all his close friends were either married or engaged.

Feeling a stab of pain in his hand, he winced. He'd have to run to his flat and put some first-aid cream and adhesive bandages over the abrasions and pull himself together. It wouldn't do to let his friends see him like this. They had stopped asking him when he planned to get married—not even in jest. In the usual Indian tradition, they used to nag him mercilessly about acquiring a wife. Now they gave him pitying looks and made awkward inquiries about his health.

But they meant well, so he didn't mind their concerned curiosity. As a matter of fact, he was looking forward to this evening. Not the food—the thought of food made him sick—but the company. It could even be his last party.

Tomorrow he was being admitted to the hospital for pre-transplant treatment. It was likely to be the longest few days of his life. At the end of that period, God knows what lay in store—staying in the hospital till death came knocking, or going home, feeling better. Staying alive.

He didn't want to think that far ahead. Lately he had begun to plan his life in terms of one day at a time. One precious day.

Enough self-pity,
he ordered, and straightened his sagging shoulders.

Before leaving the lab, he swept the broken test tube shards off the floor and discarded them. He took one final look around the lab, trying to commit its last detail to memory. Even if he survived the transplant, it could be nearly a year before he could return to work. A year seemed like a lifetime at this point.

He put the book back where he'd found it. Despite the nasty note enclosed, he sent its owner a mental message:
Hope you pass your chemistry exam, my friend. Professor Ramchandra is not as liberal in his grading as I am.

Shutting off the lights, he closed and locked the door to the lab and walked down the steps to the covered portico, where he had parked his motorcycle.

Outside, a thunderstorm was just beginning to spit out the first plump drops of rain. Standing there for a minute, he observed the storm unleash its fury. A jagged streak of lightning tore the sky, illuminating the landscape for a split second. Winds whipped through the row of tall, slender eucalyptus trees planted alongside the building, making their boughs sway madly.

It was a beautiful sight. Strange, but he'd never thought of a rainstorm as a thing of beauty before.

The late-summer storm that was passing would drive away the sticky heat and allow for some good sleeping weather at night. Not that he would sleep all that much.

He waited for the earsplitting boom of thunder to pass before stepping beyond the portico. Lifting his face, he let the delightful moisture slide over his face, settle on his tongue, soak through his shirt. He hadn't done anything like this in years, either.

It could be his last rainstorm.

 

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Vinita read the message one more time…to make sure she hadn't completely lost her mind. Stress could make one's brain do strange things. But the message was clear—rather brief and cool, but it was certainly an improvement over Girish's total indifference.