Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Not now, not now,’ said the doctors. They checked Firoz’s pulse, which was shallow and irregular, his blood pressure, which was low, his respiration, which was rather fast, and the responses of his pupils, which were normal. He was pale and his forehead was clammy. He had lost a lot of blood and appeared to be in shock. He was still speaking a few words, but they were incoherent. The Sub-Inspector, who was an intelligent man, tried to make what sense of them he could. In particular he noted Saeeda Bai’s name, the words ‘Prem Nivas’, and several agitated mentions of a sister or sisters. These might help him to discover what had happened.

He turned to the doctors. ‘You mentioned he had a brother. Does he also have a sister?’

‘Not that I know,’ said one doctor, shortly.

‘I believe he does,’ said the other. ‘But she doesn’t live in Brahmpur. He’s lost too much blood. Sister, get a drip ready. Normal saline.’

They removed Firoz’s shawl and cut away part of his kurta and vest. All his clothes were covered with blood.

The policeman murmured: ‘I’ll have to get you to write a medical report.’

‘I can’t find a vein in the arm,’ said one of the doctors, ignoring what the Sub-Inspector was saying. ‘We’ll have to cut down.’ They cut a vein in Firoz’s ankle, drew out a little blood, and inserted a drip. ‘Sister, please take this to the lab for tests, and for grouping and matching. Pretty shawl, that. Dyeing doesn’t improve it.’

A few minutes passed. Blood was still seeping from Firoz’s wound, and his moments of speech, incoherent as they were, were becoming rarer. He appeared to be sinking into deeper shock.

‘There’s a little dirt around the wound,’ said one of the house surgeons. ‘We’d better give him an anti-tetanus shot.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘Did you recover the weapon? How long was it? Was it rusty at all?’

‘We haven’t recovered the weapon.’

‘Sister, some iodine and cetavalon — please swab the area around the wound.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘There’s blood in the mouth. It’s got to be internal injury: stomach possibly, or upper intestine. We can’t handle this. Better call the registrar and alert the senior surgeon on duty. And, Sister, please get the lab to hurry up with that blood report, especially the haemoglobin count.’

The senior surgeon, when he came down, took one look at Firoz and at the lab report and said: ‘We will have to do an exploratory laparotomy immediately.’

‘I need to get an FIR—’ said the Sub-Inspector aggressively, nudging his moustache with the back of his fist. The First Information Report was often the most important document in the case, and it was good to have a solid one, preferably from the victim’s mouth.

The senior surgeon looked at him in cold incredulity. ‘This man is not capable of speech now, nor will he be capable of speech for another twelve hours once he is under anaesthetic. And even after that — assuming he lives — you will not be allowed to examine him for at least twenty-four hours. Get your FIR from whoever found him. Or else wait. And, if you wish, hope.’

The Sub-Inspector was used to the rudeness of doctors, having come into contact — as had most policemen in Brahmpur at one time or other — with Dr Kishen Chand Seth. He took no offence. He knew that doctors and policemen viewed ‘cases’ in a different light. Besides, he was a realist. He had told the tonga-wallah to wait outside. Now that he knew that Firoz would not be able to speak further, he decided that he would get his First Information Report from the man who had in fact given him his first information.

‘Well, thank you, Doctor Sahib, for the advice,’ said the Sub-Inspector. ‘If the police doctor comes, could he examine the patient for the medical report?’

‘We’ll do all that ourselves,’ said the senior surgeon, unmollified. ‘The patient has to be saved, not endlessly examined. Leave the forms here.’ He said to the Sister: ‘Who is the anaesthetist on duty? Dr Askari? The patient is in shock, so we’d better use atropine for pre-anaesthetic. We’ll wheel him into the theatre now. Who did the cut down procedure?’

‘I did, Sir,’ said one of the house surgeons proudly.

‘Untidy job,’ said the senior surgeon bluntly. ‘Has Dr Khan come yet? Or the Nawab Sahib? We need signatures on those permissions.’

Neither Firoz’s brother nor father had arrived yet.

‘Well, we can’t wait,’ said the senior surgeon. And Firoz was wheeled through the corridors of the Civil Hospital into the operating theatre.

The Nawab Sahib and Imtiaz arrived too late to see him being wheeled in. The Nawab Sahib was virtually in a state of shock himself.

‘Let me see him,’ he said to Imtiaz.

Imtiaz put his arm around his father’s shoulder, and said: ‘Abba-jaan, that’s not possible. He’ll be all right, I know. Bhatia is doing the operation. Askari is the anaesthetist. They’re both very good.’

‘Who would want to do this to Firoz?’ said the old man.

Imtiaz shrugged. His face was grim. ‘He didn’t tell you where he was going this evening, did he?’ he asked his father.

‘No,’ said the Nawab Sahib. After a pause he said, ‘But Maan’s in town. He might know.’

‘All in good time, Abba-jaan. Don’t agitate yourself.’

‘On Cornwallis Road,’ said the Nawab Sahib incredulously. Then he covered his face with his hands and started weeping softly. After a while he said: ‘We should tell Zainab.’

‘All in good time, Abba-jaan, all in good time. Let’s wait till the operation is over and we know how things have gone.’

It was almost midnight. The two of them remained outside the operating theatre. The smell of the hospital began to panic the Nawab Sahib. Occasionally a colleague would walk past and greet Imtiaz or commiserate with him and his father. The news of the attack on Firoz must have got around, because a reporter from the Brahmpur Chronicle turned up at just after midnight. Imtiaz was tempted to tell him to buzz off, but decided to answer a few short questions instead. The more publicity Firoz got, he decided, the more likely it was that someone who may have noticed something would come forward with a clue.

At about one o’clock, the doctors emerged from the operating theatre. They looked tired. It was impossible to read Dr Bhatia’s expression. But when he saw Imtiaz, he drew a deep breath and said:

‘It’s good to see you, Dr Khan. I hope it will be all right. He was in severe shock when we operated, but we couldn’t wait. And it’s a good thing we didn’t. We did the usual laparotomy. There was severe laceration of the small intestine, and we had to perform several anastomoses, apart from cleaning out the abdominal cavity. That’s why it took us so long.’ He turned to the Nawab Sahib. ‘Your handsome son is now the proud possessor of a handsome seven-inch scar. I hope he will be all right. I am sorry we couldn’t wait for your permission to anaesthetize and operate.’

‘May I—’ began the Nawab Sahib.

‘What about—’ said Imtiaz simultaneously.

‘What about what?’ said Bhatia to Imtiaz.

‘What about the danger of sepsis, of peritonitis?’

‘Well, let us pray that that has been averted. There was quite a mess inside. But we will keep a close watch. We have given him penicillin. I am sorry, Nawab Sahib, what were you about to say?’

‘May I speak to him?’ said the old man falteringly. ‘I know he will want to speak to me.’

Dr Bhatia smiled. ‘Well, he is still under chloroform. If he does say something, you may not be able to make much sense of it. But you might find it interesting. Indeed, people have no idea what interesting things they say under anaesthesia. Your son kept talking about his sister.’