LIFE DONOR
(A
short story)
from
the original in Telugu
It
was ten O’ clock at night.
It
was quite warm inside the room, though cold winds were blowing outside. The
room was like a small ocean with the glimmering rays scattered from the small
electric bulb covered with the blue paper, in between the white walls and upon
the black stones. A cotton-taped cot beside the wall. A white cotton bed on the cot. Niraja
with dishevelled curls and heavy eyelids, lost in a
chain of thoughts, was sinking into the lap of the Goddess of sleep.
Niraja looked like a picture
made of turmeric powder. It would be more fitting to compare her to the lotus
flower plucked along with its stem. Lassitude is quite apparent in her face.
It
is true that Niraja was tired, having attended to her
professional duties right from eight O’ clock in the morning till the evening.
But her weariness adds lustre to her beauty. No
exaggeration about it. Kalidasa inscribed long back
“what does not constitute an ornament for those that are naturally beautiful!”
It
was not even two months since Niraja joined the
profession. Her old mother placing meals before her daughter that comes home
quite exhausted, would remark “you seem to be getting weaker, Niraja!” of course, ‘Duty’ tells upon one’s health.
Niraja was astonished. It no
doubt springs up a surprise if a dream becomes a reality. More
so a reverie. She lived only in that daydream all through these ten
years. She was afraid that the dream might get blurred at any time. Nectar is
for goddesses. That she–of the type of Rahu–should
yearn for that nectar, would be all in vain, she thought sleeping quite in
thoughts, dreaming in that sleep and imagining that her daypream
got withered–she used to shudder in her heart of hearts, imagining that she was
sinking down into the deep depths of the under-worlds, from Heaven. But the
expected ambrosial vessel had not become a mirage for Niraja.
Why did it not happen so? Was it due to her grand-father’s self-confidence? Was
it because of the sanctity of her previous births? Or was it the grace of God? Niraja does not know the reason. Some invisible hands gave
her shelter. They were of perfect succour and led her
to the final goal.
Niraja grieved much that no
body was there to look after her in the early days after her grandfather’s
death. Gradually she regained her faith that God alone is the refuge for those
that are helpless. Niraja knew it for certain that in
no other case this last word has been disproved and felt that it would be the
same with her too.
The
wall-clock in the neighbour’s house struck suddenly.
It was getting 10-30. The whispers of people returning from the picture houses
were softly touching the ears of Niraja. Record music
silently penetrating through their din was heard from a marriage function,
celebrated at a distance. It was an old song. Still it was very sweet. In the
song, a beloved was questioning herself “who am I, who am I”. Age is bad. It
would search for those who would enable us to know that we are such and such
and somebody. Perhaps such a doubt might arise in that search. This novel idea
dawned on her mental horizon like an impulse from a flower garden. As this idea
struck her like the sprouts of a neem stem, might not
an inauguration for such a search form in her mind, Niraja
felt shy in that mental state of drowsiness in between her awakening and sleep.
A tiny smile danced on her lips and brightened her face with a red glow.
Niraja liked to think that
this would not look decent. But she could not help it. How could she think that
her idea–which was quite sweet like kheer served in a
silver vessel, or like milk-cake on the lips–was not nice?
One…..two…..three….
Niraja was startled to hear
three knocks at the door and opened her eyes.
“Who
are you? What do you want?” The old woman questioned.
“Is
the doctor inside? Amma! There is an
urgent case. His condition is very dangerous. It is critical.”….An old man
replied with a shivering voice.
“The
doctor is not doing independent practice here. Moreover, she is sleeping. Go
and find out some other person.”
“Oh!
don’t disappoint us, Madam. No other doctor is to be
found in the vicinity. Unless some quick medical aid is given, the boy has no
chance of recovering.”
“What if! Why do you press me
still? I told you she is not doing independent practice…” As steps were heard
behind, the old woman stopped talking with him and looked back. Holding the
medical bag in her hands, Niraja was putting on her
shoes.
Niraja and the old man were
going through narrow lanes and streets in great anxiety and proceeded
a furlong or two.
A small tiled house. The patient
lay unconscious on a mat in the room facing the street. It was so small a room
that one could not lie down across it. If one lies down straight only a little
space will be left between the person and the door. The walls were constructed
with the usual bricks. The pavement was plastered upon pebbles. Credit goes to
the architect for having constructed such a nice house–that does not permit
much breeze and light inside–fit for the dwellers on this earth. The wall looks
like a specimen arena of a battle-field with innumerable blood marks smeared
over them. Mildew formed over the roof like a canopy cloth. Black flies
proclaimed their skill and knowledge, having started a musical concert in that
room–decked with all these facilities. Some dailies lay scattered round the
mat. In one corner was a heap of books. In another
corner was an old steel trunk. The very next moment after she had entered the
room, Niraja who had taken her diploma in medicine
could realise that she had landed in the enemy
kingdom.
The
patient was not so young as she was informed by the
old man. Of course, he was still in his youth. But that youth does not seem to
be in the early stages. His grown beard, his dishevelled
hair, a heap of bones–this heart-rending scene of the crumbled patient–appeared
like a boat–splashed by the waves, smashed by the winds and tossed up and down
by the whirlpools–that was brought to the shore in a completely withered
condition. The death-like sea on one side and mother earth on
the other side and the boat in between them. Niraja
stood dumbfounded before the patient for a while, to treat the first case that
she had to tackle independently.
The
old man went on. “Look here, Amma! You
must immediately attend to the patient by giving either some medicine or
injection. I was not at home for the last two days. Were I here, I would not
have allowed matters to precipitate so far. Days are such that sin comes ahead
of virtue. I have rented out this room in spite of the protestations of my
family. He said he would stay here for four months and look out for some other
portion. He should have done so. But meanwhile he fell
a victim to this ailment. He said he was taking medicine in the hospital. I
thought he would be all right. But one evening scarcely had I opened the door,
when I found him lying on the floor unconscious. It is doubtful whether they
would admit him in the hospital at this stage. You do what all you can, Madam!
I shall have to meet out my pocket the cost of the medicines somehow. What else
am I to do! Whatever comes to us we have to bear all these difficulties having
given our house for rent. How can we avoid it?
Niraja felt disgusted with
the discourse of the old man. The world does not much care whatever happens to
an individual whether he lives or dies. The world will be immersed in auditing
the profit and loss it would reap, on a account of his
birth and death. One may question whether the doctors are not human. They too
are human. Some other person is likely to bring up some other argument that the
doctors are more particular about extracting fees than curing the patients. Niraja has no high ambition of constructing mansions by
collecting fees. But it is a fact that a small desire arose in her heart of
hearts. It would be a good beginning for her profession, if she could make this
patient all right with her own hands.
She
has finished examining the patient. Niraja could
diagnose the disease even from the external symptoms. Dried lips, scorched
tongue, heavy breathing–all these are symptoms of a typhoid fever that was
sucking out his blood. There is one sure antidote like the never failing Ramastram for this disease. But there is a
restriction on its use. It should not be used except when the disease reaches
the crisis.
Niraja sought the support of
God. Getting the medicine into the syringe, she enquired “Has he not any
relations or acquaintances here?”
The
old man pursed up his lips. “Who is there for him? Not only here, but even in
the whole world, he has none, I fear. In case he had, would he not receive at
least letters from them? He said, he was working as an
agent for some Clock Company formerly. His health, it seems, was upset, due to
too much travelling. The doctors advised him to take
rest. He has lodged here to take rest. Even here, he did not waste his time. He
had tried one or two jobs, but discontinued. He used to speak quite politely,
whenever I met him. He is no doubt a nice person. But of what
use? If his wisdom qualifies one to reign over lands, fate may lead him
to look after the donkeys.”
With
the help of the old man, Niraja made him lie down on
the cot in the proper posture and folding up his sleeve,
injected the needle in the upper part of his elbow. “There may be some
improvement after fifteen minutes. We can try still further in case of
betterment. Otherwise we have to give up all hope. Meanwhile it is better if
you can get a glass of hot milk. The reason for the worsening of the disease is
not merely the lack of medicine but also the want of proper nutritive food…”
“Milk! How can we get it?
That too in this dead of night….”
Niraja got irritated. “What!
you should not forget the fact that you are dealing
with the life of a human being. Please go and find out. It is not difficult to
get milk in such a big city. Enquire in some tea-stall…..”
The
old man placed a reclining chair for Niraja in the
verandah and went out into the street with a vessel. Niraja
sat in the chair gazing at the dim darkness of the interior of the house. The
old man himself seemed to be somewhat better more humane. All the others in the
house were soundly sleeping with deep snores. A small lamp was lighted in the
patient’s room. Otherwise darkness should have danced there also. That lamp too
would not burn long. Its life also also was
flickering. Niraja sighed. People are showing such
carelessness where it ought not to be shown. Life is valued even worse than
straw in some places–life, which can neither be bought, with money nor created
with intellect. In a country where people are sometimes prepared to sacrifice
their lives for the sake of one single life, some unfortunate people are
withering away like insects with no one to feel sorry or shed tears for them.
Niraja crumbled down in the
chair, being unable to sit erect. She was able to hear perfectly the tik tik of the
watch in that dead silence. Minutes rolled on slowly. The prescribed time of
fifteen minutes was rapidly slipping away.
As
she thought that the murmur of the patient was being heard from the room all of
a sudden, she stood up startled and gazed into the room. Yes! There was some
motion in the patient. His lips were moving like dried leaves in the wind.
Niraja thought that it would
be better to place a pillow under his head to facilitate his breathing freely.
There was no other article to serve the purpose of a pillow, except books. She
picked up a big volume from the heap of books. She would place the book as a pillow,
after removing the dust on it. But while she was so doing, some paper strips
slipped down from the book, which filled her with astonishment. She took all
the papers in her hand one after another and closely examined them in the light
of the lamp. She stood rooted to the spot like a statue.
They
were not mere strips of paper. Money order receipts! Her own signature was seen
legibly on every receipt above the printed column of the signature of the
payee.
It
is impossible to describe her astonishment in words.
Niraja’s mind lost its
bearings in her boundless surprise and became silent, like one whose eyes
become blind on seeing the light of the sun.
Niraja was not aware how
long she stood like that. She could not come back to her original state of mind
till she heard the words of the old man “Doctor, I have brought the milk.”
Taking
the glass of milk from the old man, Niraja stood near
the patient. The old man was surprised to find Niraja
pouring milk between the lips of the patient with a spoon. The scene did not
appear like that of a doctor treating a patient, but that of a close associate
looking after the comforts of a beloved friend or relation.
After
ten minutes the old man himself broke the silence. “It is getting midnight,
Madam! I shall drop you at your house…..”
“Why!
I shall stay here alone,” said Niraja. The reply that
came out so unexpectedly, sounded to the old man as if she was questioning as
to what right he had to order her to get along”–his surprise was doubled.
Past
reminiscences were moving like scenes in a drama on Niraja’s
mental horizon.
Her
parents passed away leaving her to the winds. She was looked after by her
grandfather, by God’s grace. She grew up under his shadow. She could forget the
loss of her parents in that shade.
The
world is a flower garden–one can play, sing and construct a doll’s house and
cook food–with these childish fancies, her younger days passed away like sweet
dreams.
Her
grandfather admitted her in the high school. She used to have a special place
among so many hundreds of boys and girls. All the teachers thought that she
would have a bright future. She thought in those days that obtaining good marks
in examinations alone will prove the royal road to a bright future. Life shone
before her quite attractive and delightful.
But
those veils of ignorance began to fade away gradually. As circumstances began
to manifest themselves in their stark reality, a dread of life began to burn in
her. Her grandfather was like a yellow leaf ready to drop down at any moment.
He had no property except name and fame. His dwelling was in a cottage, a kuteer at the end of the town. Even that kuteer was not his own. He did not live for
the sake of his family. He lived for the society. He followed in the footsteps
of noble men who dedicated their lives to the cause of social reform. He
participated in various social reform movements, being in the forefront in
those days, when people considered widow marriages, non-observance of untouchability, cosmopolitan
dinners as great atrocities. He stuck steadily to his ideals, even though he
was attacked by the public and the world passed strictures against him.
Her
grandfather was a teacher in a Government school. For sometime he worked as a
headmaster also. He used to receive some amount or other in the form of salary
every month. But he used to spend one fourth of his salary on poor students for
their school fees and their books. There were some months during which he would
come home with empty pockets even on the pay-day. Her grandmother too was not
worldly-wise. She would closely follow in the footsteps of the grandfather. She
did not care to find fault with him for whatever he had done. Her grandfather
knew something of medicine. He was a sort of a doctor without a diploma of a
board. He had some knowledge of medicine by inheritance. He held the belief
that education is not fruitful when we expect reward for work. Some had
confidence in that type of medical treatment. Her grandfather would not object
to visit the patients at midnight or late in the night. He used to say that it
is not enough if we preach that every human being has a right to live, but he
must have some support also. Every man should have at least a bellyful of food,
clothes for the body and medicine for disease unless society assures these
minimum necessities at least, the so called progress in civilisation
over the past so many centuries, would be a farce, he used to argue. Whenever
guests visited their house, he would show her and tell them: “Look here, Sirs,
the girl has not yet completed fourteen years. She is already in the fifth
form. I shall send her up for medicine. I am very fond of female education. But on one condition. They should either teach lessons to
students or treat the patients.”
Neither
she nor her grandfather knew then that for educating a person, the mere
intention to educate is not sufficient but it requires several other things.
In
his old age her grandfather had no other resources except twenty-five rupees a
month by way of pension. With that income, he could have spent the remaining
part of his life quietly. But, for educating her, he had to commence earning.
Even though he had not enough strength in his body, he used to give tuitions to
ten students. With the hope of that additional income only, he could send her
for further studies to the college.
It
was only from then that the battle had started between himself and goddess
Misfortune.
Shortly
after she had joined the college, she received a thunderbolt-like
news from home. Her grandfather could not stir from his bed. His legs would not
move. The name of that disease–that keeps the person like a living corpse on
the bed-is paralysis.
When
she had gone home during vacation, she sat near her grandfather and wept over
his condition. She said she would discontinue her studies and seek a job. But
her grandfather was strongly opposed to it. “Look here, Niraja!
I have become successful in whatever I have undertaken in my life. My last wish
was to educate you. I must find out whether I become triumphant or not in this
attempt. You must study at least for my sake. You can’t say ‘no’ to it,” her
grandfather said.
He
could only affirm his resolution but did not have any plan as to how he could
educate her. However, she could not help going to the college again, owing to
her grandfather’s insistence. As usual she used to receive money. The real
secret could not be known till she went home after finishing her Inter
examinations. The house seemed to be a complete blank. The old chairs and bureaus
had disappeared. The old vessels were found missing. Even the ear-rings of her
grandmother were not to be seen.
Hence
she thought that the desire of her grandfather to educate her must have sunk
down deep into him.
But
it seems a great sport for fate to play with human beings. It sometimes does
certain funny things. She stood college-first in Inter. It seemed that she
would not merely get a seat in the medical college but also a scholarship by
virtue of her marks.
Now
the problem of what to do could not stand against her grandfather’s
self-confidence. With closed eyes and tightened fist and with firm
determination he said “I am quite confident, Niraja! your education would not be stopped in the middle. I am sure
we will obtain God’s support. You go and join in the college.”
That
was the zenith of the fight that continued between her and the goddess of
Misfortune.
Two
months after she joined the medical college, her-grandfather wrote a letter
to her. She still remembers every sentence in that letter packed with hopes and
despairs like the warp and the woof. The last letter–that he wrote lying on the
cot, unable to sit, with shivering fingers–made its appearance on her forehead.
Her
grandfather writes to Miss Niraja with all blessings–
Ammayi!
My health is breaking down day by day. I am standing on the
brink between earth and heaven. At this moment there are two chains that are
pulling me towards the earth. One is your grandmother and the other is
yourself. I am not much worried about your grandmother. You are there for her.
But you have nobody. You are far far away from your
destination. All the while I hoped that you would reach the goal. But in the last act of my life, that hope also is gradually fading.
The days that would not pass quickly, sleepless nights, endless thoughts,
doubts and fears–all these are spoiling my mental peace. Sometimes I feel that
this paralysis also is a blessing in disguise. In the absence of this, I could
not have been aware of my helplessness. I could not have visualised
the truth that I was after all an insignificant being.
I
have recently addressed letters to some of my friends and acquaintances. I did
not refer to my past help to them. I did not desire any reward for my services.
I bowed down and begged them with folded hands. There were no replies to my
letters. My prayer had become only a cry in the wilderness. What am I to do!
All these days I lived under a delusion. Now I confess my inability to do so
any longer.
I
should have finished and posted this letter with these words, but, I know not
what wonder is it that from the time you had started on your career, beams of
hope are seen in the worst darkness. I shall narrate a wonderful incident that
has recently taken place, and close this letter.
Ten
days back a young man of twenty-five years came searching for
me. He informed me that he was a newspaper correspondent. He felt very sorry
over my situation. If I agreed, he said, he would write an essay on me and
publish it in the papers. I got irritated. My first reaction was laughter. But
the very next moment, I grew irritated again. I replied to him “I liked such an
essay being published and the papers in which the essay would be printed would
aid them to make packets and that even after my death it would bring peace to
my soul.”
`Oh!
It looked as if there would not be a single drop of blood in his body even if
it were hit by a sword.
He
got depressed and went away with a bent head. I did not give much importance to
his entrance or exit. But later a letter came from him.
It
looks rather amazing. In this vast Andhra land, it seems, there is an institute
somewhere with the name of ‘Manava Seva Samithi (Society for the
service of mankind). One of its aims is to provide financial help for old
people like me who have rendered some service or other to the society. He
mentioned in that letter that the society had consented to give me thirty
rupees every month.
I
could not believe my own eyes. It is not an event worthy of being believed. But
this was unsought for help. There would be no sorrow in case it is not obtained
but there would be pleasure, if it is got. Then I wrote a reply to that person
to make arrangements to send that amount to your address, if that promise of
help was real.
“The
person that is struggling in water hopes to revive with the help of any small
stick. Hope is natural for all human beings. Let us also wait and see. Hope to
receive a reply surely.”
That
is her grandfather’s letter.
As
per his letter, in less than two weeks, she received the first M. O. from the
Secretary of the Human Service Association. Ever afterwards, she continued to
receive money orders regularly every month without any break.
She
wrote a reply intimating the death of her grandfather in due course. But money
orders continued to be received. They were stopped only after two months, after
she had completed the course.
But
some doubts regarding that Human Service Association lingered in her mind. The
money orders that she was receiving every month, were
not remitted from the same place. They used to come from the four corners of
the country–one month from
“Where
am I?” That question was not heard clearly, it was so weak as if it was coming
out from the bottom of the well.
“You
are here, Sir…..” Niraja replied softly.
The
patient gazed at Niraja with close attention. Niraja was like a marble statue carved by the expert hands
of a sculptor. Niraja appeared before him like the
incarnation of sweetness of life to that helpless person who had just escaped from
the clutches of death. Meanwhile he had a fancy. He did not revive perhaps!
Perhaps some Aswani Diety
was treating him after he reached Heaven.
He
closed his eyes once and opened them again. He turned his eyes in both the
directions and with the help of the electric lamp lit in the room, and the
statue of Lord Buddha appearing on the table with a face of ineffable serenity
and the movement on Niraja’s eyelids, he could decide
that he was still in this world of human beings.
Tears
of thoughtful gratitude swelled and bedewed the eye of Niraja.
The bony hands that lay on his chest slowly moved up and got folded together.
Approaching
him and dissuading him from that attempt Niraja said,
“You shouldn’t embarrass me by doing such things. There is not so much of
greatness in me that deserves such a salutation from you.”
“There
is nothing wrong in my saluting a person that has given me life. I do not know
how I could come over here from that dirty dungeon. You are still standing. Be
seated on the chair….”
“I
shall no doubt sit; but you must listen to what I say.” He laughed. “What do
you say! Whatever you say I will hear. But it does not
look nice if you do not enable me to know of you…..”
Niraja too laughed. “We shall
discuss the aspects of our goodness or otherwise; at leisure. This is not the
time for you to speak. You must now take a lot of rest….”
Looking
at the roof; but not towards Niraja; he began to
speak, “You have awakened me from long rest. But you now suggest to me to take
rest. I have to narrate so many incidents to you. This is the second time for
me to be protected thus. You may be astonished to hear it. I am so unfortunate
a person that I should have died even before I was born on this earth…..”
“Then;
you sum up the story in a brief synopsis.” So saying Niraja
drew her chair nearer to the cot.
“That
crime is called a kind of murder. Some marriage-like function was celebrated
for my mother in her younger days. Within two years after the marriage, she
became a widow. In that prison like house, as she was labouring
hard for them, ten years elapsed. It was only then she became pregnant.” He
stopped there for a while and looked at Niraja.
“Carryon,” said Niraja.
“Because
you can understand well, I am not stressing much on the bearings. You can
imagine how much she must have wept, prostrating herself at the feet of the
person that had won her confidence. He too thought of protecting her from this
danger. It was well known that Pantulu was
a great doctor. He went and begged him. For what purpose you think? For the removal of the pregnancy.
“The
epithet of Incarnation of God applies only to a few persons in this world. Pantulu was of that type. He looked at him
furiously for having come to him with such a request. He infused in him
reverence for the life of the child that was to be born. He exhorted him, that
as he was born a man, he should live as a man.
“With
the chit that he gave to his friend, recommending him for a job, and with the
money given by him for their expenses, my father and mother went a long way off
and married. Three months after their marriage, I was born.
“Had
my father not approached Pantulu, one or two lives
must have been ruined wholly. He had saved a child in the embryo. He had
showered happiness on the life of a woman that should have otherwise become a
prey to a miserable plight. My mother used to recollect him every day when she
lighted the lamp in the dusk. Parthasaradhi was his
name. To express her reverence and gratitude to him, I was named after him by
my mother.”
Her
grandfather appeared before her mental vision with an umbrella in his hand, a
long coat, a white turban, and with smiling grey
moustaches.
“Now
you have rescued me a second time like this…..”
Niraja interrupted him.
“There is nothing great in what I have done for you. I am a doctor. You have
come to me as a patient. I could cure your disease. That is my professional
duty.”
Niraja rose from the chair
and slowly went out.
After
one week, Saradhi woke up early at five O’clock one
day and enjoyed a stroll on the terrace upstairs, and came
down-stairs. Niraja sat in the room and was reading a
magazine.
Niraja enquired of Saradhi, when she saw him. “So you have already started
morning strolls!”
He
entered the room and sitting in the chair, said, “I believe that this ‘A’ class
political prisoner has that much of liberty.”
“Oh!
you speak so wittily! I did never think of you so much
then!”
Niraja was immersed again in
reading.
Saradhi adjusted his tone as
if to speak. He looked down for a while. Then he raised his head.
“You
seem to be disposed to tell me something….” Niraja
herself started the conversation.
“There
is nothing, of course. It does not strike me as to how I should convey my
thanks to you for your help. I cannot forget your help for my life to come. But
I cannot be a guest for long taking advantage of your goodness. I have been
trying to take leave of you since a couple of days…..”
Hiding
her face behind the magazine, Niraja said “So you
would like to go away without paying the bill!”
Saradhi felt much. “I am not
such a traitor. I am not I penniless. But I am confident of earning. I can
clear off your debt very soon…..”
Throwing
the magazine from her hands on the table, “If you are so particular of going
away, take this bill also along with you…..” so saying she took out an envelope
from the drawer and handed it over to him.
Saradhi opened the cover and
took out the paper. There were no numbers on the paper. There were only
letters….only one sentence. And under it her signature.
“What
I desire is ‘you’–yours sincerely, Niraja”
Saradhi read it twice over. He
looked at Niraja. Again at the paper! Once again at Niraja! Saradhi attained
divinity.
“Niraja!
Are you the same?” he questioned her casually.
“Yes, Sir! Saradhi!
I am your Niraja–”
tears of gratitude shone in Niraja’s eyes.