Shouldn’t you meet the doctor? she said.
I pretended not to hear.
About your problem, she went on.
I raised my head. I’d just sat down, after going out to check whether I needed to go and finding, no, not really. It’s not as bad when I’m working. Perhaps it’s all in the head after all, the problems of my cock. I looked vaguely at her and went back to sewing on a belt.
There’s a new doctor in the clinic, she said the next evening, the clinic near the workshop.
Oh?
Yes. He sees patients after five.
I felt a shiver of anxiety, down there. I’d gone to see the doctor once before, when I stopped drinking. All kinds of health problems began then. My back started to hurt; one knee became weak. My stomach roared with acidity. The doctor was a young man, new to the practice and the area. He didn’t last. He told me the drinking had caused the problems. I said more likely it was the stopping. Still, something told me it might be an idea to take a break.
That was the start of old age. Perhaps I was merely accepting the inevitable.
What was the point of doctors? I had to pay him so that he’d tell me I was getting older, I should eat on time, take exercise, and so forth. Things anyone knows.
On Sunday I heard my wife saying to Prakash, Talk to him. He should see someone, about his problem.
I don’t have a problem! I shouted from the inside room, startling my grandson. I’m going out, I said.
But Anil is here, said my wife’s voice behind me. It was no use. In the moment of losing my temper I saw the next step, which was to walk out. I took it. Even as I began to march off in the direction of my usual walk I thought that it would have been possible to react otherwise. But I hadn’t. I felt defeated, and irritated. It was too hot for all this, and I’d eaten well at lunch. I carried on walking, and salty sweat ran in a line down my neck.
I found myself going towards the workshop. That same dusty lane, and a page of a newspaper blowing outside it. I turned in a different direction, into back streets. Before long I was passing Ratna’s house. How treacherous of my feet to lead me here. I hadn’t thought of her in a long time. The door was a different colour. Was it the same one? Yes. A child came out, and stared at me. I resumed walking. The things your family drives you to. If they could only let me be as I was, we would all get along. And if they fixed the small things they ought. My wife has few flaws, but it’s exhausting to live with someone who’s always right, someone who’s so self-sufficient. Since the time we were first married, she’s kept things to herself, what things I wouldn’t know, but there’s been a part of her that wasn’t available to me. She liked to spend time alone. Everyone in the house used to comment on it. She’d go to wash clothes, and would be some time returning. I wondered if she had a friend she talked to, or even a man she was meeting.
One day my sister-in-law told us all, laughing, that she’d seen my wife sitting under a tree near the river, just staring. It became a joke.
What do you do, when you go off? I asked her, and she only smiled, or waved a hand, as though she wasn’t to be questioned.
Over time you get used to the unknown areas of the person you live with. They become familiar, or that’s what you think.
I seemed to have brought my wife on this walk. I turned, no longer angry, and began to go home. I saw things: a hoarding for a new film with Akshay Kumar, a myna sitting on top of a wall, chattering, looking at me with friendly brown eyes; the carcass of a crow on the road, worms coming out of it. I would forgive my family, I decided, despite their lack of respect and their annoying behaviour. Also, it was time to get home in case I needed to piss. I walked a little faster, and passed the market, and the office with the black glass window, the white lettering, Dr Nitin Sonawane.
They had to leave, my wife said when I returned.
But they hardly got here, I said. Did you all have tea?
There’s some in the pan, she said.
*
That night, returned from the outhouse, I said into the darkness, It’s true, it is bothering me. I settled heavily on to the bed. I’m so tired, I said.
The silence was attentive.
You want me to say you’re right, is that it? I said. I feel very cranky, I added after a pause, perhaps unnecessarily. I sighed loudly. The weight of the world, existence, etc.
What will a doctor do anyway? I said.
The silence had a quality. It wasn’t sullen, or expectant.
I said, I could go and see him, I suppose.
She turned on her side, towards me.
Who knows, I said. I may drop in to see him one evening.
A bony, warm hand patted my arm.
I rolled over too, away from her. How strange our conversations could be. I like to talk things through. I need comfort. She can be like an animal in its shell, perfectly content. You see her drinking her tea, or listening to the radio while she cooks, reading the newspaper or watching a serial, and there’s nothing missing. It’s not that I want her to be unhappy, but for someone like me, always teetering from one desire to the next, it’s hard to be around her. Yet it’s to her that I return when I’ve tired myself out.
She turned over again and so did I, our slow synchronised dance in the bed.
She told me about her childhood only after we’d been married some time – after we moved into the new house. I should have been happy. For a while I was. Then I was discontented. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Prakash was already on the way. I was used to being crammed into the old house, used to being able to be forgotten.
I would get angry about nothing. You make yourself unhappy, she said. Well, I said, if we relied on you where would we be? You think everyone is nice, wanting to help you. We’d probably be cheated, lose our livelihood. Someone has to be a grown-up.
As I shouted I wanted, I remember, to weep at the idea of having to be a grown-up.
It was after that argument that she sat down and sighed. No, she said, it wasn’t easy for her. She told me things I’d half known – that she’d grown up at first living with her grandmother, in Bhimashankar. I thought she was my mother, she said. Then when I was seven I had to go back. My father came for me. I didn’t know who he was. I cried and cried. I was back in the city, living with everyone else, and there was no space. The air didn’t smell the way it did at home. My mother – wasn’t good to me.
She shrugged.
My mother – I began.
But she went on and I thought with resentment, Oh, now I have to listen to her.
I waited every day for the time when I’d be able to go back to my grandparents. But both of them died before I could visit. I wasn’t taken to the ceremonies. I wanted to die. I was such a young child, but I thought about it all the time, death, and when it would come, so I could be with my grandmother again, in the forest where the air smelled different and there were a hundred things to see every hour, and I was free.
Her eyes clouded. Her face looked as I had never seen it – inward, bitter. I was thrilled, yet repelled. The moments when I understood her best, accepted her as she was, were also the moments when I was absolutely without desire for her. As though in being a person it was impossible for me also to be a man.
For a while I was like that, very unhappy, she said.
And then things improved, I said quickly.
She smiled at me, her lopsided smile. There was a neighbour near my parents’ house who took an interest in children, she said. Particularly me. He used to call me to his house when his wife wasn’t there.
What?
She was shaking slightly. I didn’t tell anyone, she said.
What did he do?
She shook her head. It wasn’t that bad, but it was enough.
Did he –?
No, she said, and I was ashamed, because I was thinking of myself, and what someone might have done to my wife before I knew her.
A tear rolled down her face. She said, I couldn’t tell anyone. But then he did it to someone else, and he got beaten up and had to move. My mother told me if anything had happened to me it was my fault.
I took her hand then, and she let me. I was crying too. I didn’t know what I felt.
She took away her hand, and wiped her face. The baby in her was starting to show.
And then, she said, I decided that I would never be unhappy again; that I would expect nothing from life, but just enjoy whatever I could – a cool breeze, clean clothes, walking to school, or being alone. If bad things happened, I knew they would pass. I knew I would live a long life. But I also knew I couldn’t depend on anyone or anything to be happy. She looked at me again, and her eyes were clear and warning. It’s a choice, she said.
But still, I argued with her now, as she slept next to me, it’s easier for you. You don’t need people. And everyone loves you. Whereas I …
When I woke it was bright. I was late for the start of the day.
*
Outside, said the girl at the counter.
But I want to see the doctor, I said. An older man with white hair, spectacles, a stick, looked at me. He was sitting on one of the three chairs inside the door.
Chappals.
Oh, I said.
I went to the door, removed them, came back, and helped her fill in a form about me. A pert young thing, dark-skinned, in a pink kurta and dupatta, with shiny pink nails.
She pointed to the chairs. I sat a little away from the older man. Perhaps he was in his seventies or eighties. The future, I thought. He looked fine, apart from the cane and the thick spectacles.
In the afternoon, she’d asked me, Shall I come with you? No no, I said, though I wanted her to.
Arun Pawar, said the thin figure in the office door.
I padded in.
Please sit. He closed the door behind me and retreated behind the desk, on which there was a computer, a calendar, pens, little statues.
And what’s the matter? he said.
My wife thought I should see you, I said. There’s nothing wrong with me.
What are the symptoms?
I looked over at the high bed. Well, I said, basically nothing. Some, ah, irregularities when I piss.
He nodded, waving his long hands. Your age?
Sixty-seven.
How long has this been going on?
Not long. A few months. Maybe a year. It bothers me at night, I said. I wake up, then I can’t go back to sleep.
How’s the stream?
What stream?
When you urinate. Is it weak?
I had a sense I should save being irritated for later.
Sometimes, I said.
When you’ve urinated, do you find your bladder is empty?
No.
The stream starts and stops? He kept writing.
Yes, I said. I rubbed my forehead.
This happens often?
Yes.
He nodded. His face was smooth, oddly comical.
You’re fully qualified? I found myself asking.
My certificates.
I peered behind him at a row of framed documents. Sorry, I said.
I’m going to check your prostate.
My what?
Just a minute. He got up, took down a large book and began leafing through it until he got to the diagram of a man’s lower half, all kinds of pink tubes inside the body. This is your bladder, he said. This is your prostate. Its function is to do with helping the semen come out when you ejaculate.
He looked into my eyes. His were large and brown, framed by oblong wire spectacles. But after the age of fifty, he went on, this tends to enlarge. Most of the time that doesn’t mean something bad.
And the rest of the time?
First let me explain. So this – finger circling one of the pink things – is your prostate. It’s normally the size of a bor. But when it becomes enlarged, it presses here on your bladder. Which could be causing these difficulties regarding your urination.
I nodded quickly.
Now I just need to examine you, he said. There’s nothing to be alarmed about.
Examine my –?
Come to the bed here. Take down your trousers and bend over. Put your hands here. I’m –
I heard the sound of rubber being stretched. I whipped around, pulling my neck. Agh! I said.
He was putting on a rubber glove. It’ll only take a short time, he said. Bend over and try to relax.
No, I thought. Pull up your clothes and run. But I felt myself bending, and holding the end of the rickety bed.
You have to relax, he said.
The insistent finger probed. Thank God I was usually regular in the morning. Otherwise – But to my shame, the air began to smell as you would expect, if one person were poking around in another’s bottom. The thought gave me an adolescent giggle. I relaxed, and the finger shot up further, and probed in areas I wasn’t even aware of, rotated. There was a tingling behind my belly button; even at the base of my penis.
I moaned very quietly, feeling myself lose control of everything.
That’s it, he said, and suddenly I was uncorked. The smell persisted.
You can dress, he said. He walked past me, to a small steel sink where he stripped off the gloves and washed his hands many times. Please sit, he said, over his shoulder.
When we were face to face again I smiled bashfully, hoping he’d make a sign the encounter hadn’t horrified him. He didn’t. Well, he said, your prostate is a little enlarged. It isn’t hardened, which is good. We’ll do a blood test to get more information. He scribbled on a sheet of paper. Take this to the lab around the corner. The receptionist will give you directions. Collect the report, bring it back to me, and then we’ll know the next step.
I blinked. So you don’t know what it is? There’s nothing to be done?
We need to see what the blood test says.
What are the treatments? My voice sounded querulous, wavering.
He looked down. It really depends on what the problem is, and how much it affects you. There are medicines that could give relief. Surgery is possible, though usually that’s only if the symptoms are really making a patient’s life difficult.
It’s expensive?
It’s expensive, and has varying results.
So there’s nothing to be done?
Let me know when you have the test results, he said. He stood, and I collected myself, and the piece of paper.
When I got home I was still thinking about the lab, and watching a red line climb into a syringe, along a thin pipe, into a clear container. It had been a bad day for my body. Well, I began as I got in the door, that was an experience.
Sayali called, she said. Prakash has been arrested.
Oh for God’s sake, I said. What?
There was that demonstration, about the child’s rape. Sayali wasn’t sure what to do. Will you find out?
But what happened?
Maybe some sort of fight.
But that would have been expected, I said. I’d forgotten, there was to be a demonstration of sorts against north Indians, because the suspected rapist was a north Indian. Normally Prakash isn’t political, but neither are these demonstrations. Just some men drinking, shouting slogans, and maybe hitting some other men. The police let it go on.
Sayali has to stay home, to look after Anil, my wife said.
I’m going, I’m going, I said ill-temperedly.
At the station there was a knot of people. What happened? I said.
A man told me, A few people got into a scuffle at the demonstration. One of them hit a police officer. Then the police got angry and took three of them in.
I’m looking for my son, I said. I named him.
The other man glanced at me. I’m waiting for my brother, he said. Pawar, I think that was one of the names. Prakash Arun Pawar?
Yes. But he wouldn’t have hit a policeman.
Three hours later my son emerged, his eyes red, his clothing crumpled. His face was puffy.
Let’s go, he said briefly. They’ll be wondering where I am at home.
They are wondering, I said. I heard my voice rise. What happened?
Not here, he said. He began to walk off. He looked back. Oh, he said. All right. We’ll get a ride. Do you have money?
In the rickshaw he said, I wasn’t charged yet. Just … and he felt the right side of his face, which was darker and larger than usual. He sighed and leaned back. He smelled of stale booze.
You hit a policeman?
There was a lafda, he said. I felt someone grab me from behind and I stuck out my elbow. I think I caught him in the face. Then we got taken in.
You’re wasting your life, I said. It just came out.
He looked at me sideways. You’d know, he said. He stuck his tongue experimentally into a corner of his right cheek, and closed his eyes. His fingers, the nails unclean, travelled carefully over the side of his face.
I became very angry and said nothing. What a day I’d had.
At home I got out of the rickshaw, gave the driver some money and went inside.
Well? she said. Has he gone?
Your son is fine, I said. But he’s an idiot. He’ll get home in a few minutes. I hobbled towards the outhouse.
*
The next morning, I was stitching. Prakash’s remark still rankled. Let it go, I told myself. I had no authority. I hadn’t been much of a father to them. Especially Deepak. He’d borne the worst of the drinking – Prakash was married and moved out towards the end of it. The enormity of having children, being responsible, bringing them up into men, it had been too much. I’d sought distraction. After the fact, when they were married and older, I was remorseful. I wanted them to say I’d done a good job, that things were all right.
It didn’t happen. They remained closer to their mother. They rarely told me things. I couldn’t understand it. I’d treated them as equals. Perhaps that was the mistake. My father always maintained his dignity. If he had crises, I never saw them. Was it because of the way I’d been – the things I’d done? Not that they knew all of them.
As I pulled the leather thread, made another hole with the hook and threaded it through again, I was thinking about Ratna. All that time ago – fifteen years. More than my eldest grandson’s life. When I walked by her house, or the one I think it was, I felt time hadn’t passed at all. I could have gone in, pushed open the door as I did that first afternoon, on an errand to collect some hides because the delivery man, her husband, was new.