Chapter 18: Sameer dance
The morning light through the car window was a pale, insistent bleach on last night’s shadows. They didn’t speak on the drive. The only sound was the wheeze of the car’s old AC and the tap-tap of Anjali’s nails on her purse. She wore a simple grey salwar kameez, her hair in a severe bun, no trace of the woman who had stood in a headlight beam. She looked like what she was: a wife going to a medical appointment.
The hospital smell hit them in the lobby—antiseptic, steamed vegetables, underlying dread.It was a different universe from the damp, charged air of the service road. Rohan pushed his father’s wheelchair, the squeak of the wheels marking their progress. Vikram was a slight weight beneath the blanket, his head lolling gently with the motion. Anjali walked beside him, her hand constantly adjusting his shawl, her fingers brushing his thin shoulder.
The MRI suite was a tomb of beige and muffled sound. A technician with tired eyes took Vikram away through a heavy door.The click-thunk of the lock was final.
They were alone in the waiting area.A television played a silent soap opera. An old ceiling fan stirred the stale air.Anjali sat on a vinyl bench, her back perfectly straight. She stared at the closed door as if sheer will could see through it.
Rohan sat beside her, not too close.The vinyl was cold through his jeans.He watched her hands, clenched in her lap. The knuckles were white.They trembled.He didn’t think. He just reached over and covered one with his own.She inhaled sharply, a short, startled sound.Her head turned. Her eyes, wide and shocked, met his.There was no rage in them now. Just a deep, swimming fear.For a second, he thought she’d pull away. Last night’s words hung between them: Wahi dekhta hai tu bhi, na?
But she didn’t.Her fingers unclenched, turning slightly to weave through his.Her grip was desperate, strong. They sat like that, hands linked on the cold vinyl between them, watching the silent TV, listening to the distant, mechanical shudder of the MRI machine.It sounded like a giant’s heartbeat.
“I shouldn’t have said those things,” she whispered, not looking at him.
“You should have.”
“I was… I am angry.Not at you.At everything.” She swallowed. “This,” she said, nodding at the door.“This is the real world. Not… not dark roads and stupid dances.”
He didn’t answer. He just tightened his hold on her hand.It felt like hours. Her thumb began to move, a small, unconscious stroke against the side of his hand. He closed his eyes, focusing on that tiny point of contact, the only warm thing in the chilled room.The door opened. They both jumped, pulling their hands apart as if scalded.The technician wheeled Vikram out.He looked the same—asleep, passive. But Anjali was on her feet instantly, searching the technician’s face for news he wouldn’t give.“The doctor will see you in his office in ten minutes,” was all he said.
The ten minutes were worse than the wait. Now, the unknown had a shape, a room, a man who would give it a name. They were shown into a small office with framed diplomas and a model of a spine.Dr.Menon was a kind man with a perpetually tired smile. He gestured to chairs.Anjali sat on the edge of hers. Rohan stood behind her, a sentinel.“The scan shows no significant change from six months ago,” Dr. Menon began, his voice gentle.“The progression has been halted by the medication, which is positive. But the existing damage… there’s no improvement in neural activity. The options for further aggressive treatment are now very limited.”
The words were soft, clinical, and brutal.No improvement. Limited options.Anjali nodded, her professional mask flawless. “So the current state… this is likely permanent?”
“The chances of meaningful recovery diminish with each passing month in this state. We should focus on comfort, on quality of care.”
“I understand.”
“The nurse will discuss the new palliative care plan with you.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
She rose, shook his hand, her movements precise and dry-eyed. In the corridor, she walked briskly towards the billing window, discussing numbers in a clear, firm voice.Rohan followed, wheeled his father, fetched the car.
It wasn’t until they were in the parking garage, Vikram settled in the back, the engine off, that the silence became a physical thing.It pressed in from the concrete walls. Anjali sat motionless in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead at a stained concrete pillar.
Then, a tremor ran through her.A single, violent shiver.Her perfect posture crumbled. She folded forward, her forehead touching the dashboard, a low, shuddering groan escaping her. No tears, just the raw sound of a breaking dam held back too long.Rohan reached for her. His hand hovered, then settled on the back of her neck, his fingers slipping into the tight knot of her hair.He felt her stiffen, then melt into the touch. She turned her head, her cheek now against the cool plastic of the dash, looking up at him. Her eyes were dry and utterly shattered.“He’s never coming back, Rohan,” she whispered. “My Vikram is gone. And I’m all alone in that house with… with a ghost.”
“You’re not alone.”
She pushed herself up, leaning across the center console. She didn’t embrace him.She simply laid her head on his shoulder, her forehead tucked against his neck. He could feel the frantic pulse in her temple. He brought his arm around her, his hand splaying across the thin cotton over the small of her back. He held her as she shook, absorbing the tremors that finally racked her body. Her perfume, faded now, mixed with the hospital smell on his clothes.After a long while, she stilled.She didn’t move away. Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.“That kulfi waala. The one from last night. Do you know where he is during the day?”
Rohan blinked, thrown again by the abrupt shift.“Yeah.He’s usually near the old market by noon. Sethi’s shop.”
“Take me there.” She finally pulled back, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. She