Kariyampatti was a village about 9 kilometres north of Virupatchi, and Karuthappa Gounder was its panchayat president—as had been his father and his grandfather before him. This influential clan of landlords ruled the roost in this village and its surroundings. Nine kilometres was a considerable distance to travel; it meant he had to leave early and change two buses to get to the camp in time for roll call. More than once, Mr Karuthappa Gounder had suggested he come and live in Kariyampatti. Murali mulled over the suggestion for months before he took a decision. Murali stopped reporting to the camp and stayed on in an outhouse in Karuthappa Gounder’s fields. One week passed, then two and then three. By the end of the month, the die was cast; Murali had severed his last ties with the past. He would visit his parents from time to time, but most of his days were spent looking after the affairs of his employer. Camp rules were strict; anybody missing from camp for more than a few weeks was liable to get his name struck off the rolls. He would lose the monthly allowance and all the benefits that the refugees were entitled to. He would be considered a fugitive, an alien, and if apprehended, he could face deportation. Even though he knew all this, Murali, like many others, had opted to leave and slowly merge with the teeming millions that churned to and fro across the face of this vast land. Two years further on, his parents arranged a match for him. The girl, Shanthi, was from a refugee camp in Viralimali near Trichy, a city about 110 kilometres away. Karuthappa Gounder bore a good part of the wedding expenses. After a few months spent in the small outhouse, the couple moved into their own tile-roofed cottage in the village.
Gounder had the documents to the house registered in Murali’s name, on the condition that he allow a monthly deduction from his salary to pay for it. Karuthappa Gounder even helped him get a ration card, which would give them all the privileges of citizenship, except perhaps a passport. What would Murali do with a passport anyway; he was happy where he was and unlike his parents, he harboured no hope of going back to Sri Lanka. The scar on his left arm was now the only thing that sometimes made him think about the land of his birth. Usha’s parents still lived in Virupatchi, even though not in the same camp. The government had moved them to a more permanent settlement. In this new site, they had a much better house with a thin concrete roof. As for Usha, in spite of the stormy start, she did finish her school final exam.
She had long since come out of her shell and was now a vivacious young lady. In fact, there were many who thought her too sociable for her own good. She was an average student and it was decided that she should study nursing; something that she herself was not averse to. So her father went to see the nuns that ran the hospital in Chatrapatti, a small town on the main road ten kilometres away. “You have come too late for this year’s admissions,” they told him. “Please, let her join as a nurse’s aide,” he begged them. “If she can prove herself, then please consider her for the two-year certificate course next year. I am leaving her here as your child.” Usha had joined this hospital three years ago. She had worked as a nurse’s aide for a year and was now entering her second and final year as a student nurse.
Murali would visit her every three months or so, and last time he came, Shanthi had come along with their one-year-old on her hips. Her parents visited her every month without fail, lugging along a canvas bag full of the things she loved— coconut sweets, rice flour balls and sometimes even a little plastic box of ‘dried fish’ curry. She had finished her work in the medical ward this morning and should have headed back to the hostel. But what was she now doing, walking towards the surgical block? The answer lay in room number eight. The hospital buildings were arranged in the shape of an ‘L’, with the medical wards at the end of the short arm. The surgical wards, on the other hand, were at the end of the long arm of the ‘L’. Usha now found herself walking down the long covered corridors that linked the wards. It was at the beginning of her last semester that life had taken a curious turn for Usha. She still remembered that time a month ago; it was a cool and pleasant January day—a week into her posting in the surgical wards. She had given a few patients their sponge bath and changed the linen, imparted health education to a few more, written up her records…then there was that patient in the single room— bed number 8. This patient had been allotted to her for the first time this morning and his injection was due at 11 am. She carefully arranged the injection tray with its sterile syringe, a spirit-soaked cotton swab and the vial of antibiotic, which she double-checked against the doctor’s orders. With the tray carefully balanced in her hands, she walked briskly down the corridor and then turned left into a blind-end extension that had the six private rooms. Number 8 was the last room on the right side; it had windows with a view to the garden outside.
She found the door slightly open, put her left foot into the crack and swung it out just wide enough for her to move in sidewards, all the time watching the tray she held. She looked up into the dark handsome face of her patient. She looked away shyly almost immediately, but not before a twinge of something stirred within her. Anandhan was a tall policeman with a burly moustache, sharp nose and steely eyes that looked out at her confidently from beneath thick eyebrows. “What is your name, Sister?” he asked. “Is that any business of yours?” she replied with a smirk. “Oh, I just asked,” he said apologetically. His right leg was elevated on pillows, supported posteriorly with a plaster of Paris slab and swathed in white gauze bandage. She set down her tray and told him matter-of-factly, “I have got to give you an injection. Where would you like to have it— on the arm or here?” she enquired, indicating the buttock. “Wherever you choose, Sister,” he answered meekly. “It will be less painful here,” she said, pointing towards her own buttocks. “Sure,” he said as he turned over on his side, pulled down his striped lungi and underwear and offered her one half of his bare buttock.
She carefully loaded the syringe, uncapped the needle and reached for his iliac bone and spine with her thumb and then drew her index finger downwards and outwards to find the bulk of the gluteal muscle. She dabbed the spot with some spirit. “It’s going to hurt a little,” she said as she plunged the needle in and aspirated for blood to make sure she was not in a blood vessel. She emptied the syringe into him and withdrew the needle, giving the site a good rub. “It did not hurt at all,” he exclaimed, his eyes shining. “Nobody has given me this good an injection. My name is Anandhan,” he added as he sat up in bed. “I know!” said Usha curtly. “I can read the chart.” She recapped the needle, looked into his medicine box, took out a few tablets, checked it against her card and laid it on the bedside table. “Make sure you take these, because I am going to tick it off on your chart.” As Anandhan reached for the tablets, Usha turned and walked out abruptly, but she could feel his eyes following her. She was sure that if he could stare around a bend, that was what he would be doing. The next day, care for their patients included a sponge bath, which she and her partner Manjula had to administer. It was the rule that nurses were never allowed to give a male patient a sponge bath on their own.
You had to have a female relative standing by, or there had to be two people to a patient. So this time, she found herself in room number 8 with Manjula. While they were wiping him down, Manjula left, saying she would be back in a minute. Anandhan waited just long enough to have Manjula out of earshot before he announced triumphantly, “I found out your name—Usha.” “So what?” Usha replied with little emotion. But Anandhan noticed an almost imperceptible smile spread across her face. By this time, Manjula was back and they finished their assignment without further conversations with Anandhan. That evening, to her surprise, Usha found that more than once, her thoughts had wandered to that man in room number 8. Manjula was allotted room number 8 for the next two days; at the end of the first day, Manjula had a message for Usha. “Hey, Usha,” she said while walking back to the hostel, “that policeman wants to see you again. If you want, I will exchange places with you tomorrow.” “OK,” she agreed readily, while another part of her tugged at her sleeves, whispering, Should you really be doing this? The next day, as she walked towards room number 8, her breathing came faster and a tinge of excitement rippled through her person.
You could see that Anandhan was waiting for her, for he was smiling even before she came in. He had on a freshly pressed shirt. His meticulously shaven face was topped by a well-arranged mop of hair, which even had a stylish puff, upfront over his forehead. As she walked in, his smile broadened. “How are you, Sister?” he gushed enthusiastically. “I did not see you the whole of yesterday.” While she loaded her syringe, he told her that he was from Keesavapatti, a nearby village. He had an older sister who had married and moved away to Palani, a temple town about thirty kilometres to the west. Then he asked, “Where are you from, Sister?” As she briefly narrated her story, he listened with rapt attention. “How did your leg get injured?” she asked in turn. “I slipped in the bathroom and my leg hit the side of a bucket.” What he said was partially true, but there was plenty he did not tell her and plenty she would have known had she bothered to read the admission notes on his outpatient chart. This was what it said: ‘27-year-old policeman, alleged to have fallen in the bathroom and injured his foot on the sharp ceramic edge of the toilet, which had broken with the impact of his fall.’ After a few more ‘time and place’ details, the doctor’s notes had his findings on examination: ‘Patient in an inebriated state, breath: a strong smell of alcohol ++.’ After a few lines: ‘Lacerated wound over the TendoAchilles. The tendon is severed with no strand of continuity.’ The same night he came in, Anandhan had been taken up for emergency surgery and his tendon repaired. Fifteen minutes had elapsed—a long time for an injection and some tablets. Usha decided to say goodbye and leave before somebody looked in on them. From that day onwards, a course was set that neither of them seemed to have the power to alter.
They met often and somehow managed to evade the surveillance that the nuns had in place. Her postings changed to another ward, but she would go to see her friends in the surgical ward on some pretext or the other. Her records had to be completed, she had to put up a poster—there would be a dozen other reasons. These were excuses, but what actually drew her was the tall patient in room number 8. He was not a just a ‘patient’ anymore, thought Usha, as she walked on down the corridor, each step taking her closer to the surgical ward, room number 8 and Anandhan. They met in the physiotherapy department towards the end of his stay. Once, they even held hands for a timeless moment. His sutures were removed, physiotherapy had been taught and Anandhan was ready for discharge. By this time, they had shared addresses and various other particulars, and in their own minds, things were pretty much made up. After his discharge, she did not hear from him for about a week, but hardly an hour went by that she did not think of him. Then one day, Muthusamy, the ward aide, came up to her. He looked around cautiously before discreetly handing over an inland mail. She quickly put it into the pocket of her white coat. Later, in the confines of her room, she had a good look at it.
Her roommates had gone for supper. She pretended that she was not hungry—a farce that concealed a greater hunger. She took out the familiar sky-blue inland, but what was unusual about it was that it had not been opened. All the students were used to having their letters opened and read by the hostel warden before it reached their hands. A smile spread across her face as she saw her name scrawled in tiny letters on the upper left-hand corner of the address box. The rest of the box contained Muthusamy’s address in bold. Anandhan had befriended the ward aide and confided in him; there might even have been some exchange of money. Anyway, Muthusamy became a regular conduit for his letters. Months rolled by and it was June—time for her final examinations. The first thing Usha did after the last paper had been handed in was to go out to the booth and phone him. She breathlessly dialled the number that Anandhan had given her. On the other end, a rough voice replied, “Chatrapatti police station, speak on.” “I want to speak to PC (police constable) Anandhan,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Be on the line,” the gruff voice replied. Then she heard him call out, “Hey Anandhan, come, it’s her, your girl.”
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