The doctor touched a part of her body that her husband had stopped touching long ago. One minute passed, then two minutes ... She kept looking at him nervously. Finishing the exam, he went back to his chair and rubbed a few drops of sanitizer over his hands.
‘It’s lymph. Fifty-fifty chances. Let us see, the biopsy will tell.’
She almost began to cry, but quickly restrained herself, thinking that would look too childish. He noticed it. As if trying to console her, he said, ‘Don’t worry, these days it is as common as fever … didn’t you see all the people waiting outside … don’t they all look happy?’
Did they? After taking an appointment, as she waited for her turn, she had looked around. Only women. Different ages. Different faces. Different worries. All sitting in a row. They had come for their follow-ups perhaps. All one-breasted women. Some had their left one removed. Some their right. Her lymph was in the right one. So, that meant…
‘How long will the biopsy report take, doctor?’
‘One week. Maximum.’
That was too long. She would die worrying whether the report would be negative or positive. Her blood pressure had also shot up of late. Despite taking pills, it spiralled out of control sometimes.
‘Please bring your husband along. I will talk to him in detail.’
‘He is not here, doctor. He lives in Bangalore.’
‘Oh…. And what about you?’
‘I work in the Secretariat here.’
Shaking his head, the doctor reached for the prescription pad and jotted down the next appointment date on it. As he pressed the buzzer for the next patient, she rushed out, murmuring a thanks.
It was already seven. The domestic help was home, so she did not need to worry. But she could not stop herself from calling. The older one picked up the phone. She was eating ice cream from the fridge, and planned to drink Tropicana next.
‘Did you give some to your little sister?’ she asked.
‘I gave her some yesterday, didn’t I?’ came the reply.
For some reason, after listening to her daughter’s voice, she hung up the phone and wept and wept.
Adjacent to the TRS Office is KBR Park. The gates would be shut by now, but one could still walk around the outer circle. Driving the car slowly, she reached there in five minutes. The parking lot was almost full. Stopping at a dimly lit place, she left the engine running and turned the AC on. And sat inside the car.
What do I do now?
Bending her head, she looked at herself. Breasts that had been useless to both children – milk had not come in after either pregnancy. At least for the husband then, she thought. For the husband? Marriage happened in a blink. Before it had sunk in, came the children. Obligations on one hand and responsibilities on the other drove them relentlessly. Just as they were finding their feet and felt they had overcome the worst, the IT industry went into recession. He moved to Bangalore. For a year. Then two. Then three.
‘I can’t stay alone with the kids here. I’m coming too.’
‘How can you give up a Government job?’
‘Then you come back.’
‘You want me to sacrifice my career?’
Yes, a husband and wife can stay apart, in different places. But only if they remain husband and wife.
In the beginning, he came home every weekend. Then once a fortnight. Then once a month. Now once in two months. Initially, he liked coming home. Then, it became a responsibility. A mere greeting in passing. Now he just slept the whole time. Or played with the kids. He had wooed her and chased her before their marriage, trumpeting his love for her. Where had all that love gone? Was she just another object in the house now?
A thought crossed her mind that had never occurred to her before. She switched on the light in the car and removed her dupatta. Focussing only on the chest, she took a selfie and Whatsapped it to him. Before sending it, she examined the photo closely. Will one of these two go away now? Will the right side become empty? Or will it be flat like cardboard? Will the blouse stay in place? Will she continue to be a woman? Unknowingly, her hand crept up to her right breast. ‘Please don’t go away…Don’t leave me’ she pleaded inwardly over and over again, as tears rained down, drenching the breast.
The phone rang. Hubby.
‘What is this selfie?’
She pretended to laugh out loud.
‘It’s our anniversary next week … just so you don’t forget.’
‘You are getting naughtier by the day.’
He hung up, but she knew he would call again. Just two minutes passed before the phone rang again. Hubby. He had guessed. Why would he not? He had loved her once, if a long time ago.
‘What happened?’
Tears threatened to gush out, but she answered casually, feigning indifference.
‘It may be cancer.’
At the other end, he held on to the phone without replying. She resumed quickly.
‘Don’t worry. It’s very common, he said. One day surgery. Two days in hospital. That’s it. Then we can carry on with our lives. Go back to work…’
‘W … W ... why did you get it?’
This time she really laughed aloud.
‘I don’t know … how would I know?’
She paused for a minute and said again,
‘Maybe if you had talked to me now and then, I would not have got it. Or perhaps if you had hugged me tight, I might not have got it. Even a kiss may have warded it off, I think.’
‘I … I’m coming home.’
‘No. I can get it done by myself. Don’t waste your leave on this small thing.’
‘You did not hear me properly. I said I’m coming back. Forever.’
‘No.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I said NO,’ she screamed.
He started crying. She let him for a while. Then, she said,
‘That’s enough now. Besides, why do I have to lose something to gain you?’
His tears did not stop.
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This story was first published as part of a weekly column that appeared between June and October 2015 in the Hyderabad-based daily newspaper Sakshi. The twenty-five stories featured, all of which deal with life in a metro from a woman's perspective, were later published as Metro Kathalu by Kavali Prachuranalu in April 2018.
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Mohammed Khadeer Babu is a Telugu short story writer, journalist and script writer for movies. His short story collections Dargamitta Kathalu and Polerammabanda Kathalu are known for their connection to their native identity and regional dialect. New Bombay Tailors, Beyond Coffee and Metro Kathalu are his other major works. He is primarily published by Kavali Prachuranalu.
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Dhurjati Venkata Subhashri has worked as a professional translator from German to English for more than a decade. Proficient in Telugu, Kannada and Hindi, she is now pursuing her literary interests in writing, and translation of short stories and other prose forms into English.