Arrange for 2 lakhs, the doctor had said. Where was a poor fruit seller like him going to get 2 lakhs from, wondered Ramsharan, as he carried his son back home on his shoulders. He did not even know the number of zeroes preceding the two in a lakh. The entire year went dealing only in units and tens, with the hundreds being calculated only in May when the demand for alphonsoes was at its peak.
“What did the doctor say?” asked his wife as soon as he stepped into his shanty.
“Took some name of a big disease. Said that operation is necessary. Has asked to arrange for 2 lakhs.”
“2 lakhs. Hey bhagwaan. Where are we going to arrange so much money from?”
Ramsharan shrugged in despair. His mind was already frantic with the helplessness that was clawing it. He had to think of some ways to raise the money, if he wanted his only son to survive.
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“Sell your blood”, said Madho Singh.
“What? My blood? What do you mean sell it?” Ramsharan could not comprehend what his friend was trying to tell him.
“Donate it. There is a lot of demand for it. Blood banks pay you for giving them your blood.”
“Will I get a lot of money?”
“Not lots. But it will definitely help. And if you donate regularly, you can build up some amount.”
“But will I not lose my strength because of giving away my blood?”
“You might feel weak on that day. But not afterwards. They don’t let you donate frequently. Only once every three months. But you can go to a different blood bank every time. And hide the needle pricks on your arms so they don’t know that you have donated.”
Ramsharan toyed with the idea. The more he thought of his son, the more this idea appealed to him. With some of the money that he had saved over the past few years, this money earned would only add towards the final figure.
In the coming week, Madho took Ramsharan to a known place. He was asked some questions about his health, past illnesses and history of diseases. The nurse then pricked his finger and drew a drop a blood. He felt the quick stab of the sharp knife and he looked away as his blood pulsed its way up the capillary. He covered the finger with a swab of cotton that was offered to him.
It took 20 mins for the 450ml to curse from his body into the bag kept by his side. He felt his left hand grow numb from time to time and kept pressing on the tight wad pressed into his palm. He went back home with the few notes rolled up and stuffed into the inside of his pyjama’s waistband. He handed them to wife and asked her to keep them safely.
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Over the next few weeks, Ramsharan visited other places, always careful to remove the square bandage strips, scrubbing off the dried up glue marks so as to hide his past donations. He alternated between his hands, donating from the right arm sometimes.
But this was not to last long. Very soon, the blood banks started to see beyond his lies and started refusing him. He begged them to consider him but only came away empty-handed. The brief glimmer of hope that had fluttered in his heart died down under the constant refusals from every place. Ramsharan was back to his helpless self and the worried frown made a permanent residence on his forehead.
He still continued the donations, although the frequency reduced drastically.
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“Baba gets up very early nowadays”, he remarked to the lady of the house, referring to her son, as he saw him come back from a morning jog.
“Yes. He is participating in the marathon next month. Needs to practice every day”
“Merathun. What is that?”
“Running race. Lot of people run in it. Even foreigners who come from far away places”
“Running race. Are they crazy to come for a running race?”
“There is money to be won. And you will be shown on TV. It is a big event”
“Money. Is there money for winning the race?”
“Yes, Ramsharan. There is lots of money to be won. Do you want to run too?” laughed the son from inside the house. His mother also joined in the laughter, unknown to fact how serious the Ramsharan was considering the prospect.
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“It is called merathun or something. It is a big running race. And Baba told me there is lots of money to be won. What do you think, Kanhaiya ki amma? Should I also take part?”
His wife, whose world ended beyond the boundary of their shanty, could not offer much encouragement.
“I don’t understand much of this, jee. Are you sure they will give us money for running in the race?”
“Yes why not. Last year a boy of 10 was given 25,000 for completing the race.”
“25,000? Just think how much it would help us”
“Yes, that’s right. Just imagine … I could get that much or more for winning it.”
Ramsharan and his wife went to sleep, with the hopes of accumulating a large sum. The ‘running race’ was still many days away and they had to struggle with banalities of everyday life until then.
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Ramsharan could hardly believe his eyes when he stepped out of the subway. Hordes and hordes of people surrounded him. Having absolutely no idea what a marathon was, he was shocked to see the mass of bodies thronging towards the ground, which was the hub of the entire event. People from all walks of life had turned up, majority in their sporty attire. Ramsharan suddenly felt dwarfed by the scale of the event and his confidence took a few steps backward. Did he really hope to get anywhere amongst all these people?
He wandered around looking lost for quite some time. He tried looking at others and thought of sticking around with a group, so that he could follow them wherever they went. He suddenly noticed that all who had turned up to run were sporting a number on their chests or backs.
Hesitatingly, he asked one youngster “Bhai, what is this number?”
“Number … this number. This is your entry pass for the marathon. Why do you ask?”
“I haven’t got any number”
“You want a number. Are you going to participate?” the boy judged Ramsharan by looking him up and then turned to his friends. “Did you hear that? This chap wants a number.” There were guffaws all around and the gang now surrounded Ramsharan.
“Bhaiya, I think you are at the wrong place. This is a marathon. What do you want to run in it for? Have you even registered?”
“Register … what is that? Dekho bhai I don’t know what is to be done. I only know that I want to run in this race.”
“Race … hahaha. Is this a school running race that you have turned up for? Just get lost from here. This is no place for you.”
Ramsharan turned red in the face as the boys started laughing at his expense. He cowed down and turned to walk in the other direction. One thing was clear. He needed a number to run in this race and he did not have one.
He sat down on the pavement edge and looked around. Reality overwhelmed him and he started crying with the realisation that he was not even going to get a chance of attempting the “merathun”. Lack of education meant that he did not even understand what the marathon was being run for. Any one of the hundred charities in the ground could have helped his case, had he approached them with his problem. Such was the irony!!!
The sight of a crying man attracted some attention and very soon, few people started enquiring with him what was wrong. Ramsharan could only manage to convey between sobs, of his need for a number.
“What is he talking about? What number?” one of the girls exclaimed
“I think, he wants a bib” someone else commented
“Has he come here to participate?” voices all around him commented on this uncommon sight of a person from the lower strata of society wanting to compete in the marathon. Little did they know the driving force behind Ramsharan’s belief.
“Do we have an extra one?” someone asked.
“Yeah, I guess we do”
“Bhaiya take this. Do you want to run? Take this please and stop crying”
He couldn’t believe it. A number was being thrust into his hands. The entry pass. He could run. He could run and win.
“Badi meherbaani … badi meherbaani” he cried and thanked the people around him profusely. He stood up and made his way towards the start line as directed by the girl who had given him the ‘number’.
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Thanking the mercies of God, Ramsharan jostled amongst the crowd as the marathon started on its course. He ran like never before, focussed on getting ahead of the others. Large strides were the only thing on his mind. In the first few metres, he managed to run past others. He was happy about overtaking other runners, not knowing that the others were pacing themselves so as not to get exhausted in the first few kilometres.
The lack of practice started to show itself after the next bend. His legs started aching and his chest felt like it would burst due to the lack of air. His throat started going dry and his body was drenched with sweat. His bare feet felt scorched on the tarred road and soon his pace slowed down. The exhilaration of participation soon got replaced by the prospect of despair. He struggled to increase his speed but his body refused to complement his willpower.
Eventually, the dehydration took its toll and Ramsharan collapsed on the road. Volunteers immediately rushed to him and an ambulance was called for. Water was poured into his mouth and he was made to lie down in the shade. Ramsharan, only partially in his senses could faintly register the siren of the approaching ambulance.
He was put onto a stretcher and lifted into the ambulance. Paramedics checked his vital stats and he was fitted with an oxygen mask. He kept mumbling about the prize money in his exhausted semi-conscious state.
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The marathon got over minutes before Ramsharan was deemed fit to be discharged. He was asked to go to the nearest doctor, in case he felt dizzy or unwell in the course of the day. Weak and devoid of hope, Ramsharan caught the train back home. He wondered about the cruel arm of fate which had dealt him with a stroke of luck and then snatched it the next second.
After getting down from the train, he decided to walk his way back to his settlement. He now wanted to save every single penny and with that in mind, he clutched at the few coins in his hand. The numbered bib was still hanging from the front of his shirt and he tore it off in a rage.
By the time he made it home, his body was running a fever. Looking at his state, his wife did not ask him any questions and made him lie down. By evening, the fever had not subsided and she suggested he go to a doctor. Not wanting to spend any more money, Ramsharan refused and resorted to some medicinal herbs that were lying in the house.
Ramsharan did not sleep well due to the chills that invaded his body every few minutes. The next day, his situation was no better. His body ached and red spots had marred the surface of his skin. This time he had to give in and visit a doctor. He thought of going to someone cheap rather than to his regular doctor who charged 20 rupees to dispense 2 days worth of medicine. Madho Singh had told him about this new guy few stops away. He made his way to the clinic.
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“What have you done? Why is he bleeding so much?”
“I don’t know what went wrong. I can’t stop his bleeding now. What is to be done?”
“I should have known better than to trust you with this job. Are you sure you at least got the kidney out correctly?”
“Yes, I did. Don’t worry about it. Now tell me what is to be done with this case”
“I think he is going to die on us. We need to dump him. We can’t afford to have one more problem. Get him out of here fast and leave him somewhere in the National Park at night.”
All this conversation was lost on Ramsharan as he lay there delirious due to the anaesthesia. He only remembered the pills that the doctor had advised to be taken immediately.
Before being abandoned to die that night, he was not even aware of the two surgical cuts on his lower back. The permanent frown on his forehead was disappearing fast along with the last few breaths of his life.
Tushar Pai
Tech Mahindra Consultant
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