where the stubble of the recent harvest still lingered. Banners, balloons, and songs identical to those at the marketplace booth welcomed the garbage trucks. The passengers’ terrified wailing grew louder as the vehicles were parked in an open area behind the tents, alongside an ambulance and a diesel generator.
Two of the tents were larger and sturdier than the rest, with electric cables running to them from the generator that throbbed powerfully beneath the music. Red cylinders for gas stoves squatted outside the canvas. Inside, office desks covered with plastic sheets had been set up as operating tables.
The medical officer in charge of the camp wrinkled his nose in the vicinity of the garbage trucks. The putrid smell of their usual cargo clung to them. He had a word with the police. “Wait for ten minutes, we’ll finish our tea by then. And bring only four patients at a time — two men and two women.” He didn’t want more in the tents than could be handled by the attending doctors, or it would lead to greater panic.
“No one is offering us any tea,” the constables grumbled among themselves. “And this stupid music. Same songs over and over.”
Half an hour later they got the go-ahead. Four persons were selected from the nearest truck, dragged screaming to the two main tents and forced onto the office desks. “Stop resisting,” said the doctor. “If the knife slips it will harm you only.” The warning frightened them into silent submission.
The constables watched the tents carefully, trying to maintain a steady supply according to instructions. But several who couldn’t read kept getting confused. They escorted women to the vasectomy tent. The mixup was understandable: except for the handwritten signs, both tents were identical, and the medical personnel in white coats all looked alike.
“Men to the left tent, women to the right,” the doctors reminded them repeatedly. Their annoyance grew with the suspicion that it was being done on purpose — perhaps some kind of inane police humour. Finally, a medical assistant improved the signs. With a black marker he drew figures on the signboards, of the sort found on public latrines. The turban on the male, and the sari and long plait on the female were unmistakable, and now the constables were able to work with greater accuracy.
As the sterilizations proceeded, an elderly woman tried to reason with her doctor. “I am old,” she said. “My womb is barren, there are no more eggs in it. Why are you wasting the operation on me?”
The doctor approached the district official keeping a tally of the day’s procedures. “This woman is past child- bearing age,” he said. “You should take her off your list.”
“Is that a medical conclusion?”
“Of course not,” said the doctor. “There is no equipment here for clinical verification.”
“In that case, just go ahead. These people often lie about their age. And appearances are deceptive. With their lifestyle, thirty can look like sixty, all shrivelled by the sun.”
Two hours into the campaign, a nurse hurried to the policemen with new instructions. “Please slow down the supply of lady patients,” she said. “There is a technical problem in the tubectomy tent.”
A middle-aged man took the opportunity to appeal to the nurse. “I beg you,” he wept. “Do it to me, I don’t mind — I have fathered three children. But my son here is only sixteen! Never married! Spare him!”
“I have no authority, you must speak to the doctor,” she answered, and hurried back to attend to the technical problem. The autoclave was not working, she had to boil water to disinfect the instruments.
“See, I was right,” Ishvar whispered to Om, holding him close in his trembling arms. “The doctor will let you go, that’s what the nurse just said. We must talk to the doctor and tell him you don’t have children yet.”
In the truck with the tailors a woman was feeding her baby, unaffected by the anguish around her. She softly hummed a song, swaying her body to help the infant fall asleep. “Will you hold my child for me when my turn comes?” she asked Ishvar.
“Hahnji, don’t worry, sister.”
“I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. Five children I already have, and my husband won’t let me stop. This way he has no choice — government stops it.” She began singing again, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan …”
By and by, the constable beckoned to her, and she removed the child from her breast. The swollen nipple separated with a tiny pop. Om watched her tuck her breast back into her choli. Ishvar eagerly held out his arms and took the child. It started to cry as the mother was climbing down from the truck.
He nodded to reassure her, and rocked the child gently in his lap. Om tried to distract the infant by making funny faces. Then Ishvar began singing like the mother, imitating her little tune, “Na-na-na-na Narayan, my sleepy little Narayan.”
The baby stopped crying. They exchanged triumphant looks. Minutes later, tears were rolling down Ishvar’s cheeks. Om turned away. He did not need to ask the reason.
Frustrated by the malfunctioning equipment, the doctors operated slowly through the afternoon, and the Nussbandhi Mela was extended beyond its closing time of six p.m. The second autoclave had broken down as well. Around seven o’clock, a senior administrator from the Family Planning Centre arrived with his personal assistant.
The constables shuffled their feet and stood a little more erect while the camp was inspected. The administrator conveyed his displeasure regarding the number of patients still in the trucks. Then he came upon the doctors by the gas stoves, waiting for a fresh pot of water to boil, and decided to give them a piece of his mind.
“Stop wasting time,” he snapped as they wished him good evening. “Have you no sense of duty? There are dozens of operations left to do. A chupraasi can make tea for you.”
“We are not making tea. The water is for cleaning instruments. The machine is not working.”
“Instruments are clean enough. How long do you want to heat the water? Efficiency is paramount at a Nussbandhi Mela, targets have to be achieved within the budget. Who’s going to pay for so many gas cylinders?” He threatened that they would be reported to higher authorities for lack of cooperation, promotions would be denied, salaries frozen.
The doctors resumed work with partially sterile equipment. They knew of colleagues whose careers had suffered similarly.
The administrator watched for a while, clocking the operations and working out the average time per patient. “Too slow,” he said to his personal assistant. “A simple job of snip-snip-snip they turn into a big fuss.”
Before leaving, he delivered the final threat in his arsenal. “Remember, Thakur Dharamsi will be coming later to check the totals. If he is not pleased with you, you may as well send in your resignations.”
“Yes, sir,” said the doctors.
Satisfied, he went to inspect the other tents. His personal assistant stayed by his side like an interpreter, letting his facial expressions illuminate his superior’s speech.
“We have to be firm with the doctors,” confided the administrator. “If it is left to them to fight the menace of the population explosion, the nation will drown, choked to death, finished — end of our civilization. So it’s up to us to make sure the war is won.”
“Yes, sir — absolutely, sir,” said the aide, thrilled to receive this private pearl of wisdom.
The sun was disappearing at the horizon when it was the tailors’ turn. Ishvar said beseechingly to the constable who gripped his arm, “Police-sahab, there has been a mistake. We don’t live here, we came from the city because my nephew is getting married.”
“I cannot do anything about that.” He lengthened his stride.
Ishvar’s feet skipped in an effort to keep from being dragged. “Can I see the man in charge?” he panted, his voice uneven.
“Doctor is in charge.”
Inside the tent, Ishvar spoke timidly to the doctor. “There is a mistake, Doctorji. We don’t live here.”
The exhausted man made no response.
“Doctorji, you are like mother-father to us poor people, your good work keeps us healthy. And I also think nussbandhi is very important for the country. I am never going to marry, Doctorji, please do the operation on me, I will be grateful, but please leave out my nephew, Doctorji, his name is Omprakash and his wedding is happening soon, please listen to me, Doctorji, I beg of you!”
They were pushed onto the desks and their pants were removed. Ishvar started to weep. “Please, Doctorji! Not my nephew! Cut me as much as you like! But forgive my nephew! His marriage is being arranged!”
