Om said nothing. He blocked out the humiliating appeals, wishing his uncle would behave with more dignity. The canvas ceiling undulated slightly in a breeze. He stared numbly as the guy ropes creaked and the electric lights swayed.
Dusk had turned to night when the tailors were helped off the table by the nurses. “Aiee!” said Om. “It hurts!”
“Soreness is normal for a few hours,” said the doctor. “Nothing to worry about.”
They were led limping through the dark field towards the recovery tent. “Now why are you keeping us here?” sobbed Ishvar. “Can’t we go home?”
“You could,” said the nurse. “But better to rest for a while.”
Half a dozen steps later, the pain was sharper. They decided to heed her advice and lie down on the straw mattresses. No one took notice of Ishvar’s crying; grief and tears were general throughout the tents. They were given water and two biscuits each.
“Everything is ruined,” he wept, passing his biscuits to Om. “The four families will never accept us now for their daughters.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are a stupid boy, you don’t understand what it means! I have let down your dead father! Our family name will die without children, it is the end of everything — everything is lost!”
“Maybe for you. But I still have my dignity. I’m not crying like a baby.”
A man on the next pallet was listening intently to their conversation. He raised himself on one elbow. “O bhai,” he said, “don’t cry. Look here, I’ve heard the operation is reversible.”
“But how can that be? After the nuss has been cut?”
“No, bhai, it’s possible. Specialists in big cities can reconnect the nuss.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure. Only thing is, it’s very expensive.”
“You hear that, Om? There is still hope!” Ishvar wiped his face. “Never mind how expensive — we will get it done! We will sew like crazy for Dinabai, night and day! I will get it reversed for you!”
He turned to his benefactor, the creator of hope. “God bless you for this information. May you also be able to reverse it.”
“I don’t want to,” said the man. “I have four children. A year ago I went to my doctor and had the operation of my own free will. These animals did it on me today for the second time.”
“That’s like executing a dead man. Don’t they listen to anything?”
“What to do, bhai, when educated people are behaving like savages. How do you talk to them? When the ones in power have lost their reason, there is no hope.” Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch, he lowered his elbow to lie down.
Ishvar wiped his eyes and lay down too. He reached over to the next mattress and stroked his nephew’s arm. “Bas, my child, we have found our solution, no need to worry now. We will go back, reverse the nussbandhi, and come next year for the wedding. There will be other families interested by then. And maybe by then this accursed Emergency will also be over, and sanity will return to government.”
A sound like a tap was heard, and a hissing; someone was urinating outside. His loud stream hitting the ground angered the twice-vasectomized man in the tent. He rose again on his elbow. “See? Like animals, I told you. These policemen don’t even have the decency to go to the end of the field to pass water.”
Darkness was falling, and the doctors were down to their last few operations when Thakur Dharamsi arrived. The policemen and Family Planning workers flocked to bow before him, jostling to touch his feet. He spoke briefly to the doctors and nurses, then strolled through the recovery tents, waving to the patients, thanking them for their cooperation in making the sterilization camp a success.
“Quick, turn your face, Om,” whispered Ishvar urgently, as the Thakur approached their row. “Cover it with your arms, pretend you are asleep.”
Thakur Dharamsi stopped at the foot of Om’s mattress and stared. He murmured a few words to someone at his side. The man left, returning a moment later with one of the doctors.
The Thakur spoke to him softly, and the doctor recoiled, shaking his head vehemently. The Thakur whispered again. The doctor went pale.
Shortly, two nurses arrived and helped Om to his feet. “But I want to rest,” he protested. “It still hurts.”
“Doctor wants to see you.”
“Why?” shouted Ishvar. “You already finished his operation! Now what do you want?”
In the operating tent, the doctor was standing with his back to the entrance, watching the water come to a vigorous boil. The scalpel lay at the bottom, shining below the bubbles. He motioned to the nurses to get the patient on the table.
“Testicular tumour,” he felt obliged to explain to them. “Thakurji has authorized removal, as a special favour to the boy.” The quaver in his voice betrayed the lie.
Om’s pants were taken off for the second time. A rag soaked in chloroform was gripped at his nose. He tore at it briefly, then went limp. With a swift incision the doctor removed the testicles, sewed up the gash, and put a heavy dressing on it.
“Don’t send this patient home with the others,” he said. “He will need to sleep here tonight.” They covered him with a blanket and carried him to the recovery tent on a stretcher.
“What have you done to him?” screamed Ishvar. “He went out on his feet! You bring him back senseless! What have you done to my nephew?”
“Quiet,” they admonished, sliding Om from the stretcher onto the pallet. “He was very sick, and Doctor did a free operation to save his life. You should be grateful instead of simply shouting. Don’t worry, he’ll be all right when he wakes up. Doctor said for him to rest here till morning. You can also stay.”
Ishvar went to his nephew’s side to see for himself. He sought verbal assurances. Sound asleep, Om did not answer. Ishvar pulled down the blanket and began examining him: his hands, fingers, toes were intact. He checked the back — there were no bloody welts of whiplashes. And the mouth was fine, the tongue and teeth were undamaged. His fear began to abate, perhaps the Thakur had left him alone.
Then he found bloodstains on the underside of the trouser crotch. Could it be from the nussbandhi operation? He looked down at himself — there was no blood. Fingers shaking, he undid Om’s trousers and saw the large dressing. He unbuttoned his own trousers to compare: there was only a small piece of gauze and surgical tape. He put his fingers on Om’s bandage and felt the absence. Swallowing hard, he moved his fingers around frantically, hoping to locate the testicles somewhere, refusing to believe they were missing.
Then he howled.
“Hai Ram! Look! Look what they have done! To my nephew! Look! They have made a eunuch out of him!”
Someone came from the main tent and told him to be quiet. “What are you shouting for again? Didn’t you understand? The boy was very sick, that part had a dangerous growth in it, a gaanth full of poison, it needed to be removed.”
The twice-vasectomized man had already departed. The remaining occupants of the tent were busy nursing their own sorrow and trying to cope with nausea and dizziness. One by one, when they felt strong enough, they rose and returned shamefaced to their homes. There was no one left to comfort Ishvar.
Alone through the night, he howled and wept, slept for a few minutes when exhausted, then wept once more. Om came out of the chloroform past midnight, retched, and fell asleep again.
After the roundup in the market square, Ashraf Chacha had been carried to the municipal hospital, and his relatives at the lumberyard were notified. He died a few hours later. The hospital, following standing orders, put down the cause of death as accidental: “Due to stumbling, falling, and striking of head against kerb.” His relatives buried him beside Mumtaz Chachi the next day, while Ishvar and Om were still making their way back from the sterilization camp.
Apart from a soreness in the groin, Ishvar felt no discomfort. But Om was in grave pain. The bleeding resumed when he took a few steps. His uncle tried to carry him on his back, which was more agonizing. Flat in his arms like a baby was the only comfortable position for Om, but too exhausting for Ishvar. He had to put him down
