The treatment queue that had begun with hundreds, nine months before, had finally dwindled to none. And I'd danced and drunk with Prabaker that day, as if I'd cured the whole slum of its ailments and illnesses. That celebration seemed vain and stupid as I hurried through the sodden lanes to the scores who were sick. And there was guilt in that shame as well. For the two days while my neighbour Radha lay dying, I'd been ingratiating myself with tourist customers in their five-star hotel. While she'd writhed and thrashed on a damp earth floor, I'd been calling down to room service to order more ice-cream and crepes.
I rushed back to the clinic. It was empty. Prabaker was looking after Parvati. Johnny Cigar had taken on the job of locating and removing the dead. Jeetendra, sitting on the ground outside our huts with his face in his hands, was sinking in the quicksand of his grief. I gave him the job of making several large purchases for me and checking on all the chemists in the area for ORTs. I was watching him shamble away down the lane toward the street, worrying about him, worrying about his young son, Satish, who was also ill, when I saw a woman in the distance walking toward me. Before I could actually know who it was, my heart was sure it was Karla.
She wore a salwar kameez-the most flattering garment in the world, after the sari-in two shades of sea green. The long tunic was a deeper green, and the pants beneath, tight at the ankle, were paler. There was also a long yellow scarf, worn backwards, Indian style, with the plumes of colour trailing out behind her.
Her black hair was pulled back tightly and fastened at the nape of her neck. The hairstyle threw attention at her large green eyes-the green of lagoons, where shallow water laps at golden sand-and at her black eyebrows and perfect mouth. Her lips were like the soft ridges of dunes in the desert at sunset; like the crests of waves meeting in the frothy rush to shore; like the folded wings of courting birds. The movements of her body, as she walked toward me on the broken lane, were like storm-wind stirring in a stand of young willow trees.
"What are you doing here?"
"Those charm school lessons are paying off, I see," she drawled, sounding very American. She arched one eyebrow, and pursed her lips in a sarcastic smile.
"It's not safe here," I scowled.
"I know. Didier ran into one of your friends from here. He told me about it."
"So, what are you doing here?"
"I came to help you."
"Help me what?" I demanded, exasperated by my worry for her.
"Help you... do whatever you do here. Help other people. Isn't that what you do?"
"You have to go. You can't stay. It's too dangerous. People are dropping down everywhere. I don't know how bad it'll get."
"I'm not going," she said calmly, staring her determination into me. The large, green eyes blazed, indomitable, and she was never more beautiful. "I care about you, and I'm staying with you. What do you want me to do?" "It's ridiculous!" I sighed, rubbing the frustration through my hair. "It's bloody stupid."
"Listen," she said, surprising me with a wide smile, "do you think you're the only one who needs to go on this salvation ride?
Now, tell me, calmly-what do you want me to do?"
I did need help, not just with the physical work of nursing the people, but also with the doubt and fear and shame that throbbed in my throat and chest. One of the ironies of courage, and the reason why we prize it so highly, is that we find it easier to be brave for someone else than we do for ourselves alone. And I loved her. The truth was that while my words warned her away to safety, my fanatic heart connived with my eyes to make her stay.
"Well, there's plenty to do. But be careful! And the first sign that... that you're not okay, you grab a taxi to my friend Hamid's. He's a doctor. Is that a deal?"
She reached out to place her long, slender hand in mine. The handshake was firm and confident.
"It's a deal," she said. "Where do we start?"
We started with a tour of the slum, visiting the sick and dispensing packets of the solution. There were, by then, more than a hundred people presenting symptoms of cholera, and half of them were serious cases. Allowing just a few minutes with each of the victims, it still took us twenty hours. Constantly on the move, we drank soup or sugary chai from sterile cups as our only food. By evening of the following day, we sat down to eat our first full meal. We were exhausted, but hunger drove us to chew through the hot rotis and vegetables. Then, somewhat refreshed, we set off on a second round of the most serious cases.
It was filthy work. The word cholera comes from the Greek word kholera, meaning diarrhoea. The diarrhoea of the cholera sickness has a singularly vile smell, and you never get used to it. Every time we entered a hut to visit the sick, we fought the urge to vomit. Sometimes, we did vomit. And when we vomited once, the impulse to retch and gag was stronger than ever.
