Later that night, I give Shankar some painkillers, but his condition continues to deteriorate. By the second day, he is becoming violent. He is unable to move his arm and shrieks when the light is switched on. With great difficulty I manage to take his temperature and am shocked to discover that it has shot up to 103 degrees. I immediately go out to call a doctor. The physician working in the government dispensary flatly refuses to come with me, so I am forced to go to a private doctor. He charges me eighty rupees to come to the outhouse. He examines Shankar and asks me whether I have noticed any recent cuts or bruises on him. I tell him about the grazed knee. The doctor nods his head and pronounces his diagnosis. Shankar has got rabies – probably from a mad dog. He should have had a series of injections of human diploid cell vaccine and human rabies immune globulin as soon as he was infected, but now it is too late. His condition is very serious. He will soon develop an aversion to water. He might show signs of agitation and confusion and even have hallucinations. He could have muscle spasms and seizures. And he may stop speaking completely as the vocal cords become paralysed. Finally, he will slip into a coma and stop breathing. In simple language, he will die. And all within forty-eight hours.
The doctor explains this catalogue of horrors in his normal bedside manner. I am utterly devastated. Even thinking about Shankar's death brings tears to my eyes. 'Doctor, is there absolutely nothing that can be done to save Shankar?' I implore him.
'Well,' the doctor hesitates. 'There was nothing till a month ago, but I am told a brand-new experimental vaccine from America has just been imported to India. It is called RabCure and is only available at the Gupta Pharmacy.'
'The one in Rakab Ganj?'
'Yes. But I don't think you can afford it.'
'How much does it cost?' I ask with a sinking heart.
'Approximately four lakh rupees.'
I reflect on the irony of the situation. Shankar's treatment requires four lakh rupees and Nita's pimp has also demanded exactly this amount. And I have the princely sum of four hundred rupees in my pocket.
I do not know where I will get money from for Shankar's treatment, but I know that he cannot be left alone, so I decide to take him to my room. I pick him up in my arms. Even though he is almost my age, his body seems weightless. His hands and legs droop limply by his side, and it feels as if I am not carrying a living person but a sack of potatoes. I deposit Shankar on my bed and lie down on the ground, in an exact reversal of what he did for me almost two years ago, although it now seems like twenty.
Shankar tosses and turns and sleeps fitfully. I too have a difficult night, my sleep interspersed with nightmares about mad dogs and babies who speak only in nonsense syllables. And then, suddenly, in the middle of the night, I seem to hear the words 'Mummy, Mummy' shouted loudly.
I wake up, and find Shankar sleeping peacefully. I rub my eyes and wonder whether Shankar's dream had unexpectedly intersected with mine.
The whole of the next day, Shankar stays in bed, getting weaker and weaker. I know that he is under sentence of death, but I pretend he has got nothing more than a mild case of flu. It breaks my heart to see his gentle face and to imagine that I will never see it again. Even his nonsense syllables today seem like profound statements which should be memorized.
Night comes and Shankar begins having spasms in his arms. He has difficulty taking in fluid and eats just one chapatti with lentils, his favourite dish. His forehead burns. I take his temperature and find it has shot up to 105 degrees. 'Q Akip Sxip Pk Aqe, Nxej,' he says and begins crying. I try to comfort him as best I can, but it is difficult to give strength to another when you yourself feel completely hollow inside.
I sleep fitfully again, tormented by the demons of my past. Late that night, when it is almost two o'clock, I hear a sound coming from Shankar's bed, like someone moaning. I get up slowly, still quite disoriented. I look at Shankar's face.
His eyes are closed, but his lips are moving. I strain to hear what he is mumbling and almost jump out of my skin. Because I swear Shankar says, 'Please don't beat me, Mummy.'
'Shankar! Shankar!' I scramble to his bed. 'You just said something, didn't you?'
But Shankar is completely oblivious to me, lost in his own private world. His eyes are lolling upwards and he is clearly delirious. His chest convulses as if in a spasm and phlegm drips from his mouth. 'Why did you throw me out, Mummy?' he mumbles. 'I am sorry, I should have knocked. How could I know Uncle was inside with you? I love you, Mummy. I draw pictures of you. My blue diary is full of pictures. Your pictures. I love you, Mummy. I love you very much.
Don't hit me, Mummy. I promise I won't tell anyone, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy .'
