While she was talking, the young servant, Mansoor, concerned that in her situation she should be standing, had brought a chair for her. Now she sat down, looked at the phone, and sobbed.
After a while, having collected herself, she went back to the bedroom, where everyone was standing around, upset and agitated.
A sound was heard at the front door. ‘I’ll see who it is,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
It was Lata and Malati, back from the rehearsal of Twelfth Night.
‘Whenever I act or sing,’ said Malati, ‘I feel I could eat a horse.’
‘We’re not serving horse today,’ said Lata, as the door opened. ‘It’s one of Ma’s fast days. Where is everyone?’ she continued, noticing that, despite the car standing outside, the drawing room was empty. ‘Ma? Now what are you crying for? I didn’t mean to tease you. It was a stupid joke, anyway… Is something the matter? Is anything wrong?’
Part Thirteen
13.1
MAAN, Firoz and Imtiaz were over very shortly. Maan tried to cheer Savita up a bit. Firoz said little. Like everyone else, he was distressed to see Pran in such a pitiable state, labouring and panting for breath.
Imtiaz, on the other hand, was not visibly upset by his friend’s painful struggles and went about his task of diagnosis swiftly. Parvati Seth was a trained nurse and helped move Pran when necessary. Imtiaz knew that Pran was not in a position to answer questions except occasionally by nodding or shaking his head, so he addressed what questions he could about the background as well as the suddenness of this recent attack to Savita. Malati described fairly clinically the incident in the lecture room a few days earlier. Firoz had already told Imtiaz on the way to the house that Pran had been complaining of exhaustion when he had met him at the High Court a few days earlier – and, of all things, discomfort around his heart.
Mrs Rupa Mehra sat silently in a chair, and Lata stood behind her, an arm on her shoulder. Mrs Rupa Mehra did not say anything to Lata. Concern for Pran had pushed other matters to the side.
Savita looked sometimes at her husband, sometimes at Imtiaz’s long, fair, appraising face. There was a small mole on his cheek which drew her attention in particular, though she could not have said why. At the moment Imtiaz was feeling Pran’s liver – which seemed an unusual proceeding after an asthmatic attack.
To Dr Kishen Chand Seth he said: ‘Status asthmaticus, of course. It should be self-limiting, but if it doesn’t go away in a little while I’ll administer some adrenaline subcutaneously. If I can, though, I’d prefer to avoid it. I wonder if you could arrange for the ECG machine to be brought in tomorrow?’
At the word ‘ECG’ not only Dr Seth but everyone else started.
‘What do you need that for?’ said Dr Seth sharply. There was only one ECG machine in Brahmpur, and it was at the medical college hospital.
‘Well, I’d like to take a reading. I would not like Pran to be moved at all, so I wonder if you could arrange for it to be brought here. If I ask for it, they’ll just think I’m a young man with newfangled ideas who doesn’t know how to treat asthma.’
That was exactly what Dr Kishen Chand Seth himself was thinking. Was Imtiaz implying that he, Dr Seth, had oldfangled ideas? But something in Imtiaz’s confident manner of examining the patient had impressed him. He said he would make the necessary arrangements. He knew that institutions with ECG machines guarded them like gold.
Lucknow had a single such machine, and there were none in Banaras at the time. The medical college hospital at Brahmpur was extremely proud and possessive of its recent acquisition. But Dr Seth was a force robe reckoned with there, as elsewhere. The next day the ECG machine was brought in.
Pran, who had stabilized after another traumatic hour of wheezing, and had then collapsed into an exhausted sleep, woke up to find Imtiaz and the machine in his bedroom.
‘Where’s Savita?’ he asked.
‘She’s resting on the sofa in the other room. Doctor’s orders. She’s fine.’
‘What’s that?’ Pran asked.
‘The ECG machine.’
‘It’s not very big,’ said Pran, rather unimpressed.
‘Nor are viruses,’ said Imtiaz with a laugh. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Fine.’ Pran’s voice was clear; there was no wheezing.
‘How do you feel?’
‘A little weak. Really, Imtiaz, what’s the purpose of an ECG? That’s for the heart, and my problem is my lungs.’
‘Why don’t you leave that for me to decide? You may well be right, but there’s no harm in checking. I suspect that this time a cardiogram may help. I believe that it may not be a simple asthmatic attack.’