A Forgotten Affair Read online

  ‘But, how did you get into an accident?’ Vina asked.

  ‘I was travelling by train. You know, the local train in Mumbai? There was a bomb blast.’

  ‘Baap re! Thank God, you are alive!’ Vina was visibly shaken and touched her forehead with folded hands as though thanking God. She was done with her massage. As Sagarika got up to go for her bath, Vina’s next question stopped her.

  ‘But I don’t understand, madamji … why were you travelling by train? You have a car.’

  ‘She was travelling by train because your madamji is one ziddi woman,’ Rishab said, walking into the room. ‘My car was unavailable. Her car was at the service station and she just couldn’t wait. So she took the train.’ He glared at Vina, who scuttled out, realizing that her inquisitiveness had clearly annoyed the man of the house.

  Turning to Sagarika, he affectionately kissed her on the forehead and said, ‘Why don’t you go and bathe, dear? I hope you enjoyed the head massage? Daily head massage, weekly body massage … madamji, I would like to live your life.’ He gave her a tight hug, which Sagarika accepted awkwardly. As he did so, he made a mental note to warn Vina and remind her that she wasn’t supposed to ask Sagarika any questions. She should stick to what she had been hired for.

  There had been three serial bomb blasts in Mumbai. They took place in the evening rush hour, starting from 6.35 p.m. and happened within seven minutes of each other on three different local trains. The railway tracks were soon littered with dead bodies. Mayhem ensued as officials and cops, roused from their lethargic indifference, struggled pathetically to tackle the aftermath of the calamity. Much before cops and hospitals mobilized forces to act, the public moved in as the saviour.

  Sagarika, who was standing near the railway compartment door, was thrown out as a result of the blast. Having hit her head against the rail tracks, she had rolled over and fallen into a ditch. In the grotesque heap of mangled bodies, torn limbs and blood, no one had thought of looking in nearby ditches for survivors. It was only much later, after what must have been several hours that someone found her, and on holding her wrists, felt a feeble pulse. She was soon taken to a hospital, but nobody had been able to identify her: her personal belongings, ID, cards, weren’t with her.

  Sagarika Mehta, wife of Rishab Mehta, an investment banker with a leading firm in the country, was just another bleeding, unconscious Jane Doe occupying a bed.

  Rishab knew that Sagarika had taken the train. She had told him so and also specified the reason for not taking the car. It had made him furious.

  ‘Go to hell! I hope you rot in hell … You ungrateful bitch!’ he had yelled.

  Rishab wasn’t the yelling type, though. He resented outbursts of any kind. He knew anger was a dangerous venom. When spewed, it clouded reason and humanity. It made people say and do things they would ordinarily never ever do. In nine years of marriage, this was the first time Rishab had yelled at and abused his wife so viciously. For him yelling was akin to loss of control, which equalled to a display of weakness. And Rishab wasn’t weak. Or so he thought. But that day, as he saw Sagarika step out of their Malabar Hills flat, he had felt justified in screaming.

  When the news of the bomb blasts reached him, he knew she was one of the victims. While standing outside morgues, now full of howling relatives of the deceased, Rishab was reminded of his last words. But he didn’t feel any regret: he was in fact a volcano, ready to erupt any moment.

  This was so unnecessary. So bloody unnecessary! All because of … Why did she have to be … Thank God, Shekhar is here with me.

  The two of them had checked everywhere: morgues, nursing homes, police stations. Their eyes had tirelessly scanned the bloodstained lists of dead people being pinned up on notice boards at hospitals – there had been no trace of her and the sights and sounds all around had been unbearably heartbreaking.

  She’s alive. I know she’s alive. She has to be. This can’t be happening to me. You and I have unfinished business, Rika. You can’t die and get away. You have to be alive. Death will be too easy.

  Rishab grimaced as he battled the emotions raging in his head. Shekhar caught the hard cold look on his friend’s face. It perplexed him but he dismissed it. Every time Rishab passed by a dead body in a morgue, his heart raced. He had never seen such macabre sights before. Every time he approached a body of a woman, he almost stopped breathing. Rishab would never be able to forget it and blamed Sagarika for putting him through something so horrible and traumatic.

  In one morgue, when Rishab saw Shekhar staring intently at one body, he stood rooted, turning ashen, fearing the worst. When Shekhar turned around and shook his head, he breathed and thanked God.

  Even if she’s barely alive, I’ll get the best possible medical attention for her. I just want her alive!

  It was well past midnight at Asha Parekh Hospital when a young nurse took a long hard look at the photo of Sagarika that Rishab showed her and led him inside to one of the emergency rooms.

  The face was unrecognizable. The broken skull was held together with crude bandages, and her eyes, nose and mouth had swollen beyond recognition. She was barely alive, her heartbeat very feeble. A young doctor joined them.

  ‘There isn’t anything on her to help you identify. No watch, ring or anything,’ he said, looking apologetic. Rishab knew there wasn’t any jewellery or watch to be taken. She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring when she left home. He had flung it on the wall in anger after she had put it on a table before him.

  ‘She has a tattoo on her right ankle, though,’ he said, pointing towards her feet. ‘A bird flying out of a cage.’ But the legs had been in heavy casts – no ankle or tattoo was visible.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ Rishab said, as he shifted the flimsy hospital gown to see if there was a small strawberry mark just above her right breast.

  ‘It’s Rika,’ he said, collapsing on chair nearby. ‘She’s alive!’

  Rishab immediately shifted Sagarika to Hope Memorial Hospital, one of the best in Mumbai. She had lost a lot of blood: there was massive internal bleeding, a broken skull, and mangled limbs. Although she was in a severely critical condition, the doctors assured Rishab that they would do their best.

  Sagarika, however, slipped into a coma that stretched for almost six months. When she opened her eyes again, Rishab thought he was seeing a miracle unfold.

  The hospital became her home for the ensuing year. Though Rishab was with her all the time, he didn’t have much to do. He ensured that the best doctors attended to her. They were able to bring her back to her senses, but there was one thing they were unable to do: remind her who she was before she became a victim of the bomb blasts.

  Sagarika had lost her memory, the one precious thing no one ever wants to lose.

  3

  Rishab visited Sagarika every morning, always armed with a bouquet of fresh flowers and the question: ‘Were you able to remember something?’ Every day, he held her hands and said with unfailing regularity: ‘You are my life. My reason to be. I thank God every day for saving you.’

  And every day, Sagarika returned his impassioned proclamation of love with a blank expression – she did not know what to say or feel. Sometimes, his persistent and daily declaration made her uneasy.

  In the midst of all this, the attending doctor, the first person she saw on waking up, was always a comfort. It was his voice she heard first when she opened her eyes after being in coma for months.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m Dr Sharma. Don’t be scared. You’re safe.’ His voice was soothing. For Sagarika, it was easier to be with new people like Dr Sharma who visited her several times in the day to check on her, but not once did he ask her anything about her past.

  With a head full of salt-’n’-pepper hair and a soft smile always on his lips, Dr Sharma was a small man, and the oldest attending doctor in a hospital full of young and ambitious medical practitioners.

  Sagarika looked forward to his visits every day. In the beginning, her conversations wi
th him solely focused on her situation. She would become emotional and helpless, her eyes full of questions, fear and uncertainty. ‘I … I can’t remember anything, doctor! Nothing. I feel nothing,’ she would tell him, terrified.

  It was so disturbing not to remember, to feel so empty. Sometimes, she woke up screaming, having dreamt of being trapped in a black bottomless pit. Sometimes, she saw herself in a dark labyrinth, running around wildly, desperately looking for a door. But every turn she took led to a dead end. Almost always she woke up drenched in sweat, shivering uncontrollably.

  Dr Sharma’s presence calmed her. He often held her hand gently while speaking to her and Sagarika found his kind voice was very soothing. ‘Don’t feel scared. You aren’t alone,’ he said.

  On most days, Sagarika would manage to remain calm during the daytime. It was the nights when her condition worsened. Rishab would visit her after work for an hour or so, but he never stayed the night. As soon as he left, the emptiness of the room terrified her and transformed her into a bundle of nerves. She would sleep after instructing the attendants to leave the lights on, a tactic which didn’t quite help remedy her situation.

  ‘Please don’t leave me alone in the night,’ she said, clinging on to Rishab’s hand one evening as he got up to leave. ‘I feel scared,’ she added, crying.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rishab said. ‘I have arranged for a night nurse. She’ll be with you all night and make sure you’re comfortable. I have to go to work early tomorrow morning, I can’t sleep here.’

  Dr Sharma, who was about to step in and attend to her, overheard the conversation. As soon as Rishab left, he walked up to Sagarika’s bed, held her hand and said tenderly, ‘I’ll be with you. You have nothing to worry. Okay? I’m here. Right here.’

  He slipped a small picture of Lord Ganesha under her pillow.

  ‘Ganesha, the vignaharta. The remover of all obstacles. He will watch over you. He’s my special friend. You have nothing to fear any more,’ he said. Gently caressing her bandaged head, he sat down on a chair near her bed.

  Relieved to have his company, Sagarika relaxed a little bit.

  ‘When will my memory return?’ she asked him. Dr Sharma could hear her voice crack a little. This was a woman who was at her wit’s end, he realized. All her energies were being directed in searching for memories that had vanished in some corner of her brain.

  ‘When you stop trying so hard to remember,’ he said, smiling. ‘Sagarika, you’ve been through a horrible accident. You’re perhaps one of the few survivors from those bomb blasts. You’ve been granted a new life, so thank God for that. He may have taken away your memory, but I’m quite sure, He will look after you … Don’t lost faith. He will bring you back home.’

  One morning, about a month after Sagarika woke up from coma, Rishab entered her hospital room with another woman.

  ‘Rika, this is Deepa,’ he said. ‘Deepa Chowdhury. She’s your first cousin. Both of you were very close.’

  Teary eyed, Deepa flung her arms around Sagarika, who didn’t respond or recoil. When Deepa released her from her embrace, Sagarika looked at her silently. She was blank.

  ‘Why don’t you ladies chat? I have to meet the doctors,’ Rishab said and left the room.

  The moment Rishab left, Deepa pulled up a chair, held Sagarika’s hand and began talking, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Rika! How are you feeling, dear? Thank God, you are okay. We have been worried sick. Rishab looked like he had died.’

  Sagarika stared back at her cousin. With medium-length wavy hair tucked behind her ears on which she wore a small shiny white stone, Deepa was wheatish in complexion with a few freckles on her cheeks. Sagarika had to admit she looked pretty in her plain salwar kameez.

  Shaking her head vigorously, fighting back tears that threatened to spill out of her kohl-lined eyes, Deepa cleared her throat and said, ‘I’m not going to cry. I promised Rishab I wouldn’t. And there’s nothing to cry. You are awake, recovering well … Soon you’ll go home and everything will be fine. Just like before.’

  ‘But I don’t remember anything … or anyone,’ Sagarika said, her voice raspy and eyes unsure of whether Deepa would even understand what she was going through. She wore a woollen cap over her heavily bandaged skull, and the fresh wave of tears made her head throb a little.

  ‘Everything will be okay,’ Deepa said, trying to soothe her. ‘Don’t worry about anything. Rishab is there. He’ll take care of everything. Come, let’s talk about happy things. I know you don’t remember me, Rika. So, I brought albums.’

  She fished out a large colourful tote on the bed. For the next hour or so, the two women pored over numerous albums, Deepa doing most of the talking and Sagarika quietly listening. She didn’t mind the company; she was glad to have someone cheerful to chat with.

  It was afternoon by the time Dr Sharma came by for a routine check-up. The two women didn’t see him come in. The albums lay open on the bed.

  ‘Don’t you have any recent pictures?’ he said, flipping through a sepia-toned album with yellowing pages. ‘These are all childhood snaps.’

  Deepa was a bit miffed at the doctor’s comment. ‘I brought what I could lay my hands on, doctor. I’ll bring more later,’ she said.

  ‘Rika … see … this is you,’ she said, trying to win Sagarika’s attention again. ‘Look how curly your hair was. And that’s me!’ she said, pointing at a sickly thin girl wearing an oversized frock. ‘You know, we were quite naughty as kids. We were quite a riot.’

  Dr Sharma placed the album on the bed and walked towards the door and paused to turn around and look at the two women. He wasn’t sure but he thought he caught Deepa stealing a look as though checking if he’d left. He decided to come back later for the check-up.

  ‘How are we related?’ Sagarika’s question startled Deepa.

  ‘Huh? Your mom and my father are first cousins,’ Deepa replied. ‘I can imagine what you’re going through, Rika. Don’t worry, it’ll all come back. I’ll come see you every day.’ She kissed Sagarika’s bandaged head lovingly, looked deep into her blank eyes. ‘Get well soon, sis. Get well soon. I have got to go now.’

  As Deepa walked out of the lobby and waited for the elevator, she fished out her mobile and sent a message. A brief message, which would be immediately seen and acted upon.

  4

  ‘You know, Sagarika, I saw a very cute dog today. Such adorable eyes. You like dogs?’ Dr Sharma asked. He always began every conversation with Sagarika as though he had just stepped out for a while and was resuming an unfinished earlier chat.

  ‘You like dogs?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yes. I do,’ she said.

  He looked at her and smiled. Not a word more about dogs, he changed the topic and enquired if she had slept well. At first she didn’t realize what he tried to do every once in a while. He was feeding her vacant mind gentle stimuli to see what they triggered. One day he came in with a travel magazine. It was full of colourful pictures of places from around the world. ‘Look at these! Such lovely photographs. I will finish something quickly and then we will chat,’ he said, sitting down across from her and leafing through her medication sheets.

  As Sagarika flipped through the magazine, Dr Sharma noticed that she was clearly engrossed. He quietly came and stood beside her and watched her browse through the magazine intently.

  ‘You like the sea. You have been stopping at every picture of a beach,’ he remarked.

  ‘They are just pretty pictures. They don’t mean anything to me. I can’t remember anything at all,’ she said.

  ‘You know, I don’t care much about the sea. I’m scared of water and can’t swim. Can you?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Huh? Umm … I don’t know.’

  The casual mention didn’t always hit bull’s-eye; Dr Sharma knew that these things took time. He had even suggested Rishab try this approach – only to receive a cold shoulder. ‘Please stick to monitoring medicines for Mrs Mehta. For anything else, there are doctors I will co
nsult,’ Rishab had muttered without even looking at him.

  Rishab had, in fact, spoken about Dr Sharma with the consulting neurosurgeon who was handling Sagarika’s complicated case. ‘Are you sure this man is capable?’ he had asked the senior doctor; he was promptly assured that his wife was in good hands.

  Although he didn’t press the matter further, the comfortable familiarity between his wife and Dr Sharma annoyed him.

  Meanwhile, Dr Sharma continued to stimulate Sagarika’s mind in every small way he could. But he was a bit disturbed when he eavesdropped on a conversation between Rishab and the neurosurgeon.

  ‘Is there a possibility of her memory never returning?’

  ‘There is. Sometimes it takes longer. With the human mind one can never say.’

  ‘But are there any cases where the patient did not get his or her memory back?’

  ‘I don’t know of one … but…’

  ‘So that’s also a possibility, right? There are fifty-fifty chances…’

  It almost sounds as though Mr Mehta is hoping Sagarika never remembers. What kind of a husband is he? I’m going to keep an eye on that man. This poor woman has been through a lot.

  A few days later, after he had finished his rounds, he walked towards Sagarika’s room, looking forward to chatting with her. Her panic attacks had stopped and he no longer needed to stay back all night. On most days he stayed till late, and left only after she was asleep.

  As he entered her room that evening, he stopped in his tracks. Rishab was sitting on the bed holding his wife’s hand, whispering something and kissing her fingers tenderly. The two of them didn’t see him come in, and Dr Sharma retraced his steps immediately, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

  As he walked out of the hospital and crossed the road to wait for the bus which would take him home, he kept thinking about Sagarika. Her silent, blank eyes searching for a glimmer from her past, her lips quivering in fear and her thin, frail body in the arms of the tall, broad and muscular Rishab – the thought made him shiver.