Mice In Men

By Anirban Bose

Can the simple act of saving a mouse teach an insecure, ordinary man to rise above his afflictions and his love? An old man contemplates giving up everything, but discovers love while witnessing an extramarital affair. After suffering a lifetime of prejudice and humiliation, a doctor is finally able to confront his own prejudices while attending to a man in the throes of a stroke. Is love a neurosis that the famous psychiatrist unwittingly falls victim to? His patient is an illegal immigrant, desperately poor and fighting for his life.  Yet, as death slowly but surely beats him down, a young doctor awakens to the strange beauty of his profession.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Dec 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9789351160601

Anirban Bose

A doctor by profession, Anirban was born and brought up in Ranchi, and has, at various points in his life, called Mumbai, New York City, Atlanta and Rochester home. Although Bombay Rains Bombay Girls is his first novel, he has subsequently published two other novels.Currently, he is assistant professor of medicine at the University of Rochester, NY.

Book preview

The New Job

SIXTY-FIVE YEAR OLD RIZWAN Sheikh’s body complains bitterly when he gets out of bed each morning. He clutches his back with both his hands, flanking them like a tight lumbar corset, before attempting to ease his feet on to the floor. For half an hour, all he is able to do, is sit in the same position—upright, with his eyes closed like the meditating Buddha—while his back muscles relax, taking their own sweet time to let go of his hips. Once the long needle on the old wall clock has travelled a semi-circle and then some, he begins the process of testing his back, hoping and praying for the little mercies that will make it bearable. His face creases up in anticipation and his tightly shut eyelids flutter with anxiety as he leans forward gently … just a few measured degrees at a time. When he reaches the tilt practice has perfected, he pauses for a moment, waiting, wondering if he should be a little more adventurous. After a few tense minutes, he acquiesces to discretion, reversing his effort, straightening up slowly and sighing with relief if he can extend beyond the starting point, incident free. He repeats this simple but effective selfprescribed regimen, feeling his back muscles ease progressively while he oscillates like a defective metronome struggling to find its tempo. He has to be patient and persistent—trying, testing, tempting—waiting till he discovers the range of motion that will allow him to stand up with some measure of confidence. He has learned the penalty of haste the hard way, doubling up on the bed with pains shooting up and down his back like sharp electric shocks should he deviate from this demanding ritual even the slightest.

It is a strange ailment that Allah has gifted him in his old age. For, once he is upright, the rest of the day passes off without much incident. Sure, he feels the occasional twinge here and the sudden ache there, but nothing like the madness of his morning ceremony.

What irritates him even more is that this backache is precisely the reason he has to seek employment again. The indifferent doctor in the squalid government hospital had dismissed him with a rather offhanded comment that he needed to consult a specialist, privately. The specialist had charged him two hundred rupees just to tell him that the opening of his spine was too narrow to accommodate his nerves and that he needed surgery to correct it. The surgery would cost an additional fifty thousand rupees not including some ancillary charges like blood tests and x-rays. The specialist would not even guarantee success: the best he could do was estimate a sixty per cent chance of improvement.

Rizwan had walked out of the nursing home shaking his head in disgust. These doctors … they could say anything and get away with it. Would a carpenter dare to charge two hundred rupees to tell his customers that there would only be a sixty per cent chance of fixing that crooked chair? Would his business survive if he then demanded close to a year’s salary to justify his work?

Ah the cruelties, the hundred indignities of senescence …

He turns to look at his wife lying next to him, fast asleep. Her body, curled up like a foetus, is cocooned underneath the thin bed-sheet, one edge of which wraps her head like a hijab. Her face, the only exposed account of her anatomy, peeks out from underneath the covering like that of a bonneted child. He knows that this disposition of hers implies particularly deep sleep, and, in the past, on a couple of occasions like this, unable to detect even the lightest motion of her torso, he has held his finger under her nostril, seeking the reassurance of her warm, moist breaths.

He hates the thought of having to wake her up. He wishes he could let her lie in bed for as long as she wants. But today is different . today is the first day of his new job and he cannot afford anything less than a favourable first impression. It has taken him a number of obsequious phone calls and a lot of servile hand wringing to secure this position. In a city flooded with young, able-bodied men, very few, it seemed, wanted to employ a senior citizen.

He hesitates for a few minutes before calling out lightly, ‘Mehr … Mehr, are you listening to me?’

She opens her eyes and looks at him sleepily. Her eyes wilt almost immediately and she steals a few more winks before stirring and sitting up slowly—a resigned-to-my-fate look on her face. She shakes her head to dispel her drowsiness, stretching and yawning a couple of times in the process. She knows the routine … she has been doing it for the last six years. She lumbers out of bed and reaches for his walker, placing it in front of his feet for him to rest his hands and begin the process of testing his back.

He studies her closely. Age and the demands of a hard life have caught up with that beautiful face. Right now, leftover slumber adds its own weight to the bags under eyes. Her right cheek is imprinted with a line where the thick edge of the blanket had creased her face. A few strands of wayward hair crisscross her forehead; the rest—still jet black after all these years—ropes down to her waist in a long, thick braid.

Something makes him turn to look at the photograph of their marriage, hanging on the wall like an outdated memory. The bright, gold coloured frame has mellowed with age. A crack at the bottom right hand corner of the glass pane serves as a permanent reminder of the moment twelve years ago when it had slipped out of his hand and hit the floor as they were preparing to whitewash the walls. But, other than a twinge of sepia at the edges, the black and white photograph inside remains intact, and he can’t help but smile seeing the strapping young man staring nervously into the camera while his demure wife fixes her eyes to the ground.

He wonders where the forty years have since flown by.

‘Once the operation is done, I won’t have to wake you up anymore,’ he says. ‘Then you can sleep … late. As late as you want.’

She covers her mouth and yawns again. ‘Why don’t you worry about that later? Just try sitting up now,’ she says.

‘Just six more months, Mehr, and then we will have enough to pay that doctor.’

She nods sleepily. ‘How much is this new job paying you?’

‘Ten thousand rupees a month, Mehr. Ten thousand for eight to five and then fifty rupees for every hour overtime.’

Her eyes widen, chasing away her somnolence. ‘Is that the going rate for a driver? He seems to be overpaying. Allah is merciful. I hope he doesn’t expect you to put in late hours. At your age you shouldn’t have to work so hard … at your age you shouldn’t have to work at all.’

‘What can you do when there are no children to carry your coffin. You have to pay for your own.’

‘Don’t say such inauspicious things so early in the morning! We have spent forty years together without children and we will spend the rest too. Just take your time to get up. I’ll go and make some tea.’

She disappears through the narrow passageway of their modest bedroom into the equally modest kitchen next door. That is their existence … two rooms in this chawl in Dongri is what they have to call their own.

He can hear the tinkle of pots and pans and the rush of water filling up a kettle. He sighs and goes back to testing his back; clenching his jaws with tension as he begins his routine. Soon, he is able to achieve the range and strength that allow him to stand up slowly. Satisfied, he smiles to no one in particular before hobbling out of the room, feeling his legs gain strength with movement. Soon he is walking around without any problem, remarkably different from the man who was struggling to get out of bed some time ago.

She arrives with his tea and a couple of his favourite cream- cracker biscuits. She places them neatly on the table in front of him and goes back into the kitchen to get her own. They sit together, like they have been doing for the last forty years, dipping their biscuits in the steaming brown liquid and nibbling on the mushy ends till most of the tea is gone. What is left at the bottom they pour into saucers and slurp on noisily, like children.

‘When will you be back?’ she asks him.

‘Arre, today is the first day … how will I know?’

‘What does this man do?’

‘Mr Patel is a very important man in some company … some director-birector, something like that. He has four cars and needs more than one driver.’

‘How can four cars take one man?’

‘His family also needs to go here and there, bewakoof! He is too busy to drive them around.’

She smiles. ‘Then don’t be late on your first day, Rizwan miya.’

The suit, cap and shoes are white and spotless. There is a name-tag pinned to his right chest that says Rizwan Mohammed Sheikh. His instructions are to keep the suit clean, salute whenever Mr or Mrs Patel approach him and open the door for anyone who looks like he is headed for the car. The climate control in the Mercedes is to be set at nineteen degrees centigrade and the passengers in the car get to manipulate the radio channels from the rear seat with the remote control. His presence is essential at 8 a.m. sharp and any absences have to be authorized at least a day in advance if he doesn’t want his payment for that day to be docked. All overtime hours and expenditure have to be submitted within twenty-four hours of the day incurred and approved by either Mr or Mrs Patel for payment.

Rizwan has driven a Mercedes in the past; one of the many jobs he has held since running away from home at the age of eighteen. But this one is nothing like it. It takes him a whole day to figure out all the knobs and buttons on the console in front of him. The dashboard feels like it belongs in an airplane. There is a small screen that looks like a miniaturized television. The steering wheel telescopes back and forth and swivels up and down before locking into his favourite position with the push of a button. The seats are plush and made of soft leather, and have electronic knobs to adjust just about everything, including one that pushes the seat against the curvature of his back, making it very comfortable for him to drive.

His first impression of Mr Patel is how young and handsome he is. Rizwan cannot stop describing him to Mehr when he returns home that evening. ‘Mr Patel looks like a film star … like the young Dharmendar … so handsome and smart! What English he speaks … fata, this, fata that … just like in those American movies. He walks around with three mobile phones that keep ringing every second.’

‘Did your back hurt?’ she asks.

‘What?’

‘Did your back hurt today on the job?’

‘Mehr, you know it doesn’t hurt unless I lie down for a long time. Why aren’t you listening to me?’

‘I am …’

‘Then tell me who Mr Patel looks like.’

‘Like a young Dharmendar.’

‘Hah … lucky guess! But like I was saying, his car is so big and comfortable that I feel I am getting a massage in it.’

She laughs. ‘Don’t get too comfortable. Inshallah, once your surgery is done you won’t have to work anymore. Then you can sit next to me at home and I will nag you the whole day.’

Everyday Rizwan transports the Patel kids to school. A chubby ten-year old boy and a chubbier seven-year old girl sit in the back seat and excitedly discuss their escalating pocket money, the newest brand of potato chips and their favourite cartoon on television. They talk in accented English and Rizwan learns later that it is because they were brought up in England prior to their move back to India a year ago. He smiles at them and limits his interaction to wishing them good morning and waving a goodbye when they enter or exit the car. Usually it is the nanny who goes with them to drop them off at school. Twice a week, more precisely on Mondays and Thursdays, Mrs Patel chooses to make the journey and sits in the back seat next to her children, spending most of her time looking out of the window through big brown goggles. She is nicer than Mr Patel; she at least smiles and wishes him good morning upon entering, and has even enquired about his wife’s health on occasion—a courtesy Mr Patel finds below his dignity to perform. On their return journey she calls on her mobile phone and says ‘I’ll be there in about ten minutes,’ before clicking it shut to return to staring out of the window. She then directs Rizwan to drop her off at a particular beauty parlour. Before disembarking, she instructs him to return home and wait for her call for an appropriate pick up rendezvous.

Although he doesn’t think much of her huge eyeshades, Rizwan can make out Mrs Patel is very pretty. With such frequent trips to the beauty parlour he isn’t surprised that she has managed to preserve her youth very well. He often wonders if he should initiate a conversation with her during their journeys alone but decides against it because he can neither think of a common topic nor find the courage to talk.

It is during his second month at work, that Mr Patel’s other driver meets with an accident and breaks his leg. Rizwan is summoned in the middle of the day to take over the other driver’s duties. He arrives at the office to find Mr Patel waiting impatiently for him outside. Mr Patel gives him an address that he needs to reach within the next ten minutes. Rizwan recognizes the place and uses his intricate knowledge of the city to drive through smaller lanes and empty streets and makes the distance in eight minutes flat. Mr Patel nods approvingly and Rizwan feels happy to have pleased his master. He tenders a smart salute and watches Mr Patel disappear into a tall residential building.

Mr Patel reappears after an hour and instructs Rizwan to head back to the office. As Rizwan is driving, courtesy of his rear view mirror, he cannot help but notice that Mr Patel is wearing a light smile on his face and looks a little lost. It is an expression he hasn’t ever previously credited Mr Patel with and Rizwan feels happy to have pleased his master.

Thanks to a cast on his broken leg, Mr Patel’s regular driver is going to be out of commission for twelve straight weeks. Rizwan finds himself burdened with the additional responsibility of having to ferry Mr Patel to this address in the middle of the day and getting him back to the office soon afterwards. The trips are always an hour long and Mr Patel has the same reaction while returning.

It doesn’t take Rizwan too long to guess that Mr Patel isn’t making sweet deals every day. As the days go by, Mr Patel gets increasingly careless, often reappearing lightly disheveled and adjusting his appearance during the trip back to his office. More than once, he reappears with the faintest trace of perfume that wasn’t present when they had left work, and, on another occasion, his zipper is open with his tucked in shirt peeking out from where nothing should.

Rizwan feels troubled. He finds it more and more difficult to keep silent and pretend he doesn’t notice what is going on. It is especially troubling for him when he ferries Mrs Patel alone after having dropped off the children to school in the morning. He feels terrible that she would take so much trouble to preserve her youthfulness and beauty for a man who is so faithless. Every time, just after she’s called the beauty parlour to inform them that she’ll be there in ten minutes, he feels like opening up and pouring his heart out to her. Once, when he catches the hint of a tear-trail glistening on Mrs Patel’s face, he grimaces and wonders if she has discovered the truth.

But he knows that the day he opens his mouth will be the last day of his job; a job he needs desperately. It also pains him to think of the devastation that he will bring about on the children once his allegations break up a family.

And so, Rizwan Sheikh does his duties dutifully, maintaining a calm exterior as he ferries an unfaithful husband and his beautiful wife, all the while burning inside with the anguish of a prickly conscience.

He is closer to having the money. This month he swears is going to be the last one after which he will quit his job and get his surgery.

‘Mehr, do you think this generation has no morals?’ he asks his wife one night. She is sitting on the bed next to him, patching up a tear in an old blouse with practiced ease.

‘How can a generation have no morals? It is up to the individual,’ she replies continuing with her deft needlework.

‘But look at our generation … we knew what family meant. We stuck together. We valued simple things like marriage and family and relationships. Now … no one does.’

She looks up at him, a question woven into the expression on her face.

‘See, in our generation your word meant something,’ he says. ‘You gave your word to marry a woman and you stayed married. You decided that I’ll live with this woman for life, through joys and sorrows and troubles and happiness and you did it. If life was hard, you cried together. If life was good, you laughed together. Then how can someone love another person?’

‘Who and what are you talking about?’

He sighs. ‘Mr Patel … he is having an affair!’

She stops her needlework. ‘Hai Allah!’ she says, her face now scandalized with shock. ‘How do you know?’

He tells her. He describes the afternoon expeditions, the dishevelled clothes, the tousled hair, the ladies perfume, the open zipper, the satiated look. He fesses up to his troubled conscience when he drives Mrs Patel alone. He admits to looking forward to the end of his job with relief.

She listens patiently, probing his face with understanding eyes and hanging on to the tiniest detail in his descriptions. Then, when he falls silent, she thinks for a minute before sighing and saying, ‘you do what you feel best. They may be big people but you are a good man, Rizwan miya.’

He shakes his head and says, ‘How can Mr Patel lie to his wife? They have two children