Pariah | Dr. Vijo Poulose

Monday night- Emirates Hills, Dubai

“Clintu, is that you?” The voice was a mere whisper, lost beneath the rapid panting as his sister struggling to breathe.

Incredibly, the first thought that crossed his mind was how silly his name sounded, especially with the long-ago modification his sister had given it. Born Xavier Mathew, but his Dad had named him Clint after his favourite Hollywood movie star. However, the son was neither a fan of the star nor the name.

His sister remained silent, seemingly waiting for a response. After a silence lasting 20 years, he tried to speak. But emotion got the better of him and he choked, his voice ending up softer than hers

“Lata, are you feeling better?”

There was no reply, only the incessant panting.

His mother came on the line,“Clint, she has dozed off again. The doctors say that the infection has affected most of her lungs. They have put her on an oxygen mask, but her levels are still only 85.”

His mother’s voice was surprisingly calm and her words coherent. He understood the 85 meant 85% oxygen saturation, but he did not bother to clarifying. Science wasn’t her forte. Clint, however, had spent a considerable amount of time reading about the coronavirus, ardently following its inexorable march.

“Is there anything else I can do, Amma? Flights are mostly cancelled with the pandemic worsening, but I’m still trying to find a way to get there.”

“It is alright, Clint. I don’t think you can do anything more even if you came. Dr Gupta is saying she might need a ventilator, but no available ventilators here.”

“Amma, let me make a few calls and try other hospitals.”

“No Clint. It is all the same everywhere. There is nothing you can do. Lata’s friend, John is with me here and he is helping me with everything. I think I told you that John’s son is also admitted for a mild COVID infection.”

A tinge of steel had descended into his mother’s voice as she disconnected the line.

He had heard about John before from conversations with his mother. John was also divorced and worked in the same bank as Lata. From what he had heard, Clint sensed that their relationship was more than a friendship.

He sank back in his chair and gazed emptily through the bedroom windows at his 4-year-old son Noah. The boy was playing by the swimming pool that nestled in the back yard of his villa in the Emirates Hills area. If one looked far enough, you could see the fairways of the Address Montgomerie Golf course. Golf was the overarching passion in his life and the fairways were his mecca.

Noah, diagnosed with autism, needed constant supervision. The maid, though not currently in his line of sight, was likely nearby.

The COVID-19 pandemic, which began in early 2020, had ravaged the world, bringing both rich and poor nations to their knees. For someone like Clint, who placed a lot of faith in the powers of modern medicine, this was a rude awakening. God and Nature were still the masters and mankind was receiving a lesson in humility.

Clint knew that his mother had never forgiven him for shutting Lata out of his life. After his father’s death a year ago, his mother reached out to her only daughter and became part of her life again. Reflecting on that period, he could still not fathom why he could not overcome his demons and follow his mother’s footsteps.

He also knew that Amma wouldn’t have done this much if not for his father’s domineering personality. Clint felt anger towards his deceased father for being so domineering, but he knew that he shared the blame equally.

The irony was that he had always liked Ibrahim, the man his sister fell in love with and eventually married. Like his sister, Ibrahim (called Abe by his friends), was -two years older to Clint. They were even college basketball teammates – Ibrahim a stellar player, while Clint landed in the “ordinary performers” category.

Ibrahim was a practising Muslim, but he seemed equally accepting of all faiths.

He often told Clint, “For me, religion is just a path to being good human beings. I respect even people who don’t believe in any God, as long as they have a good heart. As a moderate Muslim, it is my duty to show people that we are just human beings like everyone else. Like you, I hate the radicals for destroying the image of Islam. There are many good Muslims, but I think they also have to be careful about explaining their beliefs, in these times of misunderstanding and hatred. I decided a long time ago that I will not talk about my beliefs or the scripture, unless specifically asked”

Although Ibrahim abstained from alcohol, he readily joined the team for the “post-match” partying. It was through Ibrahim that Clint discovered that Abraham and Jesus were considered Prophets in the Islamic faith (a parochial Catholic upbringing had narrowed Clint’s perspective in many ways and that persisted for most of his adult life).

During the month of Ramadan, Ibrahim would observe his fast even during tournaments. His game didn’t really seem to suffer, except perhaps for the first few games. Clint grew to admire the strength of character that his team mate ostensibly derived from his faith.

But the moment his sister broke the news of her love for Abe and the desire for marriage, everything changed. Looking back, Clint was not sure whether the main objection stemmed from his own feelings or simply a transference of his dad’s sentiments.

He had seen Ibrahim and his sister together many times but had never picked up on the romance. He and his sister had always been very close, and he enjoyed being in her circle of friends. She had always been a free-thinking spirit and brutally honest in her views. There was a great radiance about her, Her warmth could quickly turn icy when encountering hypocrisy or unkindness, perhaps a little too quickly.

Lata’s ostracization was swift. The very singular qualities that made her so appealing, worked against her as she remained adamant on marrying Ibrahim. What Clint remembered most about those times was his father’s unhinged behaviour, strewn with episodes of explosive anger.

A year after her registered marriage (which was attended only by a few close friends), Lata and Ibrahim moved to Faridabad, near Delhi. The bedlam surrounding her marriage had interrupted her education and she ended up working as a cashier in a local bank. Ibrahim, who had managed to finish his Master’s in economics, found a job lecturing at a small college.

Clint’s life was also moving quickly. He graduated with an MBA from an IIM institution and soon migrated to Dubai. Although his ‘day’ job was Vice president of Citibank (Investment banking), he spent his personal time dabbling in growth stocks. In this world of speculative finance, he discovered his talent of picking the winning horse. Eventually, he left the bank and became a full-time venture capitalist with a few buddies.

Money, status, marriage arrived swiftly like scheduled stops on a rail route. For years, he lived in the heady world of high finance with little time or the inclination to think about Lata.

After their move to Faridabad, Lata had a son and a divorce within five short years. Neither spouse had asked the other to convert. Shunned by both communities, they lived as pariahs in a distant world.

The bitterness of excommunication, living in a foreign land and of dreams unfulfilled, had put a sword between their great love. Their idealism waged valiant battle, but time, pain and attrition took their toll. They both saw the writing on the wall, they divorced amicably after several years.

Ibrahim remarried a Muslim girl and moved back to north Kerala. Lata chose to stayed on in Faridabad with George (her son), but she struggled with the high cost of living. Ibrahim provided child support as much as he could, but otherwise, there was little contact between father and son

His reverie was broken as his wife, Maria, came into the room carrying a tray with a glass and tumbler of his “not so favourite” prune juice

“Did you manage to speak to Lata?” she asked.

“Yes, but she was too sick to talk. Amma told me the news. Her oxygen levels are low, but they are trying to find her a ventilator”

“That doesn’t sound good. Poor Lata. Can’t we do anything to help? And who is taking care of George?”

Clint did not respond. His mind had drifted away deflecting her questions.

Maria had been instrumental in getting him to make the call to India. For many years, she had been cajoling him to re-connect with Lata, but he had not mustered the courage. Maria was the only jewel in his life that had not lost its sheen. She was a wonderful, caring soul and had been his moral compass, even during those lost years he had spent in a different, shallower world.

Clint felt partly responsible for the misery life had heaped upon his sister. He knew he was part of the unmerciful apparatus that had destroyed her life, although his father had been the primary driver.

He wondered whether life would have taken a different path had he supported his sister in those desolate times. At least (and this pained him the most), he knew he could have helped her financially. This could have been done easily without defying his father. The guilt of a coward plagued his thoughts relentlessly.

His father had retired as Police Commissioner of Kochi a few years ago and settled in the same city. An extremely literate man, which belied a combative nature, he had been a popular figure amongst friends and family. But as a father, he was tough to please and most of Clint’s youth had been spent on measuring up to an unclear standard; the exactness of which eluded him even now. It took a long time for him to recognize that his father’s beliefs were not gospel truths.

Clint never knew the exact details of his sister’s divorce and got all his information from his mother, who had forgiven her daughter a long time ago and was grieving on the inside. His father, on the other hand, seemed untouched by such emotions and carried his rejection to the grave. Soon after retirement, he was stricken with terminal cancer. It spread to the tissues around his heart, but even the marauding cells could not erase the lingering hate that resided. The tumour ate his organs at a rapid pace, leading to swift end.

It was just before his father’s death, Clint learnt that his son, Noah, was autistic. They had been childless for 8 years and Noah’s birth had brought boundless joy. They suspected nothing until the child was around two years old, when he started having extreme bouts of anger whenever his routines were interrupted. Looking back, Clint knew that there had been a few warning signs early on, but they had not paid much heed.

Denial, anger and grief came and went, leaving Clint with the most pervasive emotion: utter helplessness. The humbling realization that in spite of all his money, he could not buy a cure for his son.

His father’s death came soon after Noah’s diagnosis. For a while, Clint felt a void in his life, but not profound sorrow.. His mother, however, had cried profusely for the first few days. But after the funeral, she regained her composure and went about adding purpose to her new life.

Tuesday morning

He dialled his mother again. She had not been answering his calls the whole night.

This time she picked up. “Amma, how is she doing?”

“I don’t know what is happening, Clint. She went into a coma and they have moved her to the ICU. Now I can’t be at her bedside any more. Dr Gupta said they are trying to find a ventilator.” Cracks had appeared in his mother’s voice, and her words were soon replaced by soft sobbing.

A minute later, she spoke again, “George is alone in the house. He saw Lata only once since she was admitted. I have been trying to reach Abe, but he is not answering his phone. Do you have any other number with you?”

“No Amma. I can ask some of my friends in Delhi to go and bring George to their house.”

“How heartless can you be? The boy needs his father, not strangers. I will keep trying the number. And don’t keep calling me all day. I will tell if you if anything changes.”

Clint realized that the gloves were off with his mother’s behaviour. He wanted to scream back and say that Abe was probably no less a stranger than his friends, but knew restraint was needed at this time. After a few more minutes of strained conversation, his mother ended the call.

Clint lit his one cigarette of the day and watched the sun creep up the horizon, bathing the clouds in an eerie pinkish hue. Though dawn had broken, the heat of the Dubai summer was already perceptible.

The day passed quickly as Clint became engrossed in work. For the past few months, because of the pandemic restrictions, he was working mostly from home. Because of his line of work, this didn’t cause any damage and was just a minor irritation.

As the sun went down, he was tempted to go to the golf course for a session of ‘night golf’. But he lacked the energy and decided against it.

His Mom called around dinner time. “Clint, they finally found a ventilator and now she is connected to it. Dr Gupta said her oxygen levels are quite bad. They have sedated her heavily. She is on a few medicines to treat the virus, called idroxi and desca.” (Clint knew that she meant Hydroxychloroquine and Dexamethasone but didn’t interrupt).

“I went to see her in the ICU and when they were not looking, John helped me take a video. I will send it to you.”

Clint had to wait 10 minutes before he got the clip sent via WhatsApp. He could barely recognize his sister. Comatose, her head twisted to one side and her stringy black hair now abundantly streaked with grey. The breathing tube protruded from her face at an unsettling angle.

He watched her chest rising and falling with each breath of the ventilator and could hear the multiple beeps coming off the monitoring devices. The picture blurred, and after a few seconds, he realized tears streamed down his face.

The phone rang again. It was his mother and he knew it would be bad news if she was calling back so soon.

Dubai, one year later

He heard his son’s raucous laughter and moved to the window to get a better look. Uninhibited glee shone on Noah’s face as he chased George around the pool.

It had taken a year to finalize George’s adoption papers and bring him over. In one of life’s funny twists, the boy had been named by his father after a matinee idol. The Oscar winning and incredibly handsome George Clooney was one of Clint’s favourite actors as well.

Clint smiled as his sister came to the room carrying a glass of the ‘eternal’ prune juice. With the other hand, she dragged the portable oxygen concentrator which supplied ‘life’ via prongs in her nose. The scarring in her lungs meant that she would probably be oxygen dependent for life.

By the time Lata had been admitted to the intensive care unit, Abe was already dead. He had been diagnosed with COVID more than a week before but had delayed going to the hospital until it was too late. He died within a day of being admitted, even though they managed to place him on a ventilator.

None of this had destroyed Lata’s spirit and her presence brought piety back into Clint’s life. But she had insisted that Clint adopt her son because of an irrational fear that she would not live very long.

Clint had welcomed the idea with open arms. It felt like unseen souls had steered him away from a path of perdition and placed him to one of redemption.

___________ __________________ __________________ _____________

Dr. Vijo Poulose, a physician based in Singapore, originally hails from Kerala. After completing his MBBS, he migrated to the USA for advanced training. Subsequently, he settled in Singapore, where he has resided for the past 24 years. Dr. Vijo has harbored a passion for storytelling since high school and has successfully published four short stories in Indian magazines over the last 15 years.