Suture

A seventeen-year-old boy tries his best to help out a friend after a sudden tragedy.

LATE NIGHT SUMMONS

"I don't feel like going today."

Shibu stretched his arms and let out a huge yawn. He lay back on the cold concrete bench that we had been sitting on and closed his eyes, preparing to take a nap.

"Are you going to sleep out here, in the open?" I asked.

The both of us were in a secluded corner of Deshbandhu park, where we used to come almost every day after school to smoke in secret and idle about for a while before going home. It was our favourite haunt, away from the prying eyes of parents, where we could spend countless hours if we felt like it. But on that particular day, I was in a hurry to leave as I was getting late for my English tuition.

Shibu and I used to live in the same neighbourhood in Kolkata and had grown up together. He used to consider me his best friend, and this was back when such things used to matter. At the time of the incident, I was seventeen years old and Shibu, a year younger than me, was sixteen. We went to separate schools but were enrolled in a few of the same tuition classes, which included English every Tuesday and Thursday evening. I say 'enrolled' and not 'attended' because we rarely ever used to show up for these classes. My attendance was abysmal and Shibu's was far worse. In fact, part of the reason why I was anxious to attend class on that day was that I was afraid that if I were to miss any more of them, the teacher would call my parents and inform them of my truancy. Then, there would be hell to pay.

"I don't know, he must be a friend of yours. He's at the door, go talk to him. He says it's urgent."

I hauled myself out of bed and went to the living room, mentally cursing whoever had decided to ruin my sleep the night before an important test.

A tall, thin boy stood at the door. He was a familiar face; Binoy, a boy from our locality, who ought to have been recognized by my unsociable father. I did not know him very well, only as the guy who lived in the flat opposite Shibu. He was a few years older than us and a serious sort of guy, not the kind who was known for playing pranks late at night. So the reason behind his visit was probably an important one.

"Binoy da," I said, "What is the matter?"

"Your friend Shibu has sent me." He replied, "He's been trying to call you."

I checked my phone. It showed three missed calls. I had put it on silent for class and forgotten about it. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear it," I said sheepishly, 

I wondered if Shibu had landed himself in some trouble. It would not have been the first time he called me to get him out of a tight spot. He was a fairly good-natured guy, but he had inherited a bit of his father's notoriously short temper and would often get into fights with other people. Once he would realize that the matter was getting out of hand, he would ask me, to either help diffuse the situation or to back him up if the need arose. But he had never called at this time of night and had never been in a situation urgent enough to require sending another person.

"There is some bad news," Binoy said solemnly.

"What is it?" I asked, feeling a sense of alarm.

"Shibu's father has died."

Binoy explained in brief what had happened; Shibu's father, Mr. Amalendu Chatterjee, known to us as Chatterjee uncle, had been missing since he had left his office at six in the evening and failed to return home. By eight o' clock Mrs. Chatterjee, who was of a worrying disposition, had begun to feel quite agitated by the absence of her husband. His ride home generally took no more than half an hour and his phone appeared to be switched off. His colleagues and friends were also unaware of his whereabouts and by eleven-thirty, the Chatterjee household was gripped by a full-blown panic. Finally, just after midnight, they received a call from the police; Chatterjee uncle had been in a traffic accident and had died on the spot.

"He was returning on his bike. Crashed it into a truck near Bidhan Sarani."

To be honest I had never really liked Chatterjee uncle very much. He always seemed to be in a bad mood and would enjoy berating his son every chance he got. Nevertheless, I still felt bad for the man. No one deserves to die in such a way. To a greater extent, I felt sorry for Shibu, for having lost his father at such a young age.

My father had also come out and had been quietly listening to the conversation. "That's bloody awful." He said, "The guy was younger than I am."

He knew Chatterjee uncle. They used to come across each other on the street sometimes and would stop to exchange stories about their useless sons.

"Take this," he said, "You might need it. And remember, you're still just a kid. You keep your phone switched on and call me if you need anything at all."

I did not know whether to be annoyed at him for being patronizing or to be moved by his concern. I pushed the thought from my mind, and along with Binoy, left for Shibu's place.

SISTER AND MOTHER

On the way over, I asked him, "Who else is there at the house?"

"Shibu's two mamas are there, his maternal uncles, with their wives. His father did not have any siblings, and other relatives have not yet been informed. I think that apart from the family, you and I are the only ones who know about the incident thus far. Even I learned about it only because they live in the flat opposite to us. I noticed some commotion going on, sounds of people crying were coming from inside, so I went to enquire and got to know what had happened. I think they are trying to keep it quiet."

"Why the secrecy, do you suppose?"

"I don't know exactly, but I can hazard a guess,'' Binoy said in a conspiratorial tone. "It's an accident case you see, the police are going to investigate. Currently, the narrative is that the truck slowed down unexpectedly, leading Mr. Chatterjee to crash into it, which means that the truck driver is at fault and will probably go to jail. This what the police knows at this point. Tomorrow some new fact may emerge, something that shows that actually, the crash was Mr. Chatterjee's own fault. If that news spreads, then it might harm the family's reputation."

"What kind of fact?"

Binoy lowered his voice, perhaps afraid that saying it loudly might make it come true, "It could be anything, drunk driving perhaps."

The main door was open, and I saw a bunch of people inside the living room. Two men, presumably the uncles, and three women, two of whom were probably their wives. The third woman was Shibu's mother. Shibu himself was not present. There was a clear heaviness in the air; the mourning process had begun.

My attention first went to Shibu's mother who was flopped down on the sofa, supported by the two ladies on either side. She looked almost unrecognisable, with her hair open and an unnerving expression on her face. It was totally blank, conveying no discernible emotion whatsoever, with her eyes staring into the distance.

The room was filled with the sounds of sobs and sniffs, interspersed by the voice of one of the uncles, who was pacing about talking loudly to someone on the phone. He appeared to be arranging for a hearse. The other uncle sat at the dining table, texting away on his phone. He saw us enter and came up to say, "Binoy, it's good that you are here. We really need your help for something. Who have you brought with you?"

Normally Shibu's mother should have recognized me, but she did not notice me at all. I introduced myself and offered my assistance as well.

"Amalendu da's body is at Calcutta Medical College," said the uncle, "We have to go bring him home. But the police have said that before we can do that, a family member must go and officially identify the victim. Now my brother and I are busy making arrangements here. Also, we are not directly related to him. Shibu has to be the one to go for the identification. Can you boys accompany him to the hospital, we don't know if he will be able to go alone."

The both of us immediately agreed to go. "Where is Shibu?" I asked.

"He is in his sister's room," he said, pointing to where it was, "You can go in but try to be quiet. She is sleeping."

Binoy stayed outside and I went in, making my footsteps as light as possible. The room was dark, and only the bedside lamp was on. Shibu's nine-year-old sister Geeta was asleep on the bed. He was sitting next to her, stroking her head gently with a despondent look on his face. His eyes were red, but he did not seem to be crying just then.

He was quite big for his age. He was tall and bulky and looked like a giant beside the diminutive figure of his sister. He turned around to see me enter and put his finger to his lips, signalling the same instruction his uncle had given. I got close and stood near him. His sister looked peaceful in her sleep.

"She doesn't know yet," he whispered, "We will tell her in the morning. Let's talk outside."

He switched off the light, and we came out of the bedroom. Shibu was hesitant to talk in the living room, so he led us into the kitchen, where we could have some privacy.

"What a bloody mess." he proclaimed finally with a heavy sigh.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know. It just doesn't seem real."

I was unsure of how to respond to him. I had never been in a situation before where I had to console someone after a huge loss. And honestly, Shibu did not look like he needed consoling. He seemed to be handling the news fine. If there was sorrow in him, he was trying hard not to show it.

It was Shibu's mother, brought to life again by the mention of a two-wheeler. "I will not allow it," she said, "Look at what just happened to your father. How can you even think of riding a bike now?"

None of us had considered this at all. Binoy's face went down in shame for having suggested it. "Let's just go," I murmured, "We'll figure out something on the way."

The three of us promptly left, and on our way out, we heard a loud cry of anguish from behind us. Mrs. Chatterjee, it seemed, had finally begun to cry.

 

FATHER AND SON

It was freezing outside and I held my jacket tight to shield myself from the chill in the air. We had come out to the main road, hoping to find some mode of conveyance, now that a bike was no longer an option. But there seemed to be nothing around, no taxis or auto-rickshaws. Kolkata has never been known for having a thriving nightlife so this was to be expected.

After walking for a bit, we managed to hail a public bus going towards College Street, where the medical college was situated. It was on its last trip back to the bus depot and we were the only passengers. Everything was closed and the roads were completely empty, so we were going quite fast. It was slightly disconcerting and for a moment I felt like we were travelling through a ghost town to go somewhere where we would deal with the dead.

We reached in about forty minutes. The Calcutta Medical College and Hospital was a place that I had gone past before but had never actually entered. It consisted of a number of massive British era buildings, which may have looked impressive in the day but in the dark, felt quite eerie and imposing.

The hospital was not crowded with people but the place seemed to be relatively busy. People working the night shift could be seen going from one building to another. There were many ambulances parked at the entrance, with their drivers sleeping inside. Also asleep out front were the many stray dogs which lived on the hospital campus, which to me did not seem very hygienic.

The guards at the gate told us to go to the casualty ward, which was situated right at the entrance. The word "Emergency" was emblazoned in bold letters across the front of the building. This was where all accident victims were taken and it was probably where Shibu's father had been brought, and we advanced towards it.

"Yes, we know. The police have already informed us about that. But where is he? We can't seem to find him in here."

"He's not going to be in here if he's dead, is he? This is a place for patients. He's been taken to the mortuary."

For a second I felt phenomenally stupid, like a child even. This was something that we should have anticipated. The thing was, prior to this visit, I had only ever been to a hospital to meet patients, so it never crossed my mind that coming to collect a dead person might be different.

The nurse pointed us towards the mortuary and warned us not to go in there without permission like we had done here.

"There will probably be some men from the police there," she said, "They came here to check on the victim."

We thanked her and started to leave. As we were going, she pulled me aside and spoke to me in a hushed voice, "Do all three of you belong to the family of the victim?"

"No, only his son is. The other two of us are his friends. Why do you ask?"

"The man was in quite a bad condition when they brought him in. If possible, don't let the son see him like that."

Before I could ask any further questions, the nurse disappeared back into the curtained area. I ran after my friends.

The mortuary wing was located in one of the buildings at the back of the campus. There was a middle-aged constable at the entrance, sitting on a wooden bench, talking to a thin sickly looking man in a dirty white uniform. We approached the constable and stated who we were.

"We have been waiting for you to come," the constable said, "Why did you take so long? He had been brought to the hospital at eight; It's almost two in the morning now."

This was not the first time I was hearing the phrase post-mortem. I had seen enough crime shows on tv to know that it was a medical check-up done on a person after their death, in order to find out if there was any foul play involved. There was a fancier medical term for the procedure; autopsy.  I remembered what Binoy had said about the police investigating the accident, this must have been part of the process.

"We weren't told about a post-mortem. Is it really necessary?" Shibu asked, "We were hoping if we could take him home as soon as possible."

"It is mandatory by law, it cannot be avoided. Moreover, the victim died before reaching the hospital. In such cases, the post-mortem has to be carried out within twenty-four hours." The constable replied.

The man sitting beside him, who I assumed was a medical assistant, chimed in, "Dada without the post-mortem, you won't get the death certificate."

This was an unexpected complication. The hearse would be here in about an hour or so. If we got delayed and couldn't make it back home and to the crematorium on time, we could end up facing a lot of problems.

Shibu shared this concern with the constable. Before he could respond, the assistant intervened, "Dada, you need not be distressed about that. You can take the body back right now if you want to."

"What about the post-mortem then?"

The constable shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Er…yes. About that," he said, "The post-mortem is already complete."

It was one thing to hear that an autopsy was compulsory, but it was another thing entirely to learn that it had been carried out beforehand, without the consent of the family. It was our first confrontation that night with the dysfunctional mess that was the Indian medico-legal system, and we would have to face it again.

We demanded an explanation. The constable tried defending the action in an apologetic tone, "We had no other option. The mortuary was full, there was no place to keep someone else in there. The medical examiner's shift was also ending soon and he was going back home. If the procedure wasn't done immediately, it would have to wait for another entire day, with the body just lying outside. It would have been a huge hassle. You said it yourself, this identification process is just a formality. We had already confirmed who the victim is from his ID. You can go in and identify him now, we'll simply write in the report that the identification was done prior to the autopsy. It's the same thing really."

"Okay. I guess you are right," he said. He paused for a moment and said with some reluctance in his voice, "Listen can I ask you for a favour?"

"Anything, brother."

This was when I noticed that Shibu was trembling.

"I thought I would be able to this," he said, his voice twitching. "But now that I am here, I just can't seem to gather the courage. I still can't believe that Baba is actually dead. I don't think I can face it. Can you please go instead of me?"

I looked at him, my best mate. The boy who would always volunteer to ignite the most dangerous crackers during Kali puja. The boy who did not own a license, but had been secretly borrowing his father's bike since the age of thirteen, to pull stunts on the back road. The boy who had once cursed at his teacher in front of the class. The boy who had never been afraid of anything finally had to face something that scared him. I could see that it must have been very hard for him to even make such a request, and I knew that I simply could not refuse him.

I had seen dead bodies before, so I was sure that I could handle it. I asked Binoy to come in with me and he agreed. We requested the constable to go in instead of his son. He said it was fine, seemingly relieved that we were not going to report him after all. "I'll just mention that it was the son in the report."

Shibu and the constable waited outside while the assistant took us in. This part of the hospital seemed to be much more dilapidated and poorly maintained than the rest of it. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, Dirt and paan stains covered the walls, and the smell of antiseptic in the air was replaced by the odour of stale formaldehyde. The overall atmosphere was quite dismal. The assistant led us to a room which was labelled as 'PM'. "The body is in there, it hasn't been moved after the post-mortem. Go in and take a good look, make sure it is him. Do not touch anything."

We entered. The room was filthy and smelled awful. There was a thick layer of grime on every surface and the walls had gone green with mould. The floor was strewn with trash, pieces of plastic, rags and burnt incense sticks, which were probably being used to combat the stench. There was a raised concrete slab in the middle of the room. Evidently, this functioned as an autopsy table because on top of it, lying uncovered, on full display and clearly identifiable, was the dead body of Mr. Chatterjee.

This is the part of the story that is the hardest for me to describe, mainly because I do not want to picture that scene in my head again. But it doesn't matter if I try to forget what I saw because the image is seared into my brain and still gives me nightmares to this day.

When we saw what condition he was in, it became clear to us why the nurse had reacted in such a way and warned me beforehand. You see, what we would come to learn eventually was that the truck with which Chatterjee uncle had collided had been carrying steel rods, and the poor man was thrown directly at them with full force. He was skewered on these rods and some of them directly struck the neck area. To anyone who had been present at the site of the accident, there would have been no doubt whatsoever that the man was fully dead. This was because he had not just been killed; he had been decapitated.

"Yes, it's him," I said hoarsely, "why didn't you cover the body with a sheet or something? You knew someone was coming to identify him. What if his son had seen him like that?"

"We didn't have extra sheets," the assistant said unabashedly, "You guys can take the body. Try to clear it out soon. When is the hearse coming?"

"Take him? Like that? He is in pieces. How can we take him like that?"

The assistant bent back, took a look inside the room and muttered a soft 'oh'. "I forgot to tell you guys, the doctor could not finish the post-mortem. He completed the examination part and got everything he needed for the report, but we ran out of suture thread, so he had to leave the body like this."

"Ran out of what?"

"Suture…it's a special kind of thread, it's is used for medical stitches. Halfway through the post-mortem, we found out that our stock was empty."

"Couldn't you get it from anywhere else in the hospital?"

"I'm sure there must be some in the medical supply of the surgical ward, but they won't let us touch that. It's a government hospital, after all. Resources are sparse. There's barely enough available for living patients, they're not going to waste any expensive suture on the dead."

"Can't you use normal thread?"

"No. If it was possible then we would only use that, wouldn't we? A corpse can't tell the difference. But regular cotton thread is way too thin, the stitches either break apart or tear through the skin. Other types of cord or string are almost impossible to sew with, won't fit through the needle."

I took out one of the hundred rupee notes my father had given me and offered it to him. His eyes lit up instantly. He seemed to have been waiting for this very moment but just could not ask. But he was not satisfied with what I was giving.

"Such an important task, such a big risk that I must take, why should I do it for such a measly amount?"

"You'll get more, once the job is done. I promise."

The assistant pocketed the note in one swift motion. "I'll do the stitching, but what about the thread?"

"Where can we find it? We'll go buy it right now if necessary."

"It's only available in specialized medical supply stores, which are definitely going to be closed by now. There is, however, another solution…"

The man was being very helpful all of a sudden, now that remuneration was assured. "Do you know where Koley Market is? It's not very far from here. There are many shops there that sell fishing equipment. Go there and get some fishing cord, the kind fishermen use in their lines. That stuff is super strong. We use it sometimes when we run out of suture. Try getting some silk cord, but if that isn't available, nylon cord will suffice."

I did not stop to ponder about the appropriateness of what he was suggesting. It was a solution, and it would have to do.

"We'll go there, but are the shops going to be open?"

"Might as well try, why don't you? It's not as if you have any other options."

He did not respond. The constable, who was sitting beside him, put his arm around the boy gently, showing some unexpected tenderness, and said, "He needs some time. You boys go get what you need. I'll be here with him."

In between the sobs, Shibu appeared to be talking to himself, in an almost inaudible whisper, "I'm not here. This is just a dream, none of this is real."

A TRUCK RIDE AND THE ASSISTANT

For the second time that night, Binoy and I were out in the cold, and there was no chance of getting any public transport now. At this hour only a few trucks and lorries making overnight shipments could be seen on the streets. We did not know how far Koley Market was or even how to get there, so we tried flagging down one of these trucks to give us a lift. At first, we waved one hand and when a few trucks went by completely ignoring us, we started waving both. Finally, one truck driver seemed to take pity on us and slowed down.

The man was headed in our direction and offered to give us a ride. For a moment I thought I had caught a break but I climbed up on the driver's side to see that there were already two men sitting beside him, leaving no space for anyone else in the small cabin. "Where can we sit, is there any space in the back?"

The driver replied that even the back of the truck was full, but there was another way we could go with them. "The market is quite close by," he suggested, "just hang on to the door and I'll take you boys there in no time."

This did not seem to be the safest of ideas, especially considering the fact that we weren't riding bikes because they had been deemed too dangerous. But at this point, I did not really care. I just wanted to get the job done as soon as possible. Binoy seemed to echo my sentiment and got up on the passenger side. Both of us stood on the small climbing ladder that protruded from the side of the cabin and hung on to the door for dear life as the truck started to move.

For a minute I was anxious but the truck was not going very fast, and soon, it started to feel like I was hanging out of a crowded train or bus. The cold air on my face calmed me down a bit and for a moment I was struck by the absurdity of the situation I was in. Just a few hours ago I could never have guessed that I would be spending the entire night running around town, making illicit deals with medical staff and hanging from buses to go search for fishing equipment, and all of it just to take care of the posthumous needs of a man I barely even knew.

It was a short ride. We got off the side of the truck and thanked the driver and his companions. The market, as we had expected, was completely shut. During daytime, this place is thronged with people but then it was completely still, the silence only broken by the sounds of passing vehicles and the barking of distant dogs.  All the shops were closed and there was no one around except a few people sleeping on the footpath. They were wrapped up in blankets and oddly reminded me of the patients at the hospital.

"What do we do now?" Binoy moaned. He was being less helpful than I had hoped.

Seeing no other alternative, I tried waking up one of the guys on the pavement by gently tapping his shoulder. He was a heavy sleeper and I had to shake him quite hard before he would stir from his slumber. Two groggy eyes peeked out from underneath the blanket and said with an annoyed and confused tone, "Who are you eh? Why must you disturb my sleep?"

I explained our predicament to him as briefly as possible and his eyes widened as he learned of the reason why we were there. He pointed to a shop nearby and said that it sold the thread we needed.

"But it is closed now," I said, stating the obvious.

"The owner sleeps inside the shop. Try knocking on the shutter, he should wake up."

We headed to the shop and the man got up and came with us. All three of us hammered noisily on the steel frontage of the store, yelling for the shopkeeper to come out. There was no response from inside until the man called him out by name. "Khokon da! Please open the shop. There is an emergency."

We heard some shuffling sounds coming from within and the shutter was opened halfway. The shopkeeper peered out from below, "Have you gone crazy? Why create a pandemonium at this hour?"

Before I could say anything, the sidewalk dweller started explaining the situation to him for us. Within minutes the shopkeeper had gone back in, rummaged about and found what we needed. He emerged and handed us a spool of fishing wire. After having dealt with the slimy assistant at the hospital, I was amazed that people could voluntarily be so helpful. "It's 20 meters of thread, will it be enough?"

"Yeah, this should do. How much do we owe you?"

"Just take it. It's bad luck to ask for payment from a dead man." I agreed with him.

We thanked the two men and left. Not willing to swing from trucks anymore, we decided to walk the rest of the way.

Shibu had calmed down by the time we returned, so I guess the policeman had been right. He was sitting on the bench with a sullen expression. "Did you find whatever you guys were looking for?" he asked.

I nodded, hoping that he would not inquire any further. We ran to the post-mortem room and found the assistant waiting outside. I handed him the spool of thread and the man flashed his ugly smile again. "I didn't think you boys would actually be able to get it at this time of night. I guess you proved me wrong. Before I begin, however, you had promised me some compensation…"

I gave him my remaining two-hundred rupees and his face turned sour. "This is too less. This is such hard work. Give me at least five-hundred."

I was too tired to argue with him any further, so I decided to yield. I did not have any more cash on me and neither did Binoy. I was wondering if I would have to go out and ask Shibu for the money when I remembered that I still had the plastic bag containing Chatterjee uncle's wallet in my jacket. I took it out to check and found, by what seemed to be a divine coincidence, two hundred rupee notes. These, when I handed them to the man, finally seemed to fill his appetite. This was how Mr. Chatterjee came to pay for his own autopsy.

"I'll go light some incense and finish the stitching. It should take no more than half an hour."

Before leaving I could not help but vent my anger at the man. "Are you even human, how can you treat people so poorly? You are an assistant at such a big hospital, how can you behave in such a callous manner with grieving families?"

The man laughed, unfazed by the criticism, "An assistant? I wish. No dada, I am just a sweeper."

The family left to immerse his ashes in the Ganges, making me promise to come for the rule-breaking ceremony in ten days time. I got home at seven-thirty in the morning, just when I generally leave for school. My mother was up and had been waiting for me to return. "Your father told me what happened. Did you go to the cremation then? Was everything fine?"

I simply replied yes and nothing more. I did not feel like telling her everything that had occurred. Maybe later but I felt too tired now.

"Are you going to go to school then? Don't you have a test today?" she asked.

"No." I said, "I don't feel like going today."

 

The End