I was idling away a lazy winter afternoon at office, most probably nine years ago, when I got a frantic call from a friend. Her youngest sister’s husband had been diagnosed with dengue. There was reason to be worried.
They needed blood, latest by nightfall. There was only this one sureshot place in Delhi where you could get the blood you wanted, even if it wasn’t available elsewhere in town. We had to act, fast.
I rushed out of my Kasturba Gandhi Road office and picked up my friend. We made for this locality in North Delhi, a part of the city neither of us had any clue about. On the way we had to stop at an ATM to withdraw the obviously-needed cash. Those days there were fewer ATMs per square kilometre than are now.
But we got our money and managed to find our way to this shabby medical facility up North. I can’t for heaven’s sake remember now whether this was a blood bank in itself or a hospital that also had a blood bank. Nevertheless, we got the blood, and headed for the Dwarka hospital where this brother-in-law was admitted.
We made it in time and with the blood that we had brought, he crawled slowly out of danger. His platelet count gradually rose, and the teary-eyed family thanked god. They thanked my friend too.
Days passed by, and the man and his wife, both doctors, had two delightful children, and carried on with life. The dengue incident soon became medical history of the man. People of course need to move on, and the past must always be the past. Selective amnesia, particularly, though, can be blissful.
I had no reason to remember the incident either. But I did, many winters later. I happened to be this day, as I was convincingly led to believe, an unwelcome visitor at their house. The house, for all practical purposes, belonged to my friend. But this particular man, and often his wife too, had this pathological knack for making themselves at home. I was the ogre of an outsider.
This, however, was not a lazy winter afternoon. It was frightfully cold, it was 6 in the morning, and it was drizzling. Not a very reassuring situation if you need to venture out, especially in a place like Delhi.
All he needed to do was drop me at the nearest auto/taxi stand. But he rebuffed my request, and grumbling away, returned to bed. It was not a long walk, but it was sufficient to get me drenched. The 40 km drive to my home in Vasundhara Enclave in the virtually open-air auto did not exactly dry my clothes – it left me ill after the hour. I remained out of action for more than a week.
And I remembered. This was the same man for whom I had driven all around the city. For the blood that eventually saved his life.
I again had no reason to keep remembering the dengue incident – till the other day, when a friend’s friend needed six units of blood for a surgery. There was some confusion over donors and blood banks, but that’s only academic to this piece. I messaged all who I could think of, including the doctor couple. They would have known where and how to get the blood. But they didn’t come to my help. Leave alone help, they did not even acknowledge my messages. Yes, the same husband-wife pair, whose future was saved because the much-needed blood had once made it in time for them.
I don’t regret running around for them nine winters back. How can I? And I can’t wish ill for them today, for I can’t. I only wish I were not in a situation where I am forced to write this. Believe me, it’s painful.
PS: The family that needed the six units, finally managed to get the blood :)
