TWINS

Creative Non-Fiction

TWINS

Subhash Chandra

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A ripple of joy cascaded through the waiting group at Happy Mother Hospital, sparking a flurry of activity. One scampered towards the canteen; the other opened the dicky of his scooter to look for something that could clang; the third rushed out of the hospital towards the road to hail a three-wheeler scooter or a taxi -- in those days, yellow-and-black taxis plied in Delhi.

They wanted to get hold of a second thali or something that could produce a clanking sound. A bonanza had arrived – twin boys – for the Sehgals. Two metallic sounds were needed to announce the thrilling news to the world. Back then, in the fifties, sonographic tests had not yet advented in India.    

The minute the one who had left by a taxi came back with the second thali and a spoon, the Nurse materialized again -- this time with a glum face.

“I’m sorry … one of them could not be saved.”

A pall of hush descended on the group. Everyone turned into a mannequin.   

“His lungs were smaller and congested,” the Nurse said. “He was gasping for breath, was put on oxygen in the ICU, but did not survive.”

After a brief pause, she added, “The other fetus siphoned off much of the nourishment.”

When the Nurse had left, confabulations began in low, doleful tones. The grandmother mandated, “The father should not touch the dead, as it would endanger the surviving baby whom he would be handling.”   

A crucial question surfaced: who would carry the dead baby to the crematorium for the burial? (Infants are not cremated).  Everyone looked at each other lugubriously. But none came forward. Ironically, they were all close relatives of the Chopra family.

A wave of anger swept over me. And I felt an overwhelming pity for the dead Neonate.

“Let someone drive my two-wheeler scooter, and I will hold him on the pillion,” I offered.

A collective audible sigh of relief was exhaled.

A place was assigned by the Acharaj of the crematorium for the dead baby. I dug the small pit, lowered him into it and covered him with the soil.

“Come back soon, dear,” I mumbled as I stood up.

That very day, in the neighbourhood, a childless woman, married for twenty years, conceived. Nine months to the day, she delivered a healthy baby boy. She ardently believed he was the twin who had departed just after being born, and she would visit the Chopras often.

“See, he is your elder brother. Happy to meet him? Eh? She cooed in baby language. The baby smiled.

But the Chopras did not like her visits, and one day slammed the door on her. Years flew by, and when the child was eight years old, he would knock on their door, and the two boys were radiantly happy as they played together.

Their attachment continued unabated into adulthood, and they displayed remarkable similarities in traits. Both were taciturn and intelligent. Both did well in their studies, though they studied at different schools. The Chopras were not overly happy, but could not do much.

And then lightning tore apart the Chopras. Their grief was shattering and beyond words. At the age of fourteen, their son fell seriously ill and got a fever which would not go down. The doctor treated him for typhoid despite a negative report, as he could not diagnose the reason for the fever.

The outcome was fatal.