Indian Nocturne Read Free Page A

must have been painted white. He rummaged inside and took out some drugs which he hastily slipped into the pockets of his gown. I had the impression he was picking them up at random
almost, without choosing them. ‘If he’s still here, the only way to find him is to go and look for him,’ he said. ‘I have to do my round, if you want you can come
along.’ He headed for the door and opened it. ‘I’ll be doing a longer round than usual tonight, but perhaps you won’t find it convenient to come with me.’
    I got up and followed him. ‘It’s convenient,’ I said. ‘Can I bring my case with me?’
    The door opened onto a hallway, a hexagonal space with a corridor leading off on every side. It was cluttered with cloths, bags and grey sheets. Some had purple or brown stains. We turned into
the first corridor on our right; above the entrance was a plaque written in Hindu; some of the letters had fallen off leaving lighter outlines between the red letters.
    ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said, ‘and don’t go near the patients. You Europeans are very delicate.’
    The corridor was very long and was painted a melancholy light blue. The floor was black with cockroaches which burst under our shoes, though we were doing our best not to tread on them.
‘We kill them off,’ said the doctor, ‘but after a month they’re back. The walls are impregnated with larvae, you’d have to knock down the hospital.’
    The corridor ended in another hallway identical to the first, but narrow and light-less, closed off with a curtain.
    ‘What did Mr Janata Pinto do?’ he asked, pushing aside the curtain.
    I thought of saying: ‘Simultaneous interpreter,’ which was what I should have said perhaps. Instead I said: ‘He wrote stories.’
    ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Be careful, there’s a step here. What were they about?’
    ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t know how to explain really. I suppose you could say they were about things that didn’t work out, about mistakes; for example, one was
about a man who spends his life dreaming about making a trip, and when one day he’s finally able to make it, that very day he realises that he doesn’t want to go any more.’
    ‘But he did set out on his trip,’ said the doctor.
    ‘So it seems,’ I said. ‘Yes, he did.’
    The doctor let the curtains fall behind us. ‘There are about a hundred people in here,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you won’t find it a pleasant sight, they are the ones
who have been here for some time. Your friend could be among them, although I think it’s unlikely.’
    I followed him and we went into the largest room I have ever seen. It was as big as a hangar, almost, and along the walls and down three central rows were the beds, or rather mattresses. A few
dim lamps hung from the ceiling, and I stopped a moment, because the smell was very strong. Crouching near the door were two men dressed in the barest rags who moved off as we came in.
    ‘They are untouchables,’ said the doctor. ‘They look after the patients’ bodily needs, no one else will do the job. India’s like that.’
    In the first bed was an old man. He was completely naked and very thin. He looked dead, but kept his eyes wide open and looked at us without any trace of expression. He had an enormous penis
curled up on his abdomen. The doctor went to him and touched his forehead. I thought he slipped a pill into his mouth, but I couldn’t be sure because I was standing at the foot of the
mattress. ‘He’s a
s ā dhu
,’ said the doctor. ‘His genital organs are consecrated to God; once he was worshipped by infertile women, but he has
never procreated in his life.’
    Then he moved on and I followed him. He stopped at every bed, while I hung back a short distance away looking at the patient’s face. With some patients he stayed a while longer, murmuring
a few words, distributing drugs. With others he stopped only a moment to touch their foreheads. The walls were stained red from