An Excerpt from “The Tale of the Missing Man”

The doctor looked at him with interest. Gold teeth littered his mouth.

The doctor had just finished repeating the same barrage of tests he’d done on a number of prior visits—ones not only this doctor had put him through, but also several others. They had a name for this absurdity: the check up. He realized that this was the same doctor he’d seen years ago, when it had all started. More to the point, he hadn’t so much gone to see the doctor as he’d been taken to see the doctor. That was at the very beginning, only a few months after father’s death—ten years ago, a full decade.

He tried to work out whether the doctor had as many gold teeth back then. Had he also gotten fatter? The doctor, it seemed, had quietly joined the ranks of helmsmen of the nation, now another leader steering the way toward progress and prosperity. Here was the embodiment of India’s nouveau riche: a man doing quite well with his high-tier private clinic, cheerily vaccinating patients against death and all other ailments. Even the waiting room now looked like the lobby of a five-star hotel, he thought, but immediately felt ashamed. The sad truth was that he had only ever been inside a five-star once in his life, and years ago at that. What gave him the right to compare anything to a deluxe hotel?

The doctor’s nostrils flared. His thoughts were broadcast on one channel while the other emitted nonstop chit-chat with the doctor.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said to the doctor. “What you should do is order a collection of all the holy books for the clinic. If a Muslim like me comes in, have one of your assistants make him place his hand on the Quran right away and swear to tell doctor sahib the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Just like in one of those courtroom dramas. So no matter who comes in, he can swear on his own holy book. Otherwise how can you believe what people tell you?”

Over the years, an understanding had quietly developed between doctor and patient that, on occasion, allowed for jokes and repartee. Even though as far as he was concerned, all doctors looked and acted the same, finding this one was in many ways a stroke of luck.

“It’s not as if people don’t lie up a storm in court, even if they do swear an oath,” the doctor said, returning his playfulness with a stern moral gaze. “But medicine has a cure for them, too.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, admitting defeat. “There’s no choice, I have to believe you. ‘If you live in the river, don’t tease the crocodile.’ But for god’s sake is there anything you can do for me? A cure? Please?”

The doctor didn’t like being called a “crocodile”— he realized this in a split second. He had only himself to blame. The doctor’s face and wide-open mouth were just like a crocodile’s: any child would have noticed and said the same thing.

He silently cursed himself. How stupid can you be? Are you that far gone? For all he knew, the doctor’s own children teased him by calling him crocodile. See you later, alligator! In a while crocodile!

“Everything looks good,” the doctor said, betraying no emotion. “You’re fine. And if you stick to what I’ve been telling you, you’ll stay fine. Believe me, you’re the picture of health.”

You are the picture of health—the phrase echoed in his head like the sound of a kettle drum, drowning out all other instruments. Suddenly he was taken back ten years to when he’d met the doctor for the first time.

The first time he’d seen, or been taken to see the doctor: ten years ago, Bhai Miyan with his wife Rehana, and a few others had come along. They’d all been worried, anxious to do something. Bhai Miyan and the doctor were old acquaintances. Before patient was introduced to doctor, the two men had a few words in private in the examining room. Then Bhai Miyan came out and told him to go in.

“You can be cautious and formal with me, but don’t make the mistake of hiding anything from the doctor,” Bhai Miyan counseled him as an elder. “Tell him everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

Under the light of a hundred watt bulb, the doctor sat in his chair, surrounded by colorful ads on the walls, speaking to an acquaintance. If there was any hint of the crocodile resemblance, he couldn’t yet see it. Conversation was in English.

“I’ve already turned in my resignation,” the doctor said solemnly. “It won’t be long and my practice will take off. Anyway, I wasn’t working at the hospital for the money, I’ve got enough. The government can’t push me around me with their transfers.”

“That’s well and good,” the other man said. “But what about me?”

Ignoring this, the doctor looked the patient up and down, and told him to have a seat.

“So, tell me what’s the matter,” he instructed. A friendly smile spread over his face, suggesting a resolve to ease the patient’s anguish. As he spoke, his office chair tilted to one side while his tiny eyes darted all around.

He collected his thoughts, and tried to put into words what was the matter. As he glanced at the stranger sitting in the room, however, his voice failed him. The doctor sensed the cause of the unease.

“My friend here is also a doctor,” he offered, but immediately realized the weight of the situation. A quick look sent a signal to his friend, who got up and said he’d come back later.

“Now go ahead and tell me,” the doctor said calmly, reassuringly, swiveling around in his chair.

“Doctor sahib,” he started, but wasn’t sure how to clearly explain what he wanted to articulate. What was it he wanted to say? That while walking down the street, or lying in bed, or sitting in a chair; while silent, or in conversation, something shifts in his mind without warning, like when light shifts to shadow over fields or mountains and slopes; and when it happens, he’s oblivious of himself and those around him. It’s as if his equilibrium is terribly off, and, if he doesn’t come to grips with his senses right away, he’ll fall into a deep hole. He’s consumed by silence and by a feeling of non-being, and in order to regain his balance, or stop the feeling of falling, his body has to strike just the right pose. How to explain this experience, so terrifying and painful? Was his body out of balance, or his mind? Or was it an imbalance between body and soul? He imagined something shifting between his body and his soul, something slipping out of place. It lasts only an instant, a second, a blink of an eye, however this fraction of time should be described, like when the film in the projector rips. After returning to his senses, he’d struggle to take in his surroundings, struggle to recognize them anew. He strained to remember the half-finished sentence, who he’d been speaking to, and where he was. Snapping back, finally, he did what he could to pretend that nothing had gone wrong. Somehow, he managed to regain control; it all happened so fast. By the time it was over, of course he was mentally exhausted. Had it begun in childhood? As a teenager? He wasn’t sure, but remembered that it only used to happen once in a great while. Now it happened more frequently, and each time the episodes grew longer, to the point that it’s become every day, even several times a day, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished right then and there talking to the doctor. He was at a total loss, ready to plead with the doctor: do something.

The doctor listened very closely to what he had to say. He rolled his eyes at him (eyes that were not yet encased in fat) and swayed in his swivel chair.

“So, what do you do?”

The doctor asked this second, crucial question with a probing look, as if a person’s illness and profession were inextricably linked.

It may be the case that the doctor was asking the question with utmost casualness. Nevertheless, under the circumstances, it didn’t sit well. How can you explain to someone in thirty seconds what you do? In his deteriorating condition, however, he was so terror-stricken that he wanted to earn the doctor’s trust no matter what. Even if it meant telling him everything he’d been through. What he wanted to do was to stand up, clasp his hands in humility, and unburden himself utterly. What he wanted to say was, “Doctor sahib! What do I do? This is exactly the problem. I haven’t done a single thing yet, not one accomplishment. Don’t go by how I look, it’s a joke that the almighty played on me twice. There’s no proof whatsoever that anything in my attempts to do something has given rise to illness or disease. Forget about extramarital bliss, in my twenty-eight years, I’ve neither the heard the song of a courtesan at a mehfil, nor have I seen the steps that lead up to her room, not even from a distance! I’ve only laid eyes on a total of one naked woman my whole life. Maybe one-and-a-half, or, at most, one-and-three-quarters, not even two, and one of them is my lawfully wedded wife. The other three quarters were spread out over a long period of time in installments, a little piece here, a little piece there. Look, doctor sahib, it still happens, even though I’ve tried a thousand ways to abstain. As a good citizen, I of course regret my missteps. Anyway, you’re my doctor and I don’t want to be my own worst enemy by hiding anything. I’m not talking about true love, but a few days of going crazy over someone was surely written in my book of fate. But it didn’t last, it was nothing serious. Why would I stand on decorum with you? I won’t hold back even the most trifling of details. You may be a doctor a hundred times over, but I’m sure there are questions you still hesitate to ask. Like whether a particular individual has a taste for members of his own sex. The name of our city comes up a lot in this connection. You might like to know whether I take part in such activities. Even though I haven’t yet, maybe somewhere deep down, the potential still exists—with the right person. The truth is I’ve enjoyed an average kind of happiness, within my capability, and with a woman, meaning my wife. Though I sometimes meet someone, a man, and come under a different kind of spell. Maybe everyone’s subject to these contradictions. I studied engineering but dropped out halfway because I didn’t think anything would come of it. I wasn’t the best student, but the brain worked. As a kid I wanted to play hockey, but instead played cricket, and a lot of badminton and table tennis. I play acted cinema and played cops and robbers. Cards and carom board. Collected stamps, took photos. I liked good movies, and bought records I played on Bhai Miyan’s turntable. I bought film and sports magazines every week. I enjoyed reading novels and poetry, and still read. I tried to write short stories. I still do, on the sly. Up to a certain age, I kept a journal, writing in it with great regularity. I doggedly corresponded with friends and family. Where did I go wrong? Or where am I going wrong, that this so-called disease has become my fate? I should also add that I never abandoned what I started: most of the things I started abandoned me. What’s left is the drinking. And if you tell me to stop, I’ll try to stop.

Looking into the doctor’s eyes, however, he guessed the doctor was interested more in his profession than what he’d been through. He had no time to listen to this tale of woe. He had to get his new clinic off the ground, and other patients were waiting.

“Business. What do I do? I’m in business,” he said trying to summon a firm voice.

After their conversation, he was instructed to lie down on the table. The doctor’s fingers commenced probing, touching, kneading, looking at, beating on, and listening to his body in every conceivable way. The doctor’s bloodshot eyes squinted all the while, and continuously darted around like the red lights atop a speeding ambulance, spinning and flashing. It may have been a signal: I’m in a hurry, get out of the way. Then the doctor took out all sorts of instruments: rubber tubes, BP cuff, flashlight, reflex hammer. The patient lay down. He sat up. He took a series of deep breaths and let them out slowly. At the end, putting his clothes back on and sitting down next to the doctor, he saw that the eagerness in his red eyes had drained away. Despair was written on his face in letters so striking that it was clear without reading what they meant: he was as certain as he was sorry that the work he’d put into the exam had been a waste.

“Doctor sahib,” he cleared his throat and tried to muster some courage. “You don’t think it might be a case of manic depression….?”

“Why don’t you leave the diagnosis to me,” the doctor interrupted, and continued brusquely. “Name?”

He didn’t understand.

“Name? I am asking you your name. Oh, here it is. Z.A. Khan,” the doctor read from a sheet of paper, a sarcastic edge returning to his voice. “May I ask you your full name?” The tone of his voice still suggested interest.

“Yes, of course you may. It’s Zamir Ahmad Khan,” he said obediently. “Any particular reason?”

“No, just asking,” the doctor said in an affected tone. “I’m making a list of tests you should have done, and the medicine you should take in the meantime. Three pills, one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one right before bed. Don’t worry, you’re the picture of health, completely normal. And the medicine will make you feel even more normal. By the way, there’s something very funny about your initials! The world goes from A to Z, but you go from Z to A. Fascinating!” The doctor let out a belly laugh, and then said his goodbyes. “Make an appointment in two weeks, bring your test results, and let me know how things go.”

All the tests were normal. He dutifully took the medicine for two weeks, but his condition showed no improvement. The next time Zamir Ahmad Khan visited the doctor, he was summarily informed that he had developed the habit of thinking the wrong things, he liked to make mountains out of molehills, and he was so caught up in his own obsessions that no drug in the world could cure him. From a medical standpoint, everything about him was normal; no need to take anything. Ashamed at himself, and secretly doubting whether he really was sick, he got up and left, cursing the doctor under his breath.

But a few days later he was back again, list of complaints in hand. The doctor’s initial diagnosis was one thing, Zamir Ahmad Khan’s condition quite another.

Everything the doctor had said over the past ten years had turned out to be true. In no time at all, his practice had more than taken off, and government transfer policies hadn’t intimidated him. Today he was a respected doctor, renowned throughout the city. And, thanks to the money that came in, he was able to abandon the old shop and build an impressive new clinic, then opening a second office in the new part of town, then constructing a lovely mansion for himself. He owned his own car, he ran his own ambulance, and over the years it had all drifted to him as shards of metal are drawn to a magnet.

Right now Doctor Crocodile’s gold teeth flashed with each of his yawns.

“So?” he turned to Zamir Ahmad Khan with a smile. “Have you submitted your claim form for the Union Carbide leak? Have you done the check up?”

“What’s the point?” he replied, smiling back. “As far as that goes, by your blessings, everything will come out as normal as normal can be.”

“Ah, but you still should do the check up,” Crocodile replied gravely. “What’s the harm? Wait, now I remember. You’re in the carpet business, right? Synthetic? Wall-to-wall? I need some new carpets at home.”

“Just say the word,” he said casually, trying to sidestep the topic. “Whenever you like. We would be honored with your presence in our store. Come and pick out your color and whatever else you need. We’ll have it installed. Just be sure give me a call before you come.”

“What else? Anything new?” Crocodile asked leisurely, as if he wanted to enjoy some downtime and listen to a little gossip before seeing the next patient. “What’s the latest?”

“Well, doctor, here’s the latest,” Zamir Ahmad Khan said in a quiet, steady voice. “My wife left me.”

“No!” The doctor had to shift more than a few gears all at once in order to show due fluster and concern. “That’s simply awful! But when? How?” Facing Zamir Ahmad Khan, Crocodile’s mouth was again, within seconds, dripping with saliva. Now he was having fun.

“The start of her leaving actually happened a long time ago, just after we got married,” he said pretending to be unfazed. “She’d leave a little part of herself behind each time she came back from visiting her family. I’m not suggesting she stole any of the dowry or furniture or pots and pans, that’s all still lying around the house. I’m talking about her soul. Bit by bit, she transferred it from our place to her parents’. This last time, in addition to the final installment, she left her entire body. When both body and soul refused to come back, my two daughters, who are closer to their mother, decided to stay. This, too, was a while ago.”

Crocodile listened to Zamir Ahmad Khan, transfixed, then burst out laughing. His mouth opened so wide and for so long during his hysterics that it would have been easy to count which teeth were made of gold and which were made for chewing. Still enjoying himself, he picked up a pen and began to write something down.

“You’re too much! Being able to laugh at yourself is an art. And you do know how to tell a good joke. I ran into your Missus just yesterday at the convent school. I was there for the parent teacher conference for my daughter, and she was there too, happy as a lark.”

“Do you now regard yourself as someone who can see into a man’s heart, as well as being a doctor? When, my dear sir, did I indicate that my wife is, as we say in Hindi, deceased, or, as we say in Urdu, that her soul rests in peace? What if staying alive were just another name for finding a little happiness. You can be sure that leaving me was a step in her finding it.”

The doctor could hardly take it.

“You’re killing me,” he said again and again. He dried the tears from his eyes, wiped a handkerchief over his face, and took a sip of water. “But don’t think I’ll change my diagnosis just because of this. I’ll say it again, there’s nothing wrong with you. If anything’s the matter, it’s because you keep on seeing other doctors, against my advice, and taking their medicine.”

Do you mean to suggest, Zamir Ahmad Khan wanted to ask Doctor Crocodile, that my wife hasn’t left me? But the goodbye look in the Doctor’s eyes kept his mouth shut. He wanted to ask so much more, but suddenly felt very strange. Flustered, he stood up.

“Please excuse me, doctor sahib!” he said, now scared. Still standing, his limbs began flailing in all sorts of wild positions. Turning to one side, he bent at the waist, and, like a gymnast, tried twisting trunk and limbs into contortions of all sorts. He was drenched in sweat within seconds. He bent his head forward, holding still, and took a deep breath, silent, eyes still shut, one moment more, snapping them open, head up, and there they were—the round, round eyes of Crocodile!

“Bravo, sir! Bravo!” Crocodile was ecstatic. “Now you’ve even taken up acting! Well done indeed, very well done!”

Ten years ago, his family members had decided he was an ill man. But not Crocodile. He’d stuck to his guns.

“Go to hell!” The words involuntarily came out of Zamir Ahmad Khan’s mouth. He quickly got up and left. On his way out, he didn’t forget to pick up the visit report the Doctor had slid across the table. Underneath the clinic’s letterhead the Doctor had written in English, “Mr. Z. A. Khan, age: 39. No treatment required.”

Below was Doctor Crocodile’s signature.

(Translated from the Hindi by Jason Grunebaum and Ulrike Stark.)