Kaise yeh Rishtey - 1

Khushi smiled.

She was in a beautiful green meadow, the grass lush and soft around her. The sweet smell filled her senses as she trod on the soft green carpet. The sky was blue, without a cloud, and there was a soft breeze playing gently with her, teasing her, lifting tendrils of her long silky hair and tossing them about. It was perfect.

She smiled delightedly again, and walked barefoot, loving the feel of the damp grass under her feet, and between her bare toes. She twirled around, and laughed aloud in sheer joy - the joy of being alone and at peace with herself and the world. Then she walked on, and came upon a herd of grazing cows. Soft, gentle-eyed, contented, they gazed at her incuriously, the bells around their neck clanging melodiously. But the clanging grew to a jangling, and she tried to stop the noise, by reaching out to them. As she reached, they moved away from her, and the voice of the bells grew shriller and harsher….until they changed to the shrill tones of her alarm clock.

Khushi muttered something in her sleep, then with one eye half-open reached out to hit the snooze button almost automatically. She peered at the clock, registered the time hazily, then jumped up with a startled gasp and almost leaped out of bed.

"Is that the time?! How did it get this late? Oh, God!"

She flung on some clothes, and almost ran out of her room, into the kitchen. There she caught her breath with relief. It was empty.

Quickly, she got to work, her movements almost automatic with the ease of long practice. Cutting, chopping, cooking, stirring, rolling, then packing two lunch boxes neatly and efficiently. Then, with a worried look at the time, she set places for two at the small table.

She was just in time. Barely had she got the glasses of milk ready, and the parathas simmering on the gas, than her father and brother strolled into the tiny kitchen, completely uncaring of the fact that they were both late.

As usual, she thought inwardly, but knew better than to say anything. Sometimes she wondered how they both kept their jobs, late as they always were to leave, and early to return. At least, her father was early to return. Her brother never came back before late night, but not for a moment did she imagine that he was working that late. He invariably came back with the smell of bad whiskey emanating from him like a cloud, and more often than not, in a foul mood, with language to match. Perforce, she stayed awake for his return, dutifully serving him a hot dinner if he wanted it. Sometimes, thankfully, he would have eaten with friends before coming home, and she was free to quickly lock the door behind him, and retire to bed herself.

Yesterday had been one such night, and she had not spoken with him when he returned. It was evident that he was in a bad mood, and she had scurried off to bed as quickly as she could. Now in the morning, his black mood persisted, as he threw his paratha on the floor.

"It's tasteless," he shouted, and she picked it up quietly, and put it on her own plate. "Can't I have a decent meal in this house? Just one meal – that’s all I eat at home, and that too, isn't fit for a human being! You'd better learn to cook, or else you sit at home and cook all day long. No more fancy jobs for you!"

"It's not a fancy job," Khushi replied, her voice as expressionless and flat as she could manage it. Her eyes, a molten color somewhere between green and hazel, held cool distaste towards the man obviously nursing a bad hangover. "My job is what gives you the food you eat, and you'd better remember that. If I stop work, will you give me money to run the house? You've never given it till date. You waste it all in gambling and your drink."

"Don't talk to your brother like that," said her father, sharply. "If you want money, ask for it. You're supposed to run the house, not work outside. You're allowed to work because you wanted to, and I gave you permission. I can withdraw permission if I feel you're getting above yourself, young woman."

Khushi subsided. There was no point in arguing, and she didn't want to stop work. Her work was her lifeline, giving her a chance to get out of this house for a greater part of the day. This miserable stifling house, where she felt imprisoned and chained, a house where she never quite felt that she belonged. If she had to sit inside the whole day, she would die.

The two men clattered out, and she quickly cleared up the kitchen, and then got ready herself. Within half an hour, she was off, changing two buses to get to the bustling city hospital where she worked as a social psychologist.

Khushi loved her work. She loved the bustle of the hospital, the ever-changing pattern of daily life. She loved the people she met, from the harried doctors and smiling nurses, to the ward boys and fat, waddling amahs who cleared up after deliveries in the busy labour rooms. And, of course, she loved the patients. The frightened ones, the nervous ones, waiting for surgery, the soft-spoken women, who came for their deliveries, sweating in pain, the children, who bore their illnesses stoically, with the optimism of childhood, always believing they 'would be better soon'. When she moved among them, talking to them, comforting them, counseling them, giving them books and magazines, she forgot her own dreary life, and became a part of theirs. She rejoiced when their babies were born, she celebrated when they recovered and were sent home, she grieved when they died, or lost some body part, which would never recover. Best, of all, the part she loved best of her work, she delighted in new parents when they adopted a new baby, gave an orphan or a destitute baby a home and a whole new life.

Today, however, was not going to start on a happy note. Mrs. Gill, her supervisor, normally the kindliest and cheeriest of women, was waiting for her with a decidedly grim look on her face.

"You need to go to the 6th floor stat," she told Khushi, flatly, and gave her details in her usual brusque, to the point manner. Khushi always wondered whether Mrs. Gill had mastered the art of hiding her emotions, or whether she never felt any, had become immune to them after the overwhelming volume that overflowed around her everyday, for the last so many years. She suspected the former. Mrs. Gill was a warmhearted, generous woman, who had given Khushi affection as well as direction, from the day she had joined the hospital. 

Now she looked at her notes, then back at Khushi, and spoke evenly, in the short staccato sentences that were characteristic while briefing Khushi or her other juniors. "A lady has just come in, she's 7 months pregnant, been in a bad accident. Probably will lose the baby. They need to take her for surgery. She's refusing. Go talk to her, Khushi, there's a good girl. You may need to do some counselling to the husband as well. He's in a state of shock. Driver of the car died. She was coming here for her regular check up. Go, Khushi!" The last was spoken in a more urgent tone, as Khushi stared at her speechlessly, her face showing her horror as she tried to take in the magnitude of the tragedy. 

Khushi went, her heart already sorrowing for the poor woman.

It was worse than she had imagined.

The girl ... for she was hardly more than Khushi's own age, was fair and petite, and very, very pretty. That, Khushi saw at a glance, as she had no injuries above her waist. Below … Khushi drew in a deep breath. Even though she was used to ghastly sights, this one made her feel sick and faint.

The girl's stomach protruded far more than a seven month pregnancy, and Khushi recognized, with a sinking feeling, that she had haemorrhaged inside the abdomen. A large haemorrhage, by the look of the huge bulge. The cloth covering her abdomen was blood soaked, as was the one covering her legs. A small foot peeped out from the sheet, and from experience, Khushi recognized the look. Severe crush injury. Amputation? One or both feet, Khushi wondered, as she approached the bed, forcing a small smile to her lips.

"Anjali?"

The girl looked at her wildly, tears running down her cheeks.

"Are you a doctor? Please, please, save my baby. I don't care about my legs! Please save my baby! Please ... I beg of you ..."

"Shshsh," Khushi comforted, as she sat down on a small stool next to the bed. "Anjali, you have to calm down. This is not good for you or for the baby. Please calm down."

She took hold of the other girl's hand, and pressed it gently. The man sitting on the other side of the bed looked up at her, and she noticed him for the first time. He had been sitting there, holding the injured girl's hand, his head down. He looked at her directly and she met his gaze with a sense of shock.