Private Delhi (Private 13)

“Please. Please. Please, don’t do this,” he said in a whine that was disgraceful to his own ears.

“Do what, Mr. Patel?” came the voice.

The familiar voice. Yes. That was right. He knew the man. He knew his attacker and if he knew his attacker then surely he could reason with—

“What are you doing?” he said, seeing something in his peripheral vision. The man was moving closer to the bed, a shadow that refused to fully form in his drug-fogged mind. All Patel knew was that once again a syringe was coming toward him.

“Just some pain relief, Mr. Patel. I want you to remain conscious, so you can see everything I am about to do to you. So you can appreciate its enormity.”

The needle sunk deep. The plunger depressed. Next it was as though a wave of bliss and well-being rolled through Patel, so that even though his eyes were wide and straining in their sockets, there was something almost comforting about the roll of surgical instruments that was unfurled on the bed beside him.

The figure retired and then moments later reappeared, only this time the man wore hospital scrubs and a mask. He had moved a mirror from the bathroom and angled it so that Patel could see his own abdomen.

“The doctor is in,” said the intruder.

He lifted a scalpel from the roll of instruments and held it up for Patel to see. Even with the etorphine working its magic Patel felt the first tremors of terror, knowing this was no dream; that there was no escape.

He was going to die.

“Anything,” he slurred, “I’ll do anything.”

“Anything? You have done nothing—nothing but take, take, take. And now it is your turn to give.”

He made his incision. Patel did not feel it, but he heard it, and he saw the blade p

ierce his flesh between the ribs, the scalpel held between index finger and thumb, angled and then drawn down, opening a red ribbon to just above his belly button. Patel saw his own flesh part, the glistening meat visible beneath, bits of himself he would have hoped never to see.

Damage! screamed his mind, like some kind of automated response. Damage, damage! But in the next second he was thinking, But if my attacker stopped there I might be all right. I might heal.

I could still live.

The intruder placed the scalpel back onto the bed and then brought something else into view. A clamp. Then another. The man inserted them onto each side of the incision and still Patel felt no pain—one part of his brain screaming while yet another competing part insisted that he might be okay, he might be okay.

And then the man was opening the incision in his chest, opening it wide, so wide, and Patel was seeing his own exposed insides and he was no longer thinking that everything was going to be all right, he knew now that his death was imminent and was thankful that at least it would be painless. The attacker reached inside with two hands and his forehead furrowed in concentration as he rummaged within Patel’s chest cavity.

Patel felt pulling. A sucking sensation below.

And then his eyes bulged as he saw what his attacker held up before him.

It was his own heart.

Chapter 50

THE BLACK VAN stood at the corner of Jama Masjid Road and Chawri Bazar Road in the congested Chandni Chowk area of Delhi.

Windows had been replaced by mild steel panels that had been spray-painted to match the black exterior.

A frightened old man entered. The interior was nice and warm but the smell of disinfectant was overpowering. The inside of the vehicle was fitted out in a style similar to an ambulance.

Iqbal Ibrahim motioned the visitor to be seated. Ibrahim was a burly fellow dressed in blue jeans and a green T-shirt that bore the first line of the Quran in white calligraphy. On his head was an embroidered white skullcap. His hooked nose was big—almost like the beak of a bird.

Ibrahim had been brought up in the slums of Delhi, one among nine children of a rag picker. When he was just six, their shanty had collapsed while he was inside. His parents and the neighbors had pulled him out of the rubble to find him unhurt. It had been a miracle. Four years later a car had missed him by inches while he was playing cricket on a public road. At age twelve, he had been swimming in the Yamuna with his friends when the authorities had released water from the upstream dam without warning. Two of his friends had perished but Iqbal had survived. Ever since that day Ibrahim had believed in his own superhuman nature. He could never fail.

The superhuman had struggled through school and had managed to get into med school via a special quota but had flunked. In spite of failing, he had turned out to be much more successful than the average doctor. On his desk were two cell phones, identical except for their covers. One was red while the other was green. He had nicknames for both: the red one was called “Supply” and the green one was called “Demand.” The choice of colors was significant. Supply implied bloody surgeries, hence the choice of red. Demand implied money, often dollars, hence the choice of green.

“Have you brought the money?” asked Ibrahim as the old man sat down. The old man nodded wearily as he passed a brown-paper-covered parcel across the desk.

Ibrahim opened the parcel and took out the individual bundles of cash. He placed each one into a currency-counting machine on his desk and totted up the result. Six lakh rupees. Around nine thousand dollars.