Night Theater. Vikram Paralkar
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“In a sense, we’re lucky it’s the spleen,” he said, hoping to clear the gloom. “If the knife had cut the liver or the intestines, or, god forbid, a big artery, we’d have had no chance at all.”
The teacher raised his head. Not a muscle moved on his face as he listened.
“It won’t help if I just stitch the spleen shut. It will bleed again. But I can remove the whole thing—he can live without it. I can’t promise you we won’t discover new problems in the morning, but this might be all that’s needed.”
The man clasped his hands together so hard that his knuckles looked like rows of rounded bones. “You’re our savior, Doctor Saheb, you’re a saint. There’s nothing I could possibly do in a thousand years to repay your mercy. Please save my son, Saheb. Please do whatever you think is best.”
He rained kisses on his son’s cheeks and forehead. “Saheb is going to fix you. He’s going to make you better.” The boy, infected with his father’s enthusiasm, started to prop himself up on an elbow. “Shhh,” the teacher said, caressing the boy’s brow, trying to calm his son though clearly unable to contain himself. “Don’t move, don’t move. Lie down.”
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