Chapter 14: Chitra Ka Dil (Chitra's Heart)

Day 93. October. The October that should have been the retreat of monsoon — the retreat being the seasonal withdrawal that left the landscape saturated, the saturated-landscape being the canvas on which Dussehra and Diwali were celebrated. October in the Western Ghats was normally: the last rains, the first cool evenings, the particular transition that was the Sahyadris' autumn.

This October was: hot. Dry. The hot-dry that was the anomaly's October — the anomaly having consumed the monsoon entirely, the entirely meaning: zero meaningful rainfall since July. Ninety-three days. The number that was no longer a number but a condition — the condition of drought, the condition being: permanent, or at least permanent-feeling, the permanent-feeling being the human response to prolonged absence: after enough days without rain, the without-rain becomes the norm and the norm becomes: this is how it is.

Chitra collapsed on a Tuesday morning.

The collapsing being: not dramatic, not the cinematic collapse of a child falling from height or mid-run. Chitra was walking from her bedroom to the kitchen. Walking. The walking being the most ordinary activity — the activity that a seven-year-old performed hundreds of times daily without incident and the without-incident being the normalcy that parents depended on and that the depending was the trust that the trust was violated when Chitra's legs folded and she dropped to the floor in the hallway.

Charu was in the kitchen. The sound — the sound of the collapse being: a thud, the thud that was different from other sounds because the thud was a body-sound, the body-sound that mothers recognised immediately because the recognition was primal, the primal-recognition being: my child has fallen.

"CHITRA!" The scream that was the second time Charu had screamed Chitra's name — the first being the garden fall in July, the July-fall being the minor event compared to this, the this being: Chitra on the floor, eyes closed, not responding.

Bhushan was in the garden — the garden that he tended despite the drought, the tending being the ecologist's stubbornness: water the plants with the rationed water, keep something alive. He heard Charu's scream. The scream travelling through the farmhouse's open windows — the open-windows being the ventilation that the heat demanded.

He ran. The running being: the same three-stairs-at-a-time speed as July, the speed that paternal terror produced.

Chitra was on the floor. Charu kneeling beside her — Charu in nurse-mode, the nurse-mode being the clinical persona that activated when the patient was critical. Fingers on Chitra's wrist. Counting pulse.

"Pulse weak hai. Irregular. Bhushan — ambulance bula." The instruction delivered in the flat tone that nurses used when the flat-tone was the containment of panic. Pulse is weak. Irregular. Call the ambulance.

"108." Bhushan dialled. The dialling being: the three digits that Indian emergencies required, the 108 being the ambulance service number that every Indian parent memorised because the memorising was the preparation for the moment that the preparation was designed for: this moment.

Tanmay stood in the hallway. Five years old. Watching his sister on the floor. The watching being: the child's processing of the incomprehensible — the incomprehensible being: his sister was on the floor and his parents were scared and the scared-parents being the thing that children should never see.

"Baba, Didi ko kya hua?" The small voice. The voice that cut through everything.

Baba, what happened to Didi?

"Didi theek hogi. Tanmay, apne room mein ja." The instruction that was the diversion — the diversion being: remove the child from the scene because the scene was the thing that could damage.

Ambulance: sixteen minutes. The sixteen being: Mulshi to farmhouse, the rural response time that was the particular penalty of living where biodiversity lived — biodiversity-rich areas were ambulance-distant areas, the distant-areas being the trade-off that Bhushan had accepted when he chose the farmhouse and the choosing being the decision that was now: the decision that might cost.

Chitra regained consciousness at minute four. The regaining being: eyes opening, the opening producing confusion, the confusion being: the floor, the hallway, her mother's face above her, the mother's face carrying the particular expression that children recognised as: something is wrong.

"Aai? Main kya —" Aai? What did I —

"Shh. Hil mat. Ambulance aa rahi hai." Shh. Don't move. Ambulance is coming.

"Mujhe kya hua?" What happened to me?

"Tu gir gayi. Bas. Theek hai." The minimisation that was the mother's language — the language of: reduce the fear, make it small, the making-small being the protection. You fell. That's all. You're fine.

Chitra was not fine. The not-fine being: the cardiologist's assessment at Sassoon Hospital four hours later. Dr. Varma — the cardiologist who had diagnosed Chitra at four, the diagnosing-doctor being the doctor who knew the heart and the heart's history.

"Bhushan bhai, Charu — Chitra ki cardiac function deteriorate ho gayi hai. Ventricular septal defect unchanged hai — that's the baseline. But cardiac output reduced hai. Ejection fraction — pehle 55% tha, ab 41% hai. 41% borderline hai."

Chitra's cardiac function has deteriorated. The ventricular septal defect is unchanged — that's the baseline. But cardiac output is reduced. Ejection fraction — was 55%, now 41%. 41% is borderline.

41%. The number that was: the heart's efficiency rating, the rating measuring how much blood the heart pumped with each beat. 55% was adequate for a child with Chitra's condition. 41% was: borderline, the borderline being the line between "managing" and "failing" and the failing being: the territory that the cardiologist did not want Chitra to enter.

"Kya cause hua?" Bhushan asked. The question that the father asked that the ecologist already suspected the answer to.

What caused it?

"Multiple factors possible. Stress — children absorb environmental stress even when parents try to shield them. Nutritional quality — has her diet changed? Water quality? And — Bhushan bhai, aapka research — EMF readings elevated hain na Western Ghats mein? Cardiac tissue is particularly sensitive to electromagnetic fields. EMF se cardiac rhythm disruption documented hai."

The connection. The connection that Bhushan had feared — the connection between the anomaly and his daughter. The anomaly's electromagnetic fields affecting cardiac tissue. Chitra's already compromised cardiac tissue being more vulnerable to the affecting. The vulnerability being: the hole in the heart that was the ventricular septal defect amplifying the effect that the EMF produced.

"Dr. Varma, agar EMF cause hai — toh kya kare?" Charu — the nurse asking the clinical question, the clinical-question being: treatment protocol.

If EMF is the cause — what do we do?

"Environment change karo. Mulshi se door jao. Mumbai ya — koi aisi jagah jahan EMF levels lower hon. Cardiac tissue ko lower EMF environment chahiye recovery ke liye."

Change the environment. Move away from Mulshi. Mumbai or — somewhere where EMF levels are lower. Cardiac tissue needs a lower EMF environment to recover.

Move away. The two words that contained: leave the farmhouse, leave Mulshi, leave the Western Ghats. The leaving being: the ecologist leaving the ecosystem he studied, the father choosing the daughter over the research, the choosing being: not a choice because when the choice was daughter-or-research, the daughter was the only answer and the only-answer being: Chitra.

They drove home in silence. The silence being: processing. Charu driving — Charu driving because Bhushan's hands were not steady enough to drive and the not-steady being: the father's response to "cardiac function deteriorated."

At the farmhouse, Bhushan sat on the verandah. The verandah where he used to drink chai and watch the Sahyadris and where the watching was the contentment. Now the verandah was the place where the contentment had been replaced by: the decision.

He called Tarun. The calling being: not for the story. For the friend. The friend that Tarun had become — the journalist who had entered Bhushan's life as a professional contact and who had become: the person Bhushan called when the professional was insufficient and the personal was required.

"Tarun, Chitra hospital mein thi. Cardiac function deteriorate ho gayi. Doctor ne kaha — Mulshi chodho. EMF se cardiac tissue affect ho rahi hai." Chitra was in the hospital. Cardiac function deteriorated. Doctor said leave Mulshi. EMF is affecting cardiac tissue.

Silence on the line. The silence being: Tarun processing.

"Sir — aap theek ho?" The question that was the friend's question, not the reporter's.

"Nahi. Theek nahi hoon." The admission — the admission that Bhushan made to Tarun that Bhushan had not made to Charu: I am not okay. The not-okay being the father's admission that the not-okay was: real, deep, the particular despair of a man whose investigation had become his daughter's illness.

No. I'm not okay.

"Main aa raha hoon. Kal subah. Kuch chahiye?" I'm coming. Tomorrow morning. Need anything?

"Nahi. Bas — aa ja." No. Just come.

Tarun came. The coming being: the 7 AM Neeta Travels bus, the same bus, the same route through the brown Ghats. He arrived at the farmhouse by noon — the arriving being the presence that Bhushan needed, the presence being: the friend's body in the house, the body being the solidarity that words could not provide.

They sat on the verandah. Chai — the rationed chai, one cup each.

"Kab jaoge?" Tarun asked. When will you go?

"Weekend tak. Charu ke parents ka flat hai Kothrud mein. Wahan shift hojayenge temporarily. Pune city mein EMF levels lower hain — urban areas mein lower hain Ghats comparison mein." By weekend. Charu's parents have a flat in Kothrud. We'll shift there temporarily. EMF levels are lower in Pune city than the Ghats.

"Research? Fieldwork?" The questions that the reporter asked on behalf of the investigation.

"Continue karunga. University se. Fieldwork ke liye Mulshi aata rahunga — but raat ko Kothrud mein rahunga. Chitra Kothrud mein rahegi. Charu Kothrud se KEM jayegi. Logistics difficult hoga — but manageable."

I'll continue. From the university. I'll keep coming to Mulshi for fieldwork — but I'll stay in Kothrud at night. Chitra will be in Kothrud. Charu will commute to KEM from Kothrud. Logistics will be difficult — but manageable.

"Sir, yeh story mein likhu?" The reporter's dilemma — the dilemma of a friend who was also a journalist and whose friend-and-journalist roles conflicted: the friend said don't publish personal information, the journalist said the personal was the story.

Should I write this in the story?

"Likh. Agar Chitra ki story logon ko samjhaye ki EMF se kya ho sakta hai — toh likh. But — respectfully. Woh meri beti hai. Woh story nahi hai."

Write it. If Chitra's story helps people understand what EMF can do — write it. But respectfully. She's my daughter. She's not a story.

"She's my daughter. She's not a story." The sentence that Tarun wrote in his notebook — not for the article but for himself. The sentence being: the journalist's particular reminder that the subjects of stories were people and the people being: real, vulnerable, the real-vulnerable being the thing that journalism could forget when the journalism prioritised the story over the subject.

Chitra appeared on the verandah. Carrying her drawing pad. The drawing pad that she always carried — the drawing-pad being the seven-year-old's constant companion.

"Tarun uncle?" She recognised him. The recognising being: Tarun had visited the farmhouse enough times that the child knew him and the knowing was: the investigation's particular domesticity, the domesticity of a journalist who had become a family friend.

"Haan, beta. Kya bana rahi ho?" Yes, sweetheart. What are you drawing?

Chitra held up the pad. The drawing being: the Sahyadris. Green Sahyadris. The green that existed in the child's memory but not in reality — the reality being brown, the brown being the anomaly, the anomaly being: the thing that the child was correcting through drawing. Drawing the world as it should be. Drawing the Sahyadris green because the green was the truth and the brown was the anomaly and the anomaly was: wrong.

"Pehle jaise the," Chitra said. Like they were before.

Like before. The two words that contained everything — the everything being: the world before the anomaly, the world where fireflies flashed and monsoons arrived and the Sahyadris were green and Chitra's heart was at 55% and the 55% was: enough.

Bhushan looked at his daughter's drawing. Looked at the brown Sahyadris beyond the verandah. The contrast being: the drawing versus reality, the child's hope versus the ecologist's data, the hope being: the thing that the data could not destroy because the hope was the child's and the child's hope was: indestructible.

Even when the world was wrong. Even when the heart was at 41%. Even when the fireflies were gone.

The child drew green.