Chapter 18: Mansi Ka Hadsa (Mansi's Accident)

The truck hit Mansi's car on the Mumbai-Pune Expressway at kilometre 87. The hitting being: a freight truck — the eighteen-wheeler that carried goods between Mumbai and Pune on the highway that Tarun had travelled dozens of times for the investigation — the truck drifting across lanes at 2:15 AM, the drifting being the driver's fatigue, the fatigue being: the particular condition of Indian highway drivers who drove eighteen-hour shifts because the eighteen-hours were the economic necessity.

Mansi was driving from Pune to Mumbai. The driving being: a medical supply run, the supply-run being the particular task that the anomaly had created — medical supplies scarce in Pune, Mansi's pregnancy centre needing specific prenatal supplements that were available in Mumbai but not Pune, the not-available-in-Pune being the supply chain disruption that the anomaly had produced.

She should not have been driving at 2 AM. The should-not being: the calculation that Mansi had made — drive late, avoid traffic, arrive early, pick up supplies, drive back. The calculation that was logical and that the logical-calculation contained the risk and the risk materialised at kilometre 87.

Tarun received the call at 3:47 AM. The call from Mansi's phone — but not Mansi's voice. A man's voice. "Aapka number Mansi ji ke phone mein emergency contact mein tha. Accident hua hai. Expressway pe. Lonavala ke paas. Hospital — Lonavala Civil Hospital."

Your number was in Mansi's phone as emergency contact. There's been an accident. On the Expressway. Near Lonavala. Lonavala Civil Hospital.

Emergency contact. The two words that contained: Mansi had listed Tarun as her emergency contact. The listing being: the particular intimacy that emergency-contact represented — the person you wanted called when you could not call yourself.

Tarun was in Mumbai. Mumbai to Lonavala: two hours by road. Two hours that felt like: the particular eternity that hospitals at the other end of highways produced — the eternity of driving toward a hospital not knowing if the person would be alive when you arrived.

He drove. The driving being: fast, the fast being reckless on a highway at 4 AM but the reckless being the speed of a man whose emergency contact had been activated and the activation meant: serious.

Lonavala Civil Hospital at 5:50 AM. The hospital being: the particular Indian district hospital — under-resourced, understaffed, the under-resourced-and-understaffed being the rural healthcare reality that even a town like Lonavala, forty-five minutes from Pune, experienced.

Mansi was in the ICU. The ICU being: three beds behind a curtain, the curtain being the privacy, the privacy being: insufficient but all that the hospital had.

She was unconscious. The unconscious being: the medical assessment — head trauma, multiple fractures (left arm, three ribs), internal injuries under evaluation. The evaluation requiring: a CT scan that Lonavala Civil did not have, the not-having being the under-resourcing that meant: transfer to Pune was necessary.

Tarun stood beside the bed. The standing being: the particular stance of a man at a hospital bedside — the stance that contained helplessness, the helplessness being: I cannot fix this, I cannot do anything, I can only stand here.

Mansi's face — bruised on the left side, the bruising being the impact's signature. Her left arm in a temporary splint. Breathing tube — the tube that said: assistance required, the assistance being the machine doing what the body could not.

He called Bhushan. The calling being: not for the investigation but for the friend. The friend-calling that the investigation had produced as its particular byproduct — the byproduct of months of shared work being: genuine friendship.

"Sir, Mansi ka accident hua. Expressway pe. Lonavala mein hai. ICU mein hai." Mansi had an accident. On the Expressway. She's in Lonavala. In the ICU.

"Kya? Kab?" The shock that the voice carried. What? When?

"Raat ko. 2 baje. Truck se collision." Last night. 2 AM. Collision with a truck.

"Main aata hoon." Bhushan — the four words that were the friend's response: I'm coming. The coming being: the same response that Tarun had given when Bhushan told him about Chitra. The same response because the same care.

I'm coming.

Bhushan arrived at noon — having driven from Kothrud, the drive through the Ghats being the particular route that the investigation had worn into both their lives.

They stood together in the ICU waiting area. The waiting area being: plastic chairs, fluorescent lights, the particular pallor of hospital waiting that was: Indian hospital waiting, the Indian-hospital-waiting being the experience that every Indian had experienced and that the experiencing was: universal, communal, the waiting being the thing that connected all hospital visitors regardless of who they were waiting for.

"Transfer karna padega Pune. CT scan chahiye. Yahan facilities nahi hain." Tarun — reporting the medical situation to Bhushan as if Bhushan were the editor and the medical situation were the story, the reporting being the journalist's particular coping mechanism: turn everything into information, the information-turning being the processing.

She needs to be transferred to Pune. She needs a CT scan. This hospital doesn't have the facilities.

"Sassoon mein karwate hain. Charu se baat karunga — woh KEM mein hai but Sassoon mein contacts hain." The professor activating his network — the network that the investigation had built, the network now being used for the personal because the personal and professional had merged and the merging was: inevitable after five months of shared crisis.

Let's do it at Sassoon. I'll talk to Charu — she's at KEM but has contacts at Sassoon.

The transfer happened at 3 PM. Ambulance from Lonavala to Sassoon Hospital, Pune. The ambulance ride that Tarun sat in — sitting beside Mansi's stretcher, his hand on her uninjured right hand, the hand-on-hand being the contact that the contact was: the only thing he could do.

The hand was warm. The warm-hand being: alive. The alive being: the thing that the warm confirmed.

Sassoon Hospital. CT scan. Results at 6 PM. Dr. Kulkarni (no relation to Bhushan — the common surname that was Pune's particular demographic contribution to the medical profession) — the neurosurgeon who read the scan.

"Subdural hematoma. Small — 12mm. Not requiring immediate surgical intervention. We'll monitor. If it expands — surgery. If stable — it'll resolve on its own. But she'll need to stay for observation. Minimum one week. Possibly longer."

Subdural hematoma. Blood between the brain and the skull. The 12mm that was: small enough to not require surgery, large enough to require monitoring, the monitoring being: the hospital watch that meant Mansi was in the space between crisis and recovery and the space was: uncertain.

"Will she wake up?" Tarun asked. The question that was the person's question, not the journalist's.

"Haan. Trauma se consciousness return hoga. Could be hours. Could be days. Brain heals at its own pace."

Yes. Consciousness will return from the trauma. Brain heals at its own pace.

Tarun sat. The sitting being: the hospital-bedside sitting that was the particular marathon of care — the marathon that had no finish line because the finish line was: her eyes opening, and the opening was on the brain's schedule, not the watcher's.

Bhushan brought food. The bringing-food being: the Indian expression of care — when you cannot fix the medical problem, you feed the person who is worried about the medical problem. Vada pav from the stall outside Sassoon — the Sassoon-stall vada pav that every Sassoon visitor knew because the knowing was: the hospital's particular geography included the food stalls outside.

"Kha," Bhushan said. The one word. Eat.

Tarun ate. The eating being mechanical — the vada pav entering the mouth, the chewing happening, the swallowing happening, the happening being automatic because the conscious mind was: with Mansi, not with the food.

The vada pav's taste: green chutney, potato, the particular combination that was normal. Normal food in the abnormal situation that was: the investigation's journalist sitting at the investigation's counsellor's hospital bed because the investigation had brought them together and the togetherness had produced love and the love was now: in the ICU.

"Sir," Tarun said. Bhushan sitting across from him in the hospital corridor. "Woh medical supplies lene ja rahi thi. Pune mein available nahi hain — anomaly ki wajah se. Supply chain disrupted hai. Agar anomaly nahi hota toh — toh woh raat ko Expressway pe nahi hoti."

She was going to get medical supplies. Not available in Pune — because of the anomaly. Supply chain is disrupted. If the anomaly hadn't happened — she wouldn't have been on the Expressway at night.

The connection. The connection that Tarun drew — the connection between the anomaly and Mansi's accident, the connection being: indirect but real. The anomaly disrupted the supply chain. The supply chain disruption sent Mansi to Mumbai at 2 AM. The 2 AM driving put her on the Expressway where the truck was. The truck hit her. The anomaly → supply chain → driving → accident. The chain of causation that was: real, traceable, the tracing being: the anomaly's cost was not just ecological, the cost was: human. The cost was: Mansi in the ICU.

"Tarun, don't do this," Bhushan said. The English — the English that Bhushan used when the seriousness exceeded Marathi's casualness, the English being the language of: clinical intervention. "Don't connect everything to the anomaly. The truck driver was tired. The roads are dangerous at night. These things happened before the anomaly."

"But the supply chain —"

"The supply chain is disrupted. But Mansi chose to drive at 2 AM. That's her decision. Don't take that from her by making it the anomaly's fault. She's a grown woman who made a decision. Respect that."

The correction that was: necessary. The necessary-correction that the friend gave the journalist — the correction being: stop being a journalist, stop tracing causation, be the person who sits at the bedside and waits.

Tarun sat. And waited. And did not trace causation. And held the warm hand.

Mansi woke at 11:47 PM. The waking being: eyes opening, the particular slow opening that head-trauma patients produced — the opening that was gradual, confused, the confusion being the brain's re-entry into consciousness after the consciousness had been interrupted.

"Tarun?" Her voice — small, the small-voice being the voice of a woman who was in a hospital and who the hospital was: confusing.

"Main hoon. Tu hospital mein hai. Accident hua tha. Tu theek hogi." I'm here. You're in the hospital. There was an accident. You'll be okay.

"Accident?" The confusion — the confusion that head trauma produced, the confusion being: the gap between the last memory and the current moment, the gap containing: the accident that she did not remember.

"Haan. But tu theek hai. Doctors bol rahe hain recovery hogi." Yes. But you're okay. Doctors say you'll recover.

"Tu yahan kaise?" How are you here?

"Tera emergency contact hoon. Unhone mujhe call kiya." I'm your emergency contact. They called me.

"Oh." The one syllable that contained: the remembering, the remembering of having listed Tarun as emergency contact and the listing being the act that now was: the proof of what she felt, the proof being: when I am in danger, I want you called.

"Mansi — tu so ja. Main yahan hoon. Kahi nahi jaunga." Sleep. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.

"Tu bhi so ja," she whispered. The whisper being: the care-in-crisis, the care that the patient gave the caregiver because the care was mutual and the mutual-care was: love.

You sleep too.

"Baad mein." Later.

She slept. He sat. The sitting-and-waiting being: love's particular expression when love could not fix and love could not heal and love could only: be present.

Present. At the bedside. Hand on hand. The ward's fluorescent lights humming. The hospital's particular nighttime quiet — the quiet that was not silence (hospitals were never silent) but the reduced-volume of institutional nighttime.

Tarun was present. And being present was: enough.