Bonewaale Setter

“Bhabhi! Hai my husband. He had an accident today. He was standing by the side of the road at the golchakkar, and a bike ran over his foot. Hai Bhabhi, what will I do, what will we do, he can’t walk. My husband can’t walk. I won’t come for work today. I can’t. Hai Bhabhi! Main kya karoon.” I sobbed on the phone.

I opened out my heart. Really, this was no day to go work when my Jia Mian was writhing in pain. “You’ve already taken two days leave this month,” said Bhabhi on the phone. “I will cut salary for this one. You can decide which bahana is the truth, today’s or the previous two.”

“Theek hai Bhabhi.” I hung up. “Kamini,” I whispered as Shanti from the adjoining shanty reaffirmed with a nod under the dupatta of her saree clenched between her teeth.

Our room was filled with neighbours and friends hovering around Jia Mian, who was lying on the dewan that Bhabhi had sold me last week when her new sofa set had arrived. Everyone had heard about my husband’s accident that morning and was there to help us. Shanti’s husband Raju suggested going to the local vaid, “These English hospital doctors take us poor people on a ride. They will fleece you Kabira behan.” A hum of affirmation rose in the room and Shanti and the other women nodded. I stood by the curtain separating the cooking area from the rest of the room and strained to understand the proceedings through my dupatta.

Chunni Laal, who was sitting on one edge of the bed on which Jia Mian lay, looked at the X-ray and suggested going to Bonewaale Setter, Hakeem AkmalKhan, in sector 14. “This looks bad, dekho,” he pointed to something on the X-ray and showed to Jia Mian, who was writhing in pain.

The X-ray was passed around and everyone poured in collective wisdom. Dreadful whispers rose up, “Arrey! Kuch tedha lag raha hai.” “Kuch ajeeb hi hain, nahin?”

Jaaved, my 14-year-old, stood worried turning the X-ray around trying to understand the suggestions and diagnoses of the older and wiser.

I could see he was worried. We were worried. But, the immense outpouring of love and concern from the people of our mohalla gave us confidence. Mulla Ji, the one who ran a cycle repair shop in the ground floor, arranged for an Eeco van to take my husband to sector 14. The van was a delivery van for a tent house with no seats in the back. “All the better for Jia Mian to lie down with his legs straight up,” he proclaimed. I pulled the bed sheet from the dewan and placed it on the van’s floor and a party of seven of us drove to sector 14. Shanti and a few more of my friends followed in their husband’s bikes.

This was the first time someone from our mohalla was being taken to the Bonewaale Hakeem. The hakeem practiced from his house in Daaruheda gaon. The hakeem’s gali was easy to find. Everyone in Daaruheda knew the hakeem. He was rich and well-known with a big house, cows tied to the right of the gate, the smell of dung cakes and the hushed chatter of patients and relatives waiting in the verandah greeting us newcomers as we entered.

Chunni Laal, Jaaved, Raju and Mulla Ji carried my husband inside. They placed him in the center of the verandah where another crippled man lay head down. We squatted around the verandah in wait for the miracle healer. His treatement methods were known to be revolutionary, but testimonies flowed around us in hushed, reassured whispers.

After a 15-minute wait, Hakeem Mian walked in with a hammer and a huge nail. An excited hum, now, rose in the audience that had encircled the verandah. Some relatives of the crippled man walked up and whispered in Hakeem Mian’s ears. Hakeem Mian gently shook his head in knowledge and understanding. An eager audience looked on in awe.

Hakeem Mian took his place on the floor, the crippled man now placed horizontally in front on him by the hakeem’s assistants. The hakeem made a silent prayer with eye lids half raised, half closed. He then positioned the nail at the first joint on the crippled man’s spine, raised his hammer high up unto the sky and knelt the first blow. A twang reverberated and a gasp went up in the audience. The hakeem continued hammering down the crippled man’s back. The crippled man lay silent. The audience sat rapt in awe.

When the rhythmic twaaaang was over, Hakeem Mian placed the hammer and nail on a pile of ash on his left. He then commanded the crippled man to stand. He stood!

The squatting relatives jumped up and helped the man, no longer crippled, out of the gate and away, paying and thanking the hakeem, who with a finger on his lips refused to speak and indicated his reverence of silence.

It was our turn next. Mulla Ji and Chunni Laal approached Hakeem Mian with the X-ray. The Hakeem looked at the X-ray and worry lines appeared on his forehead. Mulla Ji pointed towards me and there was something in the eyes of Hakeem Mian that told me the worst. I closed my eyes and prayed. I had faith in the Hakeem, a crippled man just walked on two feet in front of my eyes.

That’s when beta Jaaved’s phone rang. It was the English hospital. “Rukiye!” Jaaved screamed. “The X-ray has got exchanged. Koi Vet department ke patient ka hai yeh.”

Chunni Laal shook his head in disgust, “dekha these English doctors can’t get the patients right.” Mulla Ji sighed in resignation.

Hakeem Mian rose up and whispered to his attendants that it was time for his studies and prayers. Jia Mian limped back to the van in relief of new found diagnosis.