“Your doctor diagnosed it without a blood test?”
“If you want proof of illness, I’ll get a blood test.”
“I didn’t ask for that. I am asking for your fever. Is it persistent or periodical?”
“It’s… mostly been in the evenings. In the morning, I feel better.”
“And headache?”
“Like my brain is banging inside my head.”
“Get a malaria blood test. RDT. But go for the test only when your fever is at its peak.”
“Uhh… I am already taking typhoid medication.”
“If it’s not typhoid, then you are taking the wrong antibiotics. This is my understanding from what I heard. Rest is up to you.” He ended the call, looking up to return the phone and finding Atharva’s narrowed eyes on him.
“What?”
“You expect a girl who is living alone here to go for a blood test when her fever is at its peak?”
“She is not going anyway.”
Atharva stared at him, hard.
“Don’t stare.”
“I’ll go with her or send Fahad.” He snatched his mobile and began to redial.
“She is hellbent on taking typhoid medicines.”
“You are saying it’s malaria.”
“Yes.”
“Which incompetent doctor has she been going to?” He muttered, pressing the mobile to his ear. “Hello, Amaal. It’s Atharva again. Yes… he told me. It’s,” he glanced at his watch. “3 pm right now. You said your fever rises in the evenings?… Yes… Let’s get you to the blood test centre. Give me a call if you have a fever this evening and we will go… No, I am taking you or sending Fahad. If you have a preference, tell me right now.” Atharva heard her comment on the other end and laughed. “Good. Whoever is available then. Take care.”
He set his mobile back down and got back to his laptop. “Treat people like people, Samar. Distance is not the answer anymore.”
Samar stiffened. Atharva continued to type in front of him. And he forgot why he had come here in the first place.
————————————————————
Samar parked his car outside the brick building.
256, Nehru Nagar.
He got out and eyed the quiet street. Nehru Nagar was one of the more premium localities here, residential and family-oriented. Safe. Electricity poles, street lamps, a green park with kids loitering. These were the vulnerable places when disturbances hit. Because these were the streets where nobody thought anything could go wrong. Troublemakers chose such streets.
He hoisted his bag high over his shoulder and walked towards the gate under the setting sun. It opened to a small kaddappa-tiled compound, a bike parked to the side. Samar walked to the end of the compound where the entrance opened. He climbed up, checking for the list of tenants on the ground floor. No name plates. He began climbing the stairs — marble flooring with wood banisters. Rich.
He reached the second floor and rang the bell on Flat no. 6. Some hustle ensued inside. He rechecked the number — 6.
The door pulled open to a middle-aged woman, holding herself up on a walking stick. Samar stepped back, looking at the only other flat on the floor.
“I am here to see Amaal Durrani…” he muttered. “Does she stay across?”
“No, no, she stays here. You are Atharva miyan?” The woman smiled. She was fair, Kashmiri, the side of her face marred with the remnants of burn marks. Glass burns. The veil covering her head had now dropped to her neck.
