The Journey - A Short Story, Page 2

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  The man lay groaning on the bed. A white coated doctor stepped into the darkened room and drew the curtains. He wore a surgical mask and a stethoscope hung from his neck. Drawing a syringe from inside his pocket, he shot some fluid into the air, and then injected the clear fluid into the tubes connected to the man’s hand. The man drowsily opened his eyes to a slit. “How am I doing Doc?” he groaned.

  “You’re doing fine,” responded the doctor in a German accent. “You’ll be discharged within a day or two.” He seemed agitated that he had to respond to this patient.

  The athletic looking blond doctor parted the curtains and hurried down the passageway.

  A dark haired doctor addressed a pretty Indian woman in the tiny office not far from the patient’s room. She’d queried on the man’s condition.

  “Well, we have done some tests,” responded the doctor in a strong Afrikaans accent. He was tall and self-assured. He spoke to both the woman and her companion, a younger Indian man. “We’ve diagnosed the patient as suffering from peptic ulcer. As you’re aware he was experiencing burning abdominal pains. Although vomiting is not a typical symptom, internal bleeding is one of the complications. This would explain why he was vomiting blood after we’d admitted him. The bleeding is caused by sores in the stomach lining.”

  The woman inhaled sharply. “Is this something we should be concerned about, Doctor,” she enquired anxiously.

  The doctor spoke encouragingly. “Peptic ulcer is a common problem and can repeat itself later on if proper care is not adhered to. But we’ve given him a course of antibiotics together with acid suppression medication for the stomach. Don’t worry we don’t plan on keeping him for longer than is necessary. We need the beds,” he said laughingly. The woman seemed encouraged by the doctor’s cheerful mood and joined in the laughter. After thanking the doctor, they visited the patient, in a much lighter mood than when they’d arrived at the hospital.

  As the visitors left his office, the doctor quickly dialed the switchboard. “Put me through to Doctor Von Mitzenger,” he requested gruffly.

  Doctor Von Mitzinger came onto the line. “Yes?” he snapped impatiently.

  “It’s van Steyn,” responded the doctor in a frank manner, speaking in Afrikaans. “I spoke to his wife a few minutes ago. I assured her that we’re giving him the necessary treatment. I mentioned the bleeding so that it all sounds normal.”

  “Good,” retorted Doctor Von Mitzinger, all familiar with what Doctor van Steyn was referring to. He too spoke in Afrikaans. Though, he despised the language with a passion. For him Afrikaans was a tainted language derived from a blend of Dutch, Portuguese, English and some of the local Bantu languages. Although it was made up mostly of Dutch, he felt it did not warrant its West Germanic classification. He preferred speaking his own German language, but the Afrikaners were a proud breed overly protective of their culture. “I have been injecting small dosages of the concoction into the drips. It will take some time, but we’ll achieve what we desire.” The German doctor was a member of the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging, a white supremacist group. The organization bore a flag with a swastika-like logo. He’d introduced Doctor van Steyn to the group a few years back. The organization consisted of poorer disgruntled Afrikaners opposed to the moderate reforms made by the apartheid regime. There was a drive to introduce a blood of intellectuals into the group to intensify their scope of influence as an extreme right wing body.

  It was a mere few weeks back that Von Mitzinger had gone through an updated list of pro-Mandela activists operating in the area. And by pure chance he’d come across the patient in his hospital a few days ago while doing his rounds with the interns. His trained mind was quick to identify the name as one of those on the list. With a little research and consulting with his informants, he learnt that the patient was an up and coming cell leader growing in status amongst his brethren. He’d subtly consulted with Doctor van Steyn and was allowed access to the patient.

  Doctor van Steyn was in agreement with Von Mitzinger’s manner of handling such matters. These matters ought to be handled with extreme caution. They’d gained the confidence of the locals and intended to exploit that for their own cause. In the case of this patient, it turned out he was an up-and-coming leader. A lethal concoction of undetectable drugs would achieve the necessary effect of disposing of him. He was a threat to the security of the state. He and his ilk was a threat to the Afrikaner nation. He needed to be eliminated. It was better nipped in the bud now. The organization believed in serving out its own brand of justice. They had no time for arrests and court cases and other such drawn-out processes of the law.

  I

  Shami sat crouched on the uneven concrete floor, resting his head on his knees. The sound of mourning poured out from the tiny cottage. Family and neighbors milled around with shock and disbelief plastered onto their faces. Someone patted the boy on his head. He looked up and saw his uncle. Trevor held back his tears but shook with grief. “We’re always here for you little one. We’ll always be here… for all of you.”

  Trevor took the boy’s hand and led him into the tiny sitting room. It was already crowded with relatives and friends. His mother was seated near his father’s body. They waited for the mortuary van to fetch the corpse. His father’s sister, Layla, burst into tears when she saw him, “Oh Shami, see your father’s gone!!” The entire gathering began wailing as if on prompt.

  Surprisingly, for his age, Shami seemed strong… either that or the truth had not yet sunk in. He walked around the tiny yard, where the men folk stood around. He listened to their talks and their speculation. “It’s Mahen’s boozing that’s finally caught up with him!!!” exclaimed an elderly neighbor. Shami could not help feeling a rush of anger towards the man. Despite his young age, his loyalty to his family was strong.

  Mahen’s personality was a remarkably complex one. He was a man of intellect. But like all other created beings, he possessed some flaws. Every night, his supper included an ample dose of brandy and soda water. His friends took to telling him that he was an alcoholic. But he denied it. He loved to drink a few glasses of brandy with his supper, what’s wrong with that?

  He had evoked mixed feelings amongst many people. His repertoire of friends and adversaries comprised business owners, lawyers, creditors and other sorts. It was an interesting blend. This was a time when bad debt meant imprisonment for defaulters. Mahen had been in and out of prison on numerous occasions. He’d tried many times to evade the night time raids. He’d ducked into cupboards, hid under the bed, slipped through the windows and so on. However, these raids always played out with an ironic twist for Mahen. His fears were placed on other matters.

  Few people were familiar with his political activities. Mahen was an anti-apartheid activist, though this was known to a circle of wholly low-key associates. He feared that some of his own kin may be the ones to hand him over to the apartheid security forces. Political activity that went against the regime of the time was banned. His wife, Priya, had always nagged him to pay less attention to the country’s state of affairs, and rather concern himself more with that of his family’s. But his stubbornness frustrated her. He’d insisted that his actions were for a greater cause. But all in all, he was a likeable soul.