The Organ Transplant Man

Ashim Choudhury

Whenever one of those NRI boys from our school, and there are plenty of them in the US, pass by Delhi there is a call from the St Joseph’s ‘batch of ‘75’ to organize a get-together for the ‘Umrikan’. For the desi ‘boys’ from Allahabad, where our school still stands, there is no such preferential treatment. So when there was this invitation to meet up at the CSOI – that subsidized watering hole for the civil service babus – I wasn’t really excited. Moreover, try hard as I might I couldn’t quite place this childhood classmate. Dr Ajai Khanna’s name just did not ring a bell. To be honest it’s a trifle embarrassing to go meet an ageing man, who was once a classmate, and say, ‘But you know, I cannot remember you.’ No one likes being told that.

I wanted to ignore this mini class re-union. But then when the invitation is from a school buddy who also happens to be an IAS you can hardly afford to say, ‘No.’ So politely, I sent an email querying, ‘Is Dr. Khanna a classmate?’ The babu from the election commission obviously felt slighted and did not condescend to answer. When he finally called up to confirm if I was coming he said, “You don’t know Ajai Khanna?” I was silent. “He was the poorer Khanna from our class, the one who lived in Chowk (Allahabad).” I remembered the snobbery of the guys who lived in Civil Lines. But there was another Khanna in our class as well! I was jogging my memory when Sudhir broke in, “He’s a top notch doctor in the US, famous for multi organ transplants.”

That clinched the deal. “I’m coming,” I said, “You never know, tomorrow I might need an organ transplant.” Though said in jest, at 57, with all the smoking and drinking, the need for replacing an old organ is not something to snigger at. So on that cold Sunday morning I headed for the Civil Services Officer’s Institute. The imposing CSOI building can rival the best clubs in Lutyen’s Delhi. Parking at the basement I was hoping to catch one of our old friends at the foyer. There was no sign of anyone. When I finally called, Sudhir said, “We are in the bar.” That’s how I found Lutyen’s Bar; but not my friends. Another call and he said, “I’m in the PSOI bar.” That’s when I discovered the babus had another bar in the neighbourhood, adjacent to Nehru Park.

I was just entering PSOI when a car blocked my way. It was one of our classmates. “This is the place,” I told him hopping into his car. Rana was all excited, “You don’t know him? Yaar, he’s world famous…Multi-organ transplant karta hai.” Perhaps, he too needed some organ replacement, I thought. Quickly parking, Rana displayed the excitement of a schoolboy who was just about meet Bill Clinton. He was nearly running into the club, leaving me far behind, panting. By the time I caught up, we were in the dimly lit confines of the bar. It took while to adjust to the darkness.

Sudhir stood up among a clutch of old friends. There was one I did not recognize. With him I shook hands asking hesitantly, “Ajay?” The balding man said, “I’m Sharad Bajpai!” That’s when Sudhir responded to the quizzical look on my face with a sheepish grin, “Ajai did not come. There was no message from him either.” A cuss word escaped me and I said, “F*** this is not done!” I was disappointed also because my future planning for having an organ or two replaced was not happening yet. Sensing the gloom the waiter butted in cheekily, “Kya laoon saab!” What did he have? “Whiskey mein Red Label, Black Label, Bulu label…” I was clearly bowled over. Gone were the days of ACP, RC and bagpiper in babudom! It was black label that finally lifted my fallen spirits. That afternoon we also agreed that from now on all those Umrikan schoolmates visiting India would not get any preferential treatment. Instead, in keeping with the changing times, they would have to throw us a ‘ghar vapsi’ party!