The Good Samaritan

The back of Anita's neck prickled, as the Good Samaritan walked in. Tall, almost handsome in real life... No, the smirk was ugly. The eyes, too haughty. There was something repugnant about him. Or maybe, that's just how she was conditioned to feel about men like him. 

The officer seated him at the other end of the room, shackling him to the table. The table was bolted to the floor, thank God. He looked strong enough, still, to do serious damage. But then, he'd never killed that way. 

She lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke curl slowly to the ceiling. He watched it too. Small mercies that jails in India weren't non-smoking yet. 

"Can I offer you a smoke?" 

A flicker of a smile. The officer took the offered cigarette and lit it, before handing it to the man. 

He inhaled deeply, slowly; holding it in as if harvesting every last molecule of satisfaction from it, before letting it go. He leaned back, eyes raking over her. 

"These things will kill you, you know?" 

When he smiled, he looked like a different person, almost. 

"That's one thing less for you to worry about." she said, smiling. She pointed her recorder in his direction. "Did you think it would really come to this?" 

"Death sentence?" 

"Yes." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"Why not? Have you even read my case files? I'm an innocent man. A bystander. Someone who tried to help, in fact." 

"A good samaritan?" 

He chuckled. "Your boss send you here to be a smart mouth? Or to get an interview?"

Anita leaned forward. "So you still think you helped those people?" 

"Absolutely"

"They died, Mr Ramakrishnan." 

"It's a fucking pandemic, Ms Journalist whatever your name is. That's what happens in a pandemic. People die." 

"They didn't die of the pandemic though, did they?" 

"Really? 8 people, in ICUs across Mumbai, died of Covid related complications. That's what happened, last I checked." 

"8 people you helped." 

"There… you said it. I helped. And they died anyway." 

"That's not what their doctors said." 

"Oh really? You think they'd admit to the truth?" 

"What truth is that?" 

"That they're incompetent." 

"Competent enough to save thousands of other lives." 

"Are you saying they lost no patients?" 

"Of course they did. Everyone lost some, before the protocol kicked in. But these deaths were special, weren't they?" 

"That's what they're saying?" 

"You know what they're saying, Mr Ramakrishnan. Come on. This is your last chance to give the families some closure… help us understand this." 

"Their fucking families are why I'm in this mess. Those… people! They came to me, not the other way around!" A vein jumped in his forehead as he spat out the words. 

"The way I heard it, it was an appeal sent out on social media, and you responded." 

"Yes." 

"So no one actually asked you." 

"Madam, lives were at stake. Wouldn't you have done the same thing?" 

"Offered fake Remdesivir to families of critical patients?"

"I did not know it was fake." 

"Did you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was genuine?" His stare didn't intimidate her. 

"Here's what confuses me. Three of the families refused your help… didn't they?" 

"It was because of that bitch!" 

"Ah, I see. You're referring to Mrs Singh, the wife of your colleague Mr Ajay Singh… the one who uncovered your little scam." 

"There. Was. No. Scam! I found them the Remdesivir they were begging for. And then, they changed their minds. Like all that effort… it was nothing! All those strings I pulled, all th-" 

"You mean, bullying the hospital admins?" 

"Is that what they told you?" 

"That is what happened isn't it? You called them, impersonating the Drug Commissioner of Mumbai, and authorised each of these 8 admins to give the patients the drugs you procured for them… even when the families told you that they didn't want to go outside official channels! What I don't get Mr Ramakrishnan, is... why. Why do this?" 

"They were the ones who asked for the Remdesivir, they-" 

"But they changed their minds." 

"You can't do that." 

"Excuse me?" 

"You can't do that. It's not fair. I made so many calls. I found them the drugs. I spoke to the admins, the doctors. I organised all of it. And they changed their minds. As if it were all for nothing." 

"There were so many scams at the time Mr Ramakrishnan. Couldn't you see that? Couldn't you see how dangerous it was to go outside the system?" 

"Then why ask for help?" 

"The shortage ended that very evening, didn't it?" 

"Yes." 

"So if it hadn't been for your interference-" 

"I helped!" 

"If it hadn't been for your interference, each of those 8 patients would've received the real drugs." 

"I didn't know the drugs were fake!"

"But you knew the shortage had ended. Each of the admins told you they were getting their supply of drugs that evening." 

"They asked for my help. They can't do that and then toss me asi-" 

Anita ground the cigarette butt under her heel and stood up. "I'm done here." 

The jail security office was stinking hot. Anita collected her phone and her purse from the surly officer and texted just one word to Mrs. Ramakrishnan: Unrepentant. 

Mrs Singh was surprised to find a newspaper outside her door the following week. She was about to toss it to her neighbor's mat, when the pink post-it caught her eye: Turn to Page 6. 

She did. The headline read: Good Samaritan declared unfit for hanging. 

Wait, what? Unfit for hanging? What kind of joke was that? 

She read the article. The mighty Mrs Ramakrishnan had appealed her husband's fitness to undergo the death penalty after being paralysed as a result of a severe beating in jail. The man was eating, breathing, shitting through a pipe. In a dirty jail clinic, no less. 

Death, when it came, would be painfully slow. 

Wow.

Her mind flashed on the many conversations between herself, the other plaintiffs and Mrs Ramakrishnan over the past 3 years. They had built the case together, but never dared to expect real justice. Nothing as poetic as this. 

She read the article once, then twice. She savored every word, reading them aloud, tasting them.

Who knew justice tasted this damned good? 

Half Breed

Watching Purnima parry insults with the boys, Samira wished that she too had that kind of clever confidence. Maybe if she could just think of comebacks then, in the moment, rather than hours later. Maybe then she could stand up to Purnima. Pretty, perfect Purnima. Holiest of holies, the Jainest Jain that ever lived. 

She was awful. 

It had started 3 months ago, when Samira stood up to introduce herself to her new classmates. The teacher, in her infinite wisdom, had seated the two Jain girls together, probably thinking that it might mean an easier transition for Samira. Rubbish. Purnima was the queen bee of class 6 section C. 

She had picked on Samira almost instantly. It had started with the length of her skirt - too short; it seemed. Unladylike. Showy. Then it was her left-handedness. Her hands looked like claws holding a pen, apparently. And then the tiffin incident happened.

The. Tiffin. Incident. 

"What kind of Jaini are you?!?" She had screeched in a voice that scraped chunks off of Samira. She had felt small. Numb. Unable to respond. She had stood there, like an oaf, as Purnima took her tiffin of omelette sandwiches and flung it across the classroom. 

She was ten times the Jain Purnima was, her father had assured her. But then her father was always kind. He was a practicing Jain. He never pushed his beliefs on her or her mum. He never made gagging sounds when her mother cooked meat for herself and Samira. He lied a little to his side of the family. But that too, he said, was a kindness. They would never understand. They were "ritualist" Jains. Temple going vegetarians who didn't eat after sunset, but never hesitated to cut each other to ribbons with their words. 

She tucked that little nugget away for later use. I am a practicing Jain, Purnima. Not a ritualist like you! I practice non-violence. But then, as her father pointed out, if she intended to hurt Purnima with those words, that wasn't non-violence. Shit. 

"This Jainism stuff is hard" her mother said to her as they cuddled with a book later that night. "It takes people a lifetime. You don't have to figure it out all at once, okay?" She had snuggled so hard into her mother that she made her yelp. She loved that sound, and the tickle fight that invariably followed. She went to bed happy. 

She avoided Purnima as best she could for the next few days, but they were bench mates. Stuck together till a teacher separated them. She'd heard that class 7 onwards, you could pick your own bench mate. So it was just a matter of this school year. Not counting holidays, it was just 16 more weeks of school. Purnima hissing cut her reverie short. "Heard your mother's name is Shahnaz." Her eyes gleamed. "Filthy Muslim blood. That's why you love eggs so much!" 

"She's a Parsi. Not Muslim." 

"What's a Parsi?" 

"It's another religion. Lots of us in Mumbai."

"Are you a Parsi or a Jain then?" 

"Uh, both… I guess?" 

"Do Parsis eat meat?"

"Yeah" 

"What kinds?" 

"All kinds, I think." 

"Filthy." She looked as if she were about to spit. "Disgusting half-breed!" The insult landed in her solar plexus. She felt hot tears well up and all she could do was hide her face in her arms and cry and cry and cry. She couldn't even tell the teacher what was wrong. She didn't know why she was crying, or why that insult hurt her so. It just did. 

She could sense that some of her classmates wanted to talk to her, but didn't. Purnima was always around, always watching. And the insults got worse. 

"Heard Parsis are going extinct. When are you going to die?" 

"Did you know Parsi girls are either mad or dead?"

"So, when are you going to show me your tail? You have one, right?" 

"I think I'll call you a mutant half breed from now on" 

"Mutant Half Breed! Can you kill people with your egg breath?" 

There had to be a way to become invisible. There had to be. 

Shahnaz watched as her happy, eager little girl began to dread going to school. From what she had read, all the signs pointed to bullying. And it had to be that Purnima girl. Samira didn't really have any friends yet. None that she mentioned to her, anyway. She made discreet enquiries at school and enlisted the help of one of her teachers. Yup, it was Purnima alright. 

Samira begged her not to intervene. She was sure it would only make things worse. The principal agreed with Samira, but suggested a friendly chat with Purnima's parents. Purnima's mother was quite a surprise. And suddenly, Shahnaz knew what to do. 

Samira couldn't believe it. A picnic. With Purnima. And her mother. "Why???" 

She railed. She wailed. She threw a tantrum. And then it was picnic Sunday, and they were pulling into the car park. Her mother was in a great mood. She handed the badminton rackets to Samira and grabbed the food basket. Oh horror! Chicken sandwiches. 

A car pulled into the space next to them, and a taller, prettier version of Purnima stepped out and hugged her mother. "Diana! You look gorgeous!". Her mother had greeted her like an old chum. Wait, Diana? A smile started on the inside of Samira's belly and made its way to her face. Diana. A christian name. 

"Hi Diana Aunty. Lovely to meet you." Did her voice sound too gleeful? "Hey Purnima." Purnima was turning a pretty interesting shade of pink. Mother introduced herself to Purnima, who mumbled a greeting. This was great. SO great. 

"Are those your famous chicken sandwiches?" Diana Aunty was digging into their basket as they settled their rugs under a leafy tree. She opened the tiffin and took a deep, pleasurable sniff. "Ohhhhhh… these smell SO goood!" She took a bite and shoved the rest of the sandwich in Purnima's face. "You'll love these! They're better than Sana aunty's sandwiches!" 

Samira was grinning so hard all afternoon that she felt sure her face would get stuck that way. Purnima looked like she had swallowed a frog. Diana Aunty was a delight, and completely unaware of her daughter's discomfort. By her own admission, it thrilled her to be around another mother daughter pairing that had the same background as them.

"After all, it isn't easy being married to Jains, am I right?" The mothers laughed, and swapped notes, congratulated each other on their daughters' achievements, and took selfies. So many selfies. 

As the afternoon drew to an end, the mothers planned the next outing. Shahnaz turned to Samira. "Sam, you're good at naming things. Let's name our little group something fun… something that's just us, you know?" Was that a wink? 

"The Half Breeds?" It was out of her mouth before Samira knew it. Purnima looked like she was going to be sick. Diana thumped Purnima on the back and burst into peals of laughter. "What a sassy little thing you are, Samira! The Half Breeds it is!" Poor Purnima, she couldn't even scowl. 

The mothers air kissed each other's cheeks before getting into their cars. Samira waved and waved as Purnima and Diana pulled out of the parking lot. And then she turned to Shahnaz and squeezed her hard enough to make her yelp. She loved that sound. 

She loved this woman. She loved the tickle fight that followed. She loved the drive back home. She loved the warm, glowy feeling she had in her chest. She loved the way her body felt: light, and strong. Her arms were all tingly. She sang along the whole drive back at full volume. Her mother sang along, off key, and making up ridiculous words. 

She had never loved her mom more. And her dad, she reminded herself. How lucky. 

I'm a fabulous half breed! She couldn't stop grinning. Yeah, her face was definitely going to get stuck that way.