It's Happening Again

At the edge of the hospital courtyard's covered walkway, I paused, watching through the grey evening drizzle as a priest in a saffron dhoti worked his way along a queue of visitors. Each supplicant stepped forward, head bowed, and the priest dipped his thumb into a brass bowl of vermillion paste before pressing it to their forehead. The tilak left a bright red dot at the spot between their eyebrows, and each person folded their hands before moving aside for the next.

Fresh tilak on every forehead. Even if my antenna dropped now, I wouldn't be able to see whatever lay beneath.

The shrine dwarfed the one I'd seen in pediatric oncology yesterday, built into an alcove under a painted wooden shelter. The deity's face smiled out from between marigold garlands and flickering diyas. Bal Devi, Sarla Tamhane had called her.

I turned away, entered the hospital and rode the lift up to the neurology ward.

The neurology waiting room could have been oncology's twin, minus the childish murals. Same layout, same worn chairs, same corner shrine with Bal Devi watching over everything.

Photos of patients had been tucked along the base of the shrine, some faded and curling at the edges. Thank you cards. Notes of gratitude.

The mesh cut out, and for twenty seconds I saw the physical world clearly. Rainbow sheens appeared on faces one by one as I stepped further into the room. A woman in a green sari near the window. An elderly man dozing in a corner chair. A nurse walking briskly past, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Four, five, six of them at least. The same pattern I'd noticed in oncology, concentrated and disconcerting.

My connection snapped back with its usual jolt and the shimmers disappeared. The displays reappeared across the walls, bright and persistent.

I scanned the room more carefully now, cataloguing faces. Most visitors waited calmly, but one man sat near the entrance to the ward proper, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, turning a paper cup of water between his palms without drinking from it. Mid-forties, balding, with hollowed cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His kurta hung rumpled, like he'd been wearing it for days.

I walked over and lowered myself into the chair beside him, my left side stiff from the walk across the hospital campus.

"Waiting for someone?"

He glanced up, startled.

"My wife," he said. "Overnight study. Mesh connectivity problems." He studied my face. "Are you from the hospital?"

"Mumbai Police Inspector Krishna Mehta. I'm looking into some cases connected to this ward. And you are?"

"Rajesh Patel." His wariness disappeared, and he leaned toward me eagerly. "Finally. Someone is actually looking into this."

I kept my voice neutral. "Into what, specifically?"

"The deaths. This ward." He set the water cup down on the floor beside his chair, untouched. "Six months ago. My wife's friend Kamala was one of them. Kamala's mother was admitted here, neurology. Anjali, that's my wife, used to come sit with them, give some support, na? Then Kamala got sick too, and two other caregivers she'd met here. All dead within two weeks."

Six months ago? Two weeks? This had happened before. I pulled out my notebook and pencil. "What were the symptoms?"

"First headaches came. Then fatigue, confusion, all that. Seizures at the end." His voice had gone hollow, like he'd recited this too many times. "The doctors said it was mesh overload syndrome. Stress from caregiving. But it was not making sense, na? Kamala was healthy. Strong. She ran marathons before her mother got sick."

"Did you report your concerns to anyone?"

"Anjali tried. She and the other families." He made a dismissive gesture, flicking his hand outward. "The hospital gave them condolences. Said they were reviewing their protocols." He laughed bitterly. "So we all pooled money and hired someone to look into it properly. A private investigator. Jayant Sharma."

I stopped writing.

Jayant Sharma. Jay. My first partner and training officer, there beside me when I was stabbed. He'd almost taken it harder than I had. But after that we'd been reassigned to different units, and then he retired four years back. I couldn't remember the last time we'd spoken. I wondered how he'd been doing.

"You know him?" Rajesh asked, watching my face.

I nodded. "He's been working the case for four months?"

"Hasn't found proof of anything criminal as such, but he's convinced something is wrong at this hospital. Specifically with one doctor."

"Which doctor?"

"Priya Iyer. Neurologist." He wobbled his head side to side. "She did some kind of assessment on Kamala, and on both the other victims." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "When Anjali started having mesh problems, I made sure she only saw Dr. Kapadia. Told her I didn't trust Iyer."

I wrote the names down. Kapadia was the neurologist we'd spoken to yesterday. "Why didn't you trust her?"

"Sharma-ji told me to be careful. Said Iyer's name kept coming up in his investigation, though he couldn't tell me exactly how it all connected. He's still working on it. But he was worried enough that I listened."

"Your wife," I said. "She's been having symptoms?"

His composure cracked. He pressed his palms against his eyes, breathing carefully. I sat with him quietly.

"Headaches. Fatigue. Vivid dreams she can't remember when she wakes up." His voice wavered. "It started two weeks back. Just like Kamala. Just like the others."

In the silence that followed, the shrine in the corner caught my eye again.

"The goddess," I said, nodding toward it. "I've seen her all over the hospital. Who is she?"

Rajesh followed my gaze. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Bal Devi. She's Malhotra General's patron. The child goddess who carries burdens for caregivers." His voice softened. "The priests come on Wednesdays and Fridays to give blessings. Anjali used to pray here when she visited."

"Did your wife receive blessings? The tilak?"

He nodded. "Every visit, she said, with Kamala." His jaw tightened. "Bloody lot of good it did, no?"

I added it to my notes. More temple connections. More tilak.

I thought back to my scan of the room when I'd entered. Rajesh hadn't been among those with the sheen.

"What about you?" I asked. "Did you ever receive blessings?"

"No. Anjali was coming on her own only, to support her friend. I only started coming when..." He gestured vaguely at the ward entrance.

I looked at his forehead and thought about the sheens I kept seeing. The priest in the courtyard marking foreheads with vermillion. The connection I couldn't yet prove.

"Mr. Patel, I'm going to give you my contact information. If your wife's symptoms get worse, or if you remember anything else about those earlier deaths, call me directly." I projected my card into the air between us, the little rectangle of light hovering with my name and mesh ID.

Rajesh reached out and pinched it, pulling the information into his own system. "You believe me, na? That something is wrong here?"

Slowly, I stood. "I believe something is happening that doesn't fit the official explanations. That's enough to keep looking."

"Thank you." He said, sincerely. "Inspector, please... find out what's killing these people. Before my wife becomes one of them."

I nodded and walked toward the ward entrance.