Page 11 of Born in Grief

“We have a donor match.”

Amay’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to do a transplant on a cystic fibrosis patient?”

Sushant fell silent, looking at the man sleeping in the bed, his normally unflappable expression visibly flapping. He swallowed hard. “He’s my brother.”

Sympathy had Amay softening his tone. “You shouldn’t be his doctor then.”

“I agree.” Sushant took a deep breath. “I was hoping you would take the case.”

Amay reached out to grip the other man’s shoulder. “The board will never sign off on this.”

“If you would just read through his reports-“

“Dr. Sathe.” Amay’s firm voice cut through the other man’s desperation. “Transplanting a kidney into a terminally ill patient would – “

“Not a kidney. We have a lung donor.”

Amay paused. A lung transplant was always the best case scenario for a cystic fibrosis patient, all other factors supporting it, of course. But if the patient was in renal failure, then his body would never take the surgery.

“I have a donor for the kidney too,” Sathe said quietly, reading Amay’s mind.

“It’s raining organs, is it?” Amay asked skeptically. One donor match was a miracle. Two on the very same day was exceedingly suspicious. “Where are you getting this kidney from?”

“Me.”

Machines beeped in the hush of the room, desperate fear a ragged stench on the air.

“You?” Amay asked cautiously.

Sathe nodded. “I’ve had myself tested. I’m a match.”

Amay stared at the other man, a colleague whose professional skills he respected and a man he barely knew on a personal level.

“Please Aatre, he’s my brother. I would do anything for him. Surely you understand.”

Yes, he did. Amay didn’t understand much about families or familial bonds but brothers…that was a bond he lived and breathed. Not brothers of blood but brothers bound by bloodshed.

“I’ll review the case file,” he said, curtly. “How long are the lungs viable for?”

“Another three hours, at most.”

“Meet me in the lounge in half an hour.” He strode out of the ICU, the file already open in his hands as he scanned the information rapidly, committing it all to his photographic memory.

He was so absorbed in the details of the case that he almost didn’t see the little scene playing out in the waiting area. Almost.

“My daughter is a widow! How dare you harass her like this?”

He slowed, watching Dhrithi’s father scream in the policeman’s face. The arrogance of money, he mused, never ceased to amaze him.

“I know Sir,” the cop drawled, looking completely unperturbed. “The problem is that your son-in-law was instrumental in making her a widow. So, we need to ask questions no? Was it suicide? Attempted murder gone wrong?”

The man glanced up and saw Amay watching them. “How many of those bruises did she have before the accident?” he drawled, the intensity in his eyes sharpening as he watched Amay watch him.

“How does it matter? He’s already dead,” her father shot back, not noticing Amay standing quietly behind him. “Leave it alone and allow my daughter to heal in peace.”

“And what about justice for your daughter? How will she heal without that?” the lady cop shot back, clearly triggered by the sweeping comment.

“Justice? For what? All she wants is to be left alone.”

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