The Returnee
“Aren’t you Jaan?” the man standing at my gate asked. Just then, I was on my way to the garage
to fetch my car, to attend to my patients at the hospital. I couldn’t place the man. He must have been
just my age; around forty-five or forty-six. With his moderate build, receding hairline and bright jet black
eyes, he somehow seemed familiar. His face and arms had faint circular patches- like burn marks, or
some skin problem. And to think that he addressed me in my pet name! Barring my childhood friends
and elderly relatives, not many people knew that name.
“Yes, I am Jaan,” I replied. “But I can’t seem to place you.”
With an amused smile he said, “If I introduce myself, you would hardly believe me. Besides, it is
a long story; we will have to sit down and talk. I had met you in Shillong, when you were a little boy.”
Yes, I had spent my childhood years in Shillong. Hurriedly, I tried to recall a few of the names of
those I played with, or studied with. Prasanta, Nana, Apurba, Chandra, Dhruva, Kumud, Jogesh –no this
face did not match any of them. And, it didn’t look as though this man would tell me who he was,
without a lengthy preface! On the other hand, I didn’t have the time to spare, to sit and chat with him.
“I don’t have much time just now. But tomorrow is a holiday. Why don’t you come along in the
evening? We can then sit and chat at leisure. You didn’t tell me your name though,” I said.
“My name is Rathin Barua. It’s okay, I’ll come to meet you tomorrow evening then.”
On the verge of leaving, he looked back at me with a mysterious smile and said, “All right then,
Mr. Engineer, I will take your leave now.” He didn’t wait for a reply; he moved on.
Walking towards the garage, I thought to myself: ‘This man seems to be intentionally drawing
me into some mystery. Knowing full well that I am a doctor, he addresses me as an engineer. In my
childhood years, I loved tinkering with electrical and other domestic gadgets. For that reason Deuta,
Khura and my other relatives addressed me as engineer. Perhaps that was with a view to encouraging
me to be one. But then, I ended up being a doctor instead.’
Some of my compeers teased me, by calling me ‘Skeleton’ or ‘Barber’. But they did not call me
“engineer”. I could not remember any of my friends named Rathin either. Granted that I could not
remember the names of some of my old chums. But they were not very close to me. There was,
however, an elderly gentleman of impeccable taste, who lived up on a hillock near our house.
Occasionally he came to visit us. I remember calling him ‘Rathin Khura’. I don’t quite recall his surname
though. He used to call me ‘engineer’. But he was around forty-five to fifty years old, some thirty five to
forty years ago. But he wouldn’t perhaps be alive now. Even if he was, he would be a decrepit old man!
In a sea of old memories, I reached the hospital. And with the usual pressure of work, I forgot all
about the man.
The following day, around four in the evening, I heard the call bell. And there, standing on my
door step was yesterday’s man, Rathin Barua. I invited him in, and got him seated, and called out to my
wife for tea.
“I am sorry I couldn’t talk to you properly yesterday,” I said.
“It’s perfectly all right; I understand,” he said.”You are a busy man, and suddenly I arrived
unannounced. I didn’t mind in the least bit. But today you are reasonably free, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course. It’s only in the late evening that I have to go out.”
“I was told that you had become a doctor,” the man started. “What is your specialization, may I
ask?”
“Surgery,” I said.
“Do you perform heart surgery?”
“No, I don’t. The Cardiothoracic Surgeon performs the heart surgeries. But till date there have
been only few open heart surgeries in our hospital.
“Have there been any heart transplants?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “For such operations we need the infrastructure such as modern expensive
instruments, and manpower training. Along with that we need a good system for donor heart collection
and a well developed transport system.”
“Yes, it will all happen in time,” he nodded.
Meanwhile, my wife arrived with tea and eats. “This is Mr. Rathin Barua. I met him in my
childhood years in Shillong,” I said to my wife, introducing her to our guest.
“Did you study with my husband in Shillong?” she asked.
“No. No, I didn’t study with him. But I met him in his childhood years when they lived in
Shillong,” he replied.
After my wife left the room, I took up my cup of tea, and offered him his teacup. Then, I said,
“Now tell me about yourself. I still haven’t been able to remember where I met you last.”
The man resorted to his previous mysterious speech: “To tell me about myself and explain
things, I’ll need to start with a long preface. So, let us talk about you first. In your childhood years many
people called you ‘engineer’. But you became a doctor instead. Tell me, is your father, Ballabh Sarma
alive? And what about your mother?”
“It’s almost twenty years since my father passed away. He died of a sudden heart attack. My
mother lives with me; she is almost seventy now. Barring her declining eyesight, she has no other
problems to speak of. She is still pretty mobile,” I said.
“When did you all leave Shillong?” he asked.
“I must have been about twelve then.”
“What about your house there?”
“We sold the house a few years after we came away.”
Changing the topic, he said, “Let us go back to our previous conversation. Do you know how
heart transplantation is done?”
“Yes. In accidents and other similar cases when the patient’s brain becomes completely useless,
but his heart beats remain, that patient’s heart may be collected as the donor heart. This heart can then
be transplanted to the body of the receiving patient if all things are compatible. At present they have
also developed the technique of preserving a beating heart in special liquids.”
“If the heart has to be preserved for a considerable period of time, what do they do then?” the
man asked.”
“It is then preserved in matter similar to ice.”
“Oh no. It can’t be so. When water freezes to become ice, then its volume increases; doesn’t it?
If the fluid inside the heart cells turns to ice, won’t the cells then be destroyed?” he asked.
“You seem to be very knowledgeable.” I said, “I was trying to tell you in simple terms. As far as I
know, this kind of preservation is not done by ice proper. A method known as ‘vitrification’ is used for
the preservation of body parts. A chemical called glycerol is combined with liquid nitrogen to bring the
mixture’s temperature down near to minus ninety six degree Celsius (-196°C). The body parts are
successfully preserved in the mixture for indefinite periods of time, without being destroyed. Later on,
as and when required, these can be brought back to normal body temperature and transplanted, to
become active again.”
“It makes me happy to know that you are so well versed in the subject,” Rathin Barua said. “In
actual fact, I’ve myself had a heart transplantation.”
I looked at him in utter surprise. Lifting his shirt, he showed me the long scar right in the middle
of his chest. On the two sides of the scar were two small circular scar patches. These were perhaps
punctures made for drainage.
“It’s really surprising,” I said. “When and where was the operation performed?” I asked.
“It was performed in the hospital called ‘Henry Ford Institute’ in the state of Michigan in
America. The operation was performed by a surgeon called Brower Robert. It is now more than four
months since the operation.”
“Do you have any problem now?”
“No, my heart is absolutely fit now,” his said.” The heart beat is now around a hundred per
minute. You will understand that a nerve called the ‘Vagus’ gets cut during the operation. Once the
healing is complete, the heart beat will come down to normal rate.”
“Have you been told to take any special care?”
“No, only two tablets I need to take every day.” He continued, “I’ve been told that an American
called Kelly Perkins has climbed several mountain peaks after heart transplantation. His objective was to
tell the world how safe heart transplantation is.”
I had nothing to say.
After a while, Rathin Barua asked me, “You talked about cryogenics and cryopreservation a little
while ago. Did you know that besides human organs, there are many other things that are so
preserved?”
“Yes, I said. “Sometimes domestic pets are so preserved. In fact, since 1976, entire human
bodies have also been thus preserved. The objective for this is that at some future date, a cure for the
ailment that caused the death of that patient might be discovered. If that happens, the patient could be
brought back to life and treated. Ted William, a renowned baseball player of America has been
preserved in like manner since 2002.”
“Do you think that with all this scientific know-how, life can be given back after the
cryopreservation stage?” He asked me.
“As far as I know,” I said, “it has been possible to revive frogs and mice after many hours, or
even many days when they are preserved at extreme low temperatures. Once they are brought back to
normal temperature, and blood circulation is restored, their organs start functioning normally.
With a mysterious smile the man spoke: “In the case of humans too, it has been possible. But
then, it has not been publicized yet.”
Then he went on: “Thirty-five years ago, when I was in Shillong, I had a serious heart problem. I
was just forty five years old then. At that time, not to speak of Shillong, even in Assam there was no
scope for proper investigation or treatment. I went to Delhi, to be told that my heart condition was of a
serious nature. I had a condition that was called ‘Cardiomyopathy’. The only cure for this condition was
heart transplantation. In South Africa Christian Bernard had performed the first ever heart transplant
successfully in 1967. In India this was then considered a miracle. In a few places in America, as well as in
a couple of other places in the world such operations had been successfully done.”
“I had no problem on the score of money,” he continued. “So, in the hope of a successful
operation I went to America. I was not married; and no one offered to accompany me. So, I went alone. I
arrived America alright, but my heart became weaker by the day.”
“One fine day, I fell unconscious on the road. I was admitted to a hospital in the state of
Michigan in North America. Treatment was started and I gained consciousness. Much as I felt better, I
could not even get out of bed and move around in the ward. Also, problems cropped up regarding my
heart transplantation. The first problem was that I wasn’t fit enough physically to undergo the
operation. The second problem was getting a donor. At a certain point in the proceedings I understood
that I would have to die before the operation. Considering all of this, I took an unprecedented decision.”
Rathin Barua continued his narration.
“Considering that I sold all my property in Shillong before leaving for America, I had enough
funds with me. On the other hand, due to being alone, the treatment at the hospital was also free of
cost. With the help of the hospital authorities, I contacted an institute in Michigan State. This was the
Cryonic Institute. I deposited almost all my funds with them, and made out a formal written contract. It
said, that in the event of my death, my body will be preserved in a liquid nitrogen tank, till such time
that a cure for my ailment was discovered. Once a cure was found, they would make full arrangements
to make me alive again.”
“After the contract was made, they informed me that during my last hours, one of their doctors
would be constantly with me. The moment I die, they would inject a liquid chemical called
cryoprotectant into my body, and take me to their establishment for preservation. Until two days after
the contract I was conscious about my surroundings. After that I felt I had fallen in to a deep sleep, to
awaken after a full thirty-five years.”
“With the heart transplant over, I felt a bit out of place in the new ambience. The doctors were
new, the hospital was new and I didn’t quite understand what was happening. Noticing the outfits of the
doctors and nurses, equipments, the T.V. monitors and a host of other things, I felt that this was indeed
a very advanced hospital. Gradually I realized that mine was now a life after thirty-five years. I had
moved ‘fast forward’ leaving more than three decades behind. By the time I could walk around, I
couldn’t believe what I saw. Everything was different. There were mobile phones, polyester materials,
computers, high rise buildings and various plastic articles. Starting from shoes to aeroplanes, everything
was different.”
“After four months,” he said “I was back in India. I was told that Indira Gandhi had passed away.
So also, I believe, her son Rajiv Gandhi. In Assam too I found tremendous change. The roads had
improved. There were massive high-rise mansions. And the roads were teeming with cars and motor
bikes.”
“I am sure you recognize me now. I am the Rathin Barua who lived near your house in Shillong.
You used to call me Khura. I am still forty-five years old as I was then thirty five years back. That is how I
am now as old as you are.”
“I was ever so happy to meet you yesterday,” he cried, “And of course to tell you all that was in
my mind.”
I then asked him, “shouldn’t this news have shaken up the world?”
“That is true,” he said. Counting me, there have been just five people who have been brought
back to life. This has been kept in utmost secrecy, as it is still in the experimental stage. There are legal
and ethical hurdles to cross. There are also religious sanctions involved. I too have hardly spoken about
this. Knowing you since your childhood years, I wanted to tell you all this in confidence. And you have
also understood.”
Dithering between belief and disbelief, I asked, “Didn’t you have any difficulty on your entry to
India?”
“No, there was no difficulty,” he said. “My I-card and passport were all arranged in America.”
I just looked at him, stunned to my core. Here was a man who had lived, died, and had a rebirth
sitting right in front of me! I knew that science would one day perhaps make all this possible. But to
think that it had already happened!
Rathin Barua spoke again – “A couple of patients before me have not quite regained their total
brain functions. But I have no problems. Perhaps due to some anomaly in preservation, I had some
circular patches on my skin. But those have healed now.”
After a while he said, “Since I have come to you, I want you to look at something. For some time
now, I’ve had a lump in my groin. Do you mind having a look?”
I took him to my chamber. Getting him to lie down, I examined him. There was a big lump in his
right groin; Inguinal lymphadenopathy. Removing his socks, I looked at his feet. The sole in the right foot had a bluish-black patch as big as a twenty-five paise coin.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“In the last few days the swelling in the groin has been slightly painful. But there is no pain
whatsoever in that patch.”
Wanting to ask him for how long he had the scar, I stopped short. Time, for him, in life’s clock
was irrelevant.
Instead I asked, “Do you remember seeing this patch on your sole before your heart
transplantation?”
He just could not remember.
Examining his abdomen, I was shocked. His liver was hard, big and rough. With the stethoscope I
examined his chest. I had no idea how a transplanted heart sounded. But this was no different from a
normal heart.
“I’m a bit worried”, I said. “The patch on the sole of your foot, the swelling in your groin and the
enlargement of your liver does not augur well. You should try and go back to America soon. Or else, get
an ultra sound scan of your abdomen and FNAC done. And then I think, you are on an
immunosuppressant too!
The man’s expression suddenly changed.
“Is it cancer?” he asked.
“It could be,” I said.
“Is there, or isn’t there a cure for this?” he asked.
“It is dangerous when the disease spreads to the liver,” I said reluctantly. “In America they may
be able to do something.”
Looking sad and dejected, the man took leave of me.
I wondered if this man who had once conquered death and as if had travelled in a time machine
was now going to be vanquished and defeated by nature?
[Translated by Mrs Dipika Phukan from the original Assamese “Pratyagata” by Dr Jayanta Kumar
Goswami]