Charles Sobhraj – Fixing the Heart of a Heartless Man

The following is excerpted from Charles Sobhraj: Inside the Heart of the Bikini Killer (Rupa Publications, 2018) by Raamesh Koirala

***

There was also an avalanche of news about Charles Sobhraj. ‘Sobhraj admitted to Kathmandu National Heart Centre, surgery is imminent,’ declared the headlines. I was not surprised. Even though the entire hospital staff had been instructed to zip their lips about Charles’s surgeon-in-charge and course of treatment, who could stop the media from spinning yarns? “He should have been operated yesterday,” claimed one journalist. From the report, I somehow sensed the source of that incorrect byte – Nihita Biswas, Shakuntala’s daughter and Sobhraj’s sweetheart.

The next morning, I started my hospital rounds early. “How many patients?” I asked Ansu, who was holding a list of names.

“Six or seven in surgery. There are about 24 patients in the hospital and three new referrals.” I sighed. Performing six open-heart surgeries on three operating tables in a government hospital was a herculean task. But the administration never stopped squeezing in some more, sprinkling the requests with “please” to the doctors and “you need to be faster” to the anaesthesiologists and operating nurses.

I checked the list. “Okay, put him second.” I inhaled deeply and headed towards his cabin.

All the private cabins in the hospital were on the first floor of the southern wing. A big door opened to a nursing station on the left and a long corridor in front. There were cabins on both sides. And there, on a big whiteboard near the nursing station, it was written in neat lettering:

‘Deluxe cabin 2. Charles Sobhraj. Severe mitral and tricuspid regurgitations for valve repair or replacement‘.

I was not pleased. Here were all the details vividly explained for public display. What a relief my name hadn’t been put up too! “Who wrote that?” I asked.

“Sorry, doctor. Someone from the night staff must have done that. She was new here,” said Bidhya, the nurse in-charge, and quickly wiped the board clean.

There were five police officers in the common room, one of them still asleep on a mat on the floor. His uniform was piled up in an armchair. Charles, however, was up. He was sitting in bed, nibbling on lychees again.

“How are you? Did you sleep well?” I asked flatly. It was a standard question. Plus, I needed to know if he was comfortable while lying down.

“Oh, I am better, doctor. Last night, I could sleep with only one pillow.”

That was good; a lot of the excess water in his lungs must have been drained. I approached him to auscultate his lungs.

“Have some lychee.” I denied instantly. “Kina lychee matra khayeko? Bhat pani kaye hunchha ni?” I asked him in Nepali why he regularly consumed lychees and other dry foods instead of the more nourishing rice and lentil soup.

But he looked at me with a vague expression, as if he hadn’t understood a word.

I was convinced he knew Nepali. Why was he pretending?

I wondered if it had to do with the cop who was standing near the bed, watching the proceedings. Charles probably forgot all his Nepali in front of police officers. It must have been arduous to pretend like that, all the time, for so many years. But then, this was the master of hoodwinking.

“Did you get all the blood donors ready?”

“Already.”

It must have been a cakewalk for him. He was a convict of high status, and some volunteers were always willing to donate blood to people occupying the limelight. Other than Nihita, a Mr Karki had been crossmatched as a suitable donor. In Nepal, it wasn’t easy to get an assured supply of fresh blood at the national blood bank. Cryo-concentrates of blood clotting factors were not available at all. Doctors had to advise targeted donation by volunteers.

Also read: Review: In Jails, Illegality Is the Norm

Later that day, the stored blood components were brought to the hospital. The donation of fresh blood would be carried out on the day of the surgery.

“Then, you are on for tomorrow.”

Charles stared at me, shocked. Was he afraid of the operation? Did he have a fear of needles? Both scenarios seemed highly unlikely to me.

He spoke to me softly after a moment. “Doctor, can you postpone the surgery for a few days? Look, my leg swelling has gone down, and I am feeling better. A few more days of rest will do me good.”

I was beside myself with agitation. I couldn’t believe he was requesting me to delay the surgery after having pursued me relentlessly – along with his entourage – for an early operation. “Listen, Charles. This is not negotiable. I cannot keep you here endlessly and perform the surgery on a day that suits you. I had to pull a lot of strings and make adjustments to accommodate you early.”

His expression changed a little. I don’t think he had expected me to refuse his demand. I decided to explain things medically to him. “Here’s what I plan to do. Tomorrow, I will try to repair the left valve of your heart. You’ll be fine if that works well. But if the valve shows even a small leak, I will have to replace it with prosthetic tissue. Is that okay with you? Or would you rather live with a slight leak in the valve and perhaps undergo another surgery in the future?”

Charles didn’t look interested in the gritty details of his heart ailment. “Do whatever you think is right for me, doctor. I just want to live.”

“Okay, don’t worry. And please don’t share anything with the journalists here. Keep it to yourself.” I left the room, hurriedly disappearing down the corridor before anyone could stop me for a chat.

***

Subita spoke to me excitedly. She was bursting with the need to say something. “Sir, do you know he broke into tears when I told him there was a 2 per cent chance of operative mortality? He actually cried!”

I nodded, unsure how to react to that. “Who signed the consent form as his guardian? His wife?”

“No. He said she cannot as she’s not yet legally married to him. An officer from the French embassy signed the form instead.”

Subita and I were discussing the surgeries planned for the next day. She, of course, was most interested in case number 2.

“Sir, why did he kill people?”

That question again.

My urge to hear the answer from the horse’s mouth returned in full intensity. “Feeling,” I told her, quoting Charles. “Either he had too much feeling and could not control himself, or he had no feeling. It is one of the two.”

The right person to answer her question was eating lychee in a deluxe hospital cabin.

***

The usual questions I asked my patients pertained to their health and well-being. They were usually answered truthfully too, except for, “Do you smoke?” But the question I now wanted to ask was much more personal than “Are you married?” or “Have you ever experienced a blackout?” By now, I didn’t even want to ask him why he had killed all those people.

No, the question that was eating me from within was different.

In 2003, there were nearly 190 countries in the world. Charles Sobhraj was free and living a happy life in France. He was a celebrity, believed to be making a hefty sum of money from interviews and photo sessions. He even had a million-dollar contract with an Indian film-maker who wanted to make his biopic. His jail term in India was over; the Thai police had closed the cases of the murders. Only one country in the world had active cases of murder against him – Nepal. And yet it was Nepal that Charles decided to visit, again. He returned to the country that suspected him of killing foreigners on the hippie trail, of robbing them and fleeing from the spot. He had no apparent reason to return, not unless he was persuaded by the slogan of our tourism department – ‘Visit Nepal. Once is not enough!’

Why on earth did he come to Nepal only to find himself behind bars? Was he merely overconfident? Or was there something I was missing, a piece in the jigsaw I had lost altogether?

I had to find the answer.

***

Raamesh Koirala is a cardiologist at the Shaheed Gangalal National Heart Centre in Kathmandu. He is the author of a memoir Aamako Mutu (My Mother’s Heart) and a novel Kopila Ashram (Kopila Shelter House).