The Silicon Mind

By Manikarnika Lagu

The Silicon Mind is a racy sci-fi thriller involving a very sophisticated neural chip implant by a robot on a human brain. It revolves around the intertwined lives of Ray, a leading neurosurgeon, sharp and flamboyant proprietor and driving force of Chetna, Indias foremost coma clinic and Dr Aman Kapoor, reputed physician and accident victim who falls into a coma.

Aman becomes Rays unsuspecting guinea pig Ray and his American collaborators successfully implant a silicon chip inside Amans brain true to the books sci-fi genre, a robot does the operation! Aman wakes up rejuvenated and changed forever. As Ray and his team expected, his brain has been enhanced to superlative degrees but his body suffers strange illnesses, a result of the conflict between the material chip and the corporeal brain.

The story is about how Aman manages to trace his bizarre bodily symptoms and sudden miraculous healing powers to his brain operation at Chetna with help from Manasi, his psychiatrist, and her journalist friend, Ishan.Ray finally buckles to emotional pressure from Manasi and his own daughter, the irrepressible Sakshi and has to undo the wrong he had done by trying to play God.

The author knows her subject well through extensive research and has written with lucidity and candour. The machinations which happen within the medical profession at various levels, the business of scientific research and discovery, Amans highly individualistic personality, his queer experiences with patients after the implant, the growing relationship between him and Manasi all make interesting reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467018050

Manikarnika Lagu

The author was born in a highly-educated matriarchal familyof the lush green state of Kerala, India, After obtaining a Ph.D, she pursued a career in Physics as a teacher and researcher, with interest in Condensed Matter and Non-linear Physics, at Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. She has published several research papers in various scientific journals. Breaking the traditional norms of Hindu society, she opted for an inter-caste and inter-state marriage, choosing a Maharashtrian Brahmin colleague as her life partner. She has a son who is a corporate settled in Canada. After remaining an academic for two decades, she took voluntary retirement to pursue her passion for writing. Apart from web-surfing, reading and writing, she enjoys intellectual discussions, specially on the brain, mind, knowledge and consciousness, an outcome of which is this book. She loves to be in new places all the time as it invigorates her and boosts her creative urge. She is passionately involved in charity work for orphans and helpless people all over India.

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© 2009 Manikarnika Lagu. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 9/14/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-3682-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-467-01805-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

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22

23

24

25

26

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31

32

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43

Glossary

About The Author

DEDICATION 

Dedicated to

the memory of Arvind Lagu, my husband,

who was a razor-sharp critic, an imposing fault-finder

and a witty companion.

Acknowledgement 

It is my privilege and pleasure to acknowledge those who contributed to the making of this novel. Without their support, my inner urge to convert an idea into a book could never have materialised.

Words fail me when I try to express the exemplary courage and subtle sensitivity displayed by my husband during the 2-year period of writing this book, even though he was battling with a highly malignant form of brain tumour, glioblastoma multiforme. Neither did he complain about his condition nor did he create tantrums, though he knew that his days were numbered. He was so altruistic and understanding that he encouraged me to be focussed and continue writing in the midst of tragic circumstances.

As an editor, Ms. Arundhati Nath brought flavour to my book. She made brutal cuts when I drifted. She made embarrassing remarks on my draft when she found inconsistencies in situations or characters. She taught me the significance of saying less and leaving more to the imagination of readers. In short, I learnt the art of making a book readable from her.

As my second editor, Ms.Ashwati Maya Franklin played the supportive role. She made corrections wherever required and brought the book into its final form. In her mild and pleasant manner, she taught me a few things about the business of book publishing.

Equally important is the timely help provided by the Authorhouse team specially for a first-time author like me. They are knowledgeable, sensitive to my needs and symbiotic.

I take this opportunity to salute the countless people, some known and some unknown, who have, unknowingly, contributed their looks, traits, attitudes and even eccentricities to my characters to bring them to life.

Lastly, but significantly, I want to thank all my would-be readers. I leave it to them to decide whether the book was worth the time and money.

Manikarnika.

 1 

Time was definitely running out for the two neuroscientists, Prof. Narayan Murthy and Prof. John Smith. And even their sixteen team mates.

A year ago, they had fabricated the most evolved neural chip in the world. It was programmed to function like a neural itch in the human brain to galvanise it and enhance it. In comparison, the products of their competitors from research labs all over the globe were crude.

It was a golden period in their lives. The whole team was riding on the crest of a wave of success. Waiting to be accepted as pioneers in interface design and angling for international recognition and personal glory.

A year later, far from achieving any glory, they were a bunch of frustrated and desperate individuals. Reason? No takers for their chip. In spite of advertising on the Net and on the popular TV channels in a large number of countries, no one volunteered. Not even one human being amongst billions, prepared to allow the usage of his brain as a medium for their experiment.

It was a totally unforeseen turn of events. Without a human subject, how could they test their chip? And without testing its performance coupled to a human brain, their chip was simply a piece of worthless machinery.

With no solution in sight, the team was reaching a breaking point. Some one had to act. Very soon. Else, it would be too late. Their competitors were inching closer. Before long, they would catch up.

Harangued by these thoughts, Narayan Murthy - popularly known as Ray- put down his glasses and closed the journal in his hand, ruminating over some of the morbid options left to their team. This was a favourite intellectual exercise for him for the last couple of days. So far, he could draft only two solutions. Buy a guinea pig or convert a patient into one clandestinely. Both were possible though highly unethical.

In normal circumstances, Ray would have vehemently opposed any such operation. However, faced with the awful reality of seeing his dream, almost realized, crumble before his eyes, he was prepared to make a choice. He concluded that the second option was definitely safer than the first.

Distracted through and through, Ray decided to use his time to read e-mails. Connecting to his own website, he waited for the messages to unfold. There were 97 new messages; most of them fan mail from his earlier patients, some conference invitations and three communications from his international collaborators, including one from John. Anxiously, he clicked on John’s message.

"Ray,

This piece of intranet communication between two chip-producing corporations rattled me. Are we the only fools incapable of acquiring a guinea pig?

Global Connections Limited has entered into contractual agreements with specified correctional personnel to do limited testing of their neural chips. In California, their Neural Chip implant is being tested on several prisoners identified as members of the security threat group. The results of implants on 8 prisoners yielded the following results.

See that? They’re secretly testing their chip on prisoners. Mind you, testing on unsuspecting people. That too, an archaic chip, compared to ours.

Not an isolated incident, believe me. Such experiments are taking place all over the world. Not openly. But, covertly.

We’re dumb. Asses, rather. Waiting for people to fall into our lap. That’s never going to happen.

Ray, let’s catch some unsuspecting fool: an unconscious patient or some one in restorative coma. Except for a few of us, no one needs to know.

I’m depressed. Angry. So are many of our team mates. I urge you to act quickly. Or else…."

John

23 Feb, 2003

This was more of an ultimatum than a message. Ray was expecting it. Any day. Any moment. He was fully conscious of the mental turmoil his team was enduring. Still, it was a little unfair to put such a responsibility on his shoulders. As a leader, it was his duty to oversee the academic content of the project, not to acquire a volunteer. That part was every member’s responsibility.

How did one achieve such things? Trapping a patient. To use him as an apparatus for their experiment. That too, without his knowing it. Ray had no experience of it. And he knew of no one, amongst his friends and colleagues, who ever did that. Even if he managed to get a patient somehow, what about his brain surgery? Was it possible to do a brain implantation secretly? His mind was spinning trying to deliberate on all this.

Little did Ray envisage that, about 250 kms from his Chetna Coma clinic office in Bangalore, his guinea pig was busy saving another life.

2 

The atmosphere was airless.

That was how Dr. Aman Kapoor felt as he got out of his car to fill petrol at a self-filling station. So muggy, heeeeshsh, he hissed and checked his watch.

Two o’clock in the morning. Still, so sultry?

Sweat immediately covered his hairline and neck forcing him to dig his pockets for the large-sized hankie that he always kept with him while going on a long trip.

With a night like this, the day was certain to be unliveable. No breeze was blowing. Not even a rustle of the leaves. The trees stood absolutely dead-still. Not a great night to be driving around. Well, he had no choice. He was driving home after an eight-hour futile struggle to save the life of an encephalitic patient.

Tightening the lid on his petrol tank, he trudged up and down a couple of times to increase the blood flow to his cramped leg muscles. He had been driving continuously for two hours.

Physically, drained out.

Mentally, inflamed.

Once he got back on the highway, his mind flipped back to his patient and the scene at the nursing home where he was admitted. Seven competent doctors, struggling to save a life. Hofff, wheezed Aman, recalling the tension. Calling it a struggle was, actually, belittling their labour. Honestly, it was a see-saw battle with death in which he lost his patient in spite of his well-acclaimed acumen and his overpowering self-confidence.

Aman felt pygmied.

Not that surrendering to death was a new experience for a busy doctor like him. He had faced it dozens of times, during his practice as a General Practitioner in Bangalore for the last six years. Like Malati Sahay dying of hepatitis B, K.Mohan of food-poisoning, Mary Vergheese of double pneumonia and many many more.

Still…. this time, it was different. A lapse in his diagnosis killed his patient, according to his conscience.

Castigating him. Condemning him. Constantly.

He was debilitated by this non-stop mind murmur. If only he could switch off his mind! The only prescription he knew was to get drunk. On an impulse, he pressed the accelerator.

80…….100…….120

Pip…….Pip.

The special alarm in his car sounded, warning him that he had crossed his limit of 120 km. He was a cautious driver and was never comfortable cruising at this speed on Indian roads. Full of tyre-bursting potholes, sleeping animals and defaced surfaces. Today, he ignored the signal, driven by an innate need for Heineken, his favourite beer.

In his mind, his dead patient’s face loomed larger than life, pleading for life and yet slowly disintegrating. Aman felt full with grief, remorse and misery. His stomach rumbled and he felt a hole there, inducing a prickly nip all over his 6 feet 2 inches muscular frame. He twisted and arched in his seat to reduce his discomfort.

Two hours passed. There was a deathly quiet on the road.

Raising the volume of the latest Indi Pop tune blaring on his audio cassette as he was leaving Bangalore city and rolling his shoulders to the song’s rhythm, the truck driver cruised at a good speed and managed the risky U-turn at the northern city limit smartly. Flash! He was blinded by the headlights of a car about 300 ft away. He was numbed to notice that the car driver had strayed partly into his lane, rushing towards him. Rather than staying in the right lanes where the vehicles coming into the city should be.

Blooddy fool, he shrieked, marna hai kya, hauling his senses to react instantly and steering left with full force. The truck leaped a few inches and its front shifted left. But it was too late to stop the car from smashing head-on into the truck’s rear side.

There was a series of nerve-wrecking sounds followed by an eerie-quiet. The truck driver escaped with minor injuries. Not so fortunate was the car driver who was pitched onto the road during the collision.

Aman awoke to a ripping pain around the stem of his neck. A yellow light exploded in his brain. Once. Twice. Blurring his vision and spreading darkness in front of his eyes. Feeling a dampness in his chest, he put his hand on it. His fingers slipped through the viscous, sticky liquid. Comprehending that it was blood dripping to his chest, he shouted, Help, help. The moment he exercised his larynx, a streak of shredding pain originated in his cortex and circulated through his frame. It peaked, levelled and peaked again.

Losing body fluids profusely, he felt cold. Freezing. His senses weakened and his awareness lowered. A dark vortex materialised in his vision, growing bigger and bigger smothering him and drawing him into its inner blackness. Was he dying, he panicked. Gathering all his alertness to abet him from collapsing, he raised his upper torso. Bang…a paralysing cramp blasted his brain pushing him into total blackness.

3 

It’s all fixed, sir, announced Murali, barging into Ray’s office on the third floor of the research wing of the coma clinic, a little breathless. After talking to his contact a few minutes ago, he had dashed to the third floor, two steps at a time, bubbling to inform Ray of his achievement.

Already? asked Ray, blinking at his research student with unbelieving eyes. He was about to cut open the top-priority blue envelope from the pile of confidential mails that his secretary Ellie had just delivered. Replacing the envelope back on the pile, he sat back and remarked, You had met this man only a week before?

Sufficient time, sir. This is his main business, supplying patients to doctors and doctors to patients, reported Murali. Selling scientific appliances is only a front to deceive local authorities.

A gem of a man, said Ray, his words spraying contempt. Imagine the director of country’s prime coma clinic forced by circumstances to deal with a featherbrained swindler like Velu Swamy! Feeling minimised, he probed, Who is our victim?

Ohh! That remains a secret, told Murali. Until you meet him and pay him half the deal-money to extract that.

Rubbish, I’m not meeting him, declined Ray, unloading his irritation over this arrangement. You better deal with him, he ordered.

No way, sir. He will not soften.

Are you sure?

Doubly sure.

Jerk, abused Ray. How does it matter to him whether he deals with you or me?

That’s Swamy’s style, I believe. Even ego, probably.

You’ve left me no choice, protested Ray. When do I meet him?

Today, 6 p.m. In his office.

Today? cried out Ray, sucking in his breath for a few seconds. Oh, my god! I’m nervous.

I can escort you if you want, offered Murali, nonplussed to observe the hawkish and overbearing Ray to be so vulnerable.

That’s of no use, rejected Ray, outrightly.

Sensing the bulk of Ray’s hesitation in meeting Swamy, Murali asked, Do you want me to postpone the meeting?

No…No. Looking over his shoulder to check that his office door was closed, Ray confided, Do you think this rogue can ever blackmail me about this? I may get into… discontinued Ray, perceiving the how-can-I-predict expression on Murali’s face.

Nip off, Murali. You’ve met this fellow a couple of times….What’s his name….

Velu Swamy, prompted Murali.

Yeah…yeah…whatever Swamy he is, Ray said. By now, you must have deduced how much of a crook he is. A simple cheat or a real bloodsucker?

Murali maintained a tactful silence…

Shhhuckk…, don’t tell me that you’ve not dissected this Swamy, yet, said Ray, raising both his hands in mock irritation. Specially an eagle-eyed person like you. He was quick to emphasise, That’s why I chose you for this mission, remember.

A mixed hue of bashfulness and joy brought a reddish tinge to Murali’s brown face. Thank you, sir…I appreciate that… thanks, he managed to utter, trying to rein in the flooding feelings. For him, it was a chance of a lifetime to be allowed to participate in the brain implantation procedure, assisting an illustrious neurosurgeon like Ray.

A coveted reward.

If he finalised this deal.

Thinking quickly, he voiced, Swamy and blackmail. I don’t think so.

Why?

His business is flourishing due to his large number of influential clients, who have given him both affluence and respectability. Why should he risk it by indulging into blackmail?

Sound logic, accepted Ray, finally making up his mind to meet Swamy. Alright, tell me how to reach Swamy’s office. Remember, arrangements be such that the risk of my being spotted is minuscule.

That evening, Ray left his office a little early. He didn’t want to be late for the appointment. It was ok if he reached earlier. He was ready to wait either in Swamy’s office or even in the autorikshaw itself. Ray had opted for this mode of transport because it was most suited for moving in the lanes and bylanes of the old city where Swamy’s office was situated.

Ray was still disoriented regarding this assignment. Things were happening too fast for his liking as if some unknown hand was forcing it on him. John’s directive. His own discussions with Murali about acquiring a volunteer. Murali’s pact with Swamy. And, finally, today’s meeting. All in 9 day’s time.

Crutchch… Crutchch…. the auto plunged into an open manhole and tilted dangerously towards the right. Aiiyyooo, Ray groaned, as his body hit the right wall of the auto.

"Sahib, are you in an auto for the first time?" chided the driver.

No, said Ray, shakily, massaging his right shoulder.

You should always sit holding the bar in front of you.

"Chhup, reprimanded Ray, annoyed that the youngish auto driver had been paying more attention to the lady pedestrians than to his driving. You’re a rash driver," he exhorted.

"Aur kaise drive karein? the driver reacted. When the roads are full of holes and people."

That’s the challenge for an experienced driver, provoked Ray, angry that the driver was going on arguing even though the fault was his.

"Arre, Sahib. No experience matters on these roads, chuckled the driver, pointing to a wide cavity in the middle of the road just ahead. When you’ve to drive over pits like that."

Ray lapsed into a silence, knowing it was fruitless to discuss issues with the less privileged sections of society. Their perceptions were warped, tending to perpetually blame the government or the affluent for all their problems. That was how they were tutored by political leaders. Not a single leader taught them to scrutinise their mistakes for fear of becoming unpopular.

Jolted by a muscle-twisting shake, he noticed that they were entering the old part of the city. After that, it was like a carnival ride. The auto hopped, dived, wobbled and rattled, churning Ray’s stomach. Traces of coffee that he drank half an hour before were being pushed up, gnawing his oesophagus.

Most unexpectedly, they entered into a constricted gully. It was so narrow that kids standing on the verandas were punching the auto top, when they passed. Must be a short-cut, Ray thought, instantly covering his nose with his hankie to avoid any foul smells that might emanate from any of the nooks and corners.

Least caring for the passenger’s comfort, the driver zigzagged his way through the gully to avoid bumping into any two-wheelers coming from the opposite side. Unnerving Ray to close his eyes in anticipation of a bump, any moment. Thankfully, they came into a wide lane without any crash and soon reached Swamy’s office.

Entering the veranda-converted lobby, Ray stood still, trying to familiarise himself with the surroundings. The place looked like an office. Neat, tidy. Very dissimilar to the flashy offices that Ray was used to. Towards his left, Ray found three ladies busy typing and an older man, appearing like a supervisor, sitting at a mahogany desk and absorbed in accounts.

This office was more functional than showy, Ray noticed. No computer, no peon. Finding no one in the garb of a secretary or a receptionist, Ray dragged himself to the accountant and interrupted, I’ve to meet Mr.Velu Swamy. The man looked up, signalled Ray to go in and continued with his work without even asking whom Ray was.

Inside, was a different story. Swamy’s chamber was, actually, a mammoth hall with three sitting places; an Indian style living space with divan, gaddis and masanat, a western drawing space with sofas and carpet and a large office desk with sturdy, Godrej chairs, appropriate to indulge any type of clientele. Even westerners, Ray extrapolated.

While Ray was busy scanning the surroundings, a short, heavy-bodied man walked up to him. He was wearing a shimmering, silk-textured mundu and dark shirt. Folding his hands in a greeting, he said, "Swagatam, Professor Ray. I’m honoured."

Swamy’s words did not match his expression. Comprehending that his host cared a damn who he was, Ray sounded, You know me?

Most of the Bangloreans know you, he said, matter-of-factly, without any awe or admiration. Yours is a celebrity face.

Ray’s first impression was that Swamy is a cad, as expected. But, a professional cad, cool and canny. In contrast, Ray was nervous. He just wanted to finish the deal and get out. As if reading his mind, Swamy said, handing over a piece of paper to him, Here is the bio-data of your subject. If it suits you we can go ahead with our deal.

Ray skimmed through the details on the note, anxiously. It was crisp, to the point.

Dr. Aman Kapoor. Age: 32. Profession: Doctor. Relatives: Only a married sister.

Admitted in Get Well hospital in Bangalore after an automobile accident. In coma for 12 days. Expected to recover.

Ray was thrilled to read and re-read Aman’s details. A perfect human subject for their experiment as if god had designed Aman for their chip. There was one snag still. Aman’s transfer from Get Well to Chetna.

Get Well is Dr. Tapan Dutta’s hospital? recalled Ray, loudly.

Yes.

That man is very possessive of his hospital, commented Ray.

A well-rumoured fact, admitted Swamy, casually.

Why should he agree to transfer Aman to our place as they have a team of skilled coma experts in Get Well? Ray pressed.

Leave that to me.

"I don’t see how you can arrange it," disputed Ray, unable to believe that Tapan Dutta would let Aman go so easily.

None of your business, Professor. I know my job, rebuffed Swamy, irritated that Ray was trying to dominate him. I’m not like you intellectuals. A pack of scarecrows. You brood too much and complicate issues, he said, more like an outburst. Swallowing the extra-saliva foaming in his mouth, he spelt out, Do you want Aman or not?

Obviously, said Ray, struggling to moderate his desire to lash out. I’m not here for a drink!

Good… very good, said Swamy, overlooking Ray’s caustic tone. You get Aman in a week. Exactly when, I’ll let you know through Murali. Glancing at the conference bag that Ray was carrying with him, he completed, In return for the money.

Taking the hint, Ray took out a plastic cover and gave it to him, saying, Count it.

No need. Not a rupee less, I’m sure, said Swamy, jeeringly, a foxy cast on his face. I recognise a cheat whenever I see one.

Ray felt a rush of adrenaline, descending the steps of Swamy’s office. The deal had been struck. Accomplished very easily too. Now, they could proceed with the testing of their chip on Aman who was an ideal subject. His brain was young, intelligent and full-blown.

Murali was right, no grit, no glory.

4 

I’m going to murder that rascal. That puny Dutta, raved Velu Swamy, disconnecting the phone. He had been just informed by his contact doctors in Get Well that their director Dutta was blocking the transfer of Aman from the hospital. They had categorically told him that it was impossible for them to get Aman shifted by the next morning, the deadline given to Ray, because of the adamant attitude of their director.

Swamy was not totally surprised by this happening. Having prepared himself for such an eventuality specially after his meeting with Ray in which the professor had cautioned Swamy about the possessive attitude of Dutta. That was why he had spent lavishly to gather information regarding any blunder on the part of Get Well staff within the last few months.

To his relief, Swamy had news about three cases where the Get Well staff had been negligent. Taking out the file on the cases, he scrutinised them one by one and finally selected the case of a baby asthma patient, Suman, who lost her life because she was not hooked to the oxygen cylinder in time. With a crooked smile on his face, in anticipation of a scene where he was about to humble Dutta, he locked his office and rushed to Get Well.

Ignoring the protesting cries from Dutta’s secretary that her boss was busy, Swamy barged into the director’s chamber in Get Well. Taking advantage of the nonplussed status of Dutta on finding an unfamiliar person in his office suddenly, Swamy seated himself comfortably in the leather chair facing the director and unfolded, I’m Velu Swamy. I had requested for a transfer of Aman Kapoor to Chetna.

That’s against our policy, declared Dutta, quickly tuning in to the new situation without any fuss. We do not transfer any patient to any of the city hospitals unless we feel that he can get better treatment there. In Aman’s case, we’re capable of administering the best treatment since we have a team of skilled coma experts here. So, there is no question of a transfer.

Supposing the relatives want a change?

That never happens, mister. This hospital has a name. People come here because they have faith in our diagnostic and curative abilities, trumpeted Dutta. The public knows that the patient’s well-being is our mission.

Are you sure? pushed Swamy, glaring at him.

What do you mean? asked Dutta cautiously, taken aback by the arrogance of this uncouth man.

If you people are so conscious of your patients’ well-being, how did Suman die? pried Swamy, narrowing his eyes into slits and focussing them on Dutta’s face.

Suman? Who’s Suman? stuttered Dutta, very well realising whom Swamy was referring to.

Let me remind you. You’re a busy man, I know, Swamy taunted. Suman is the asthma patient who died last month in your hospital.

Come on, we’re not god to save every patient who gets admitted here, countered Dutta. Though we would love to.

Tsuuu…Tsssu..That’s not what this report says, jabbered Swamy, throwing an 11 page report on the director’s table.

What report?

The report of the fact-finding committee which was discussed in your executive council meeting a fortnight back, revealed Swamy. And suppressed for obvious reasons.

Dutta was jolted. How could Swamy get his hands on Suman’s confidential report? Even in the hospital, very few people knew about it. Suspicious whether it was really Suman’s report or some fake one, Dutta raised the file from his table and turned the pages. Go through it carefully, mocked Swamy. It’s not a fake. Ignoring Swamy’s comments, Dutta read a few lines here and there. To his utter embarrassment, he found that it was a true copy of Suman’s report.

How did you get that?

That’s not important, snubbed Swamy. Supposing this gets published in tomorrow’s papers?

You can’t do that? cried out Dutta, lines of worry appearing on his brow.

How can you stop me?

This is black mail, protested Dutta, nervously.

Ohh, really? goaded Swamy, jeeringly

I’ll call the police.

Go ahead. Let me see how brave you’re, prompted Swamy, adding to Dutta’s nervousness. Look, black mail is part of my business. I know how to twist law to wriggle out of it. So, you can’t harm me. On the contrary, he paused, glancing at Dutta with a sly smile. Suman’s death…in the morning papers, he deliberately left it at that.

Totally harassed and unable to think clearly because of the pressure on him, Dutta managed to utter, I’ll have to talk to the members of the governing body. Which means a week at least. As I cannot take such a policy decision on my own. He was trying to buy time.

You sign an executive order to transfer Aman, suggested Swamy. Later, you convince your colleagues that you had no option but to accede to my request.

No, no, I can’t do that, wailed Dutta, appearing shaky. Such a decision will project me as a coward in the eyes of the management.

Well…in that case, sighed Swamy, getting up from his chair and stretching his hand to pick up Suman’s report from Dutta’s table, sad…I will feel extremely bad to defame a good hospital like Get Well.

Wait…wait, appealed Dutta, running his hand through his thin hair twice. Comprehending that Swamy had him by his neck and that there was no way he could escape from this rascal’s clutches, he whispered, Tell me what you want.

That’s better, said