In Good Faith

By Hansa Muranjan-Shahi

Rahul never thought of being a doctor.
He enters medical college by a quirk of fate, impelled by the adulation of his middle-class family. Unsure whether he wants to pursue medicine, he vacillates between indifference and curiosity until he finds himself confronted with the cold reality of death…
Zahi had always wanted to be a doctor.
Earnest and serious, she refuses to harbour any doubts or imagine herself doing anything other than medicine. But fuelling her convictions and desire, underneath her fiery demeanour, lurks a secret…
Vivek always knew he would be a doctor.
He enters the world of medicine as an entitlement. Born into a family of physicians, inheriting the white apron seems the most natural thing to him. But little does he know that medicine is a calling for which he may be woefully unprepared…
Set in the city of Mumbai, the story traces their lives and loves, their hopes, fears and aspirations, as they wind their way through medical college confronting disease and death, anger and violence, joy and hope. Finding sustenance always in the undying spirit of human beings, they each finally discover their own reason to become healers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hansa
• Release date: Jul 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9789387280434

Book preview

HERACLITUS

Rahul

The midday sun rose to its zenith, casting bright rays into the corners of the garden of Ganesh Nivas. Filtering through the dense green foliage, it left a dappled pattern on the grass below, and fell upon the statue of the elephant-headed god sitting benevolently in the centre. Bouncing off the burnished girth of the statue, the dazzling rays then entered a partly-open window of the adjoining building. Inside the room, a young man lay sprawled across the bed, the reflected light illuminating his handsome young visage.

Rahul stirred and opened one eye to squint at his bedside clock, averting his head to avoid the bright sunlight streaming onto his face.

What the—? It’s after noon already! I overslept! he cried. Why didn’t somebody wake me up?

He tried frantically to remember his schedule for the day at college, but his thoughts were disrupted by the ruffling of paper. Half-rising, he cast his gaze around the bedroom and his eyes fell on a thick tome that lay open on the bedside table, its pages fluttering noisily in concert with the sweeping blades of the fan above.

No wonder I can’t remember—it’s Sunday! he muttered.

He recollected having asked not to be disturbed early that morning and his family had obliged, knowing that he’d been up studying late into the night. The anatomy textbook on his study table bore mute witness to that. He had been so tired that he couldn’t remember crawling into bed or turning off the light.

Now he sank back upon his pillow, deciding to savour the peace and solitude.

After all, I deserve it for slogging all week! he thought to himself, lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, watching the dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight. His thoughts returned to college. The past fortnight had been hectic. It was only a couple of weeks since his first day in medical college, and already his enthusiasm was wearing thin. He had entered with a plethora of emotions—relief as well as exhilaration at getting in, trepidation at the thought of ragging, excitement at the idea of learning to treat disease, and dread of seeing suffering and death at close quarters. But soon enough, all these thoughts had dissipated. Just yesterday on the way home, he had been wondering whether being a doctor was really what he wanted to do with his life. It didn’t seem at all glamorous or exciting, as some people seemed to imagine. It just seemed like a lot of hard work and incomprehensible details to commit to memory. But the pride on his parents’ faces and the joy in their eyes when he got back home banished his misgivings. He resolved to give it another shot by reading up some of the stuff before deciding it wasn't worth his time.

So he had again turned to Gray’s Anatomy. He knew that the book was a labour of love, a collaboration between two young doctors in the mid-nineteenth century—the brilliant surgeon Henry Gray who performed the dissections and wrote the text, and his colleague Henry Vandyke Carter, who was responsible for the detail and accuracy of the anatomical illustrations. The book quickly gained recognition beyond expectations, and from then on to the present day, it had been considered an essential ‘rite of passage’ book for generations of medical students. Rahul gazed at it. The faded blue cloth of the cover betrayed that it was second-hand. His cousin Siddharth had given it to him to celebrate his entry into medical college, and Rahul had received the book almost reverently. Glancing through its multicoloured pages, he was surprised to find that it was in pristine condition without a mark or underlining anywhere. Siddharth had said with a chuckle that the absence of the book would free up a lot of space on his bookshelf, and that he was certain that Rahul would be edified. Rahul wondered if Sid had even attempted to read it, since all this talk of edification sounded suspicious to him. Later, when his mother accidentally dropped it while dusting and narrowly missed crushing her toes, he realized why Sid had been so eager to give it away.

In his earnestness, Rahul had begun reading it even before he went to college, curious to see what it was like. But he had found that his interest had quickly waned, as the language was so dry and difficult to remember. It took him almost an hour to read through a page and then he inevitably found that he couldn't remember what he had just read. The unfamiliar names of the anatomical structures and their relations, or their nextdoor neighbors in the body, eluded him even though he had a good memory. Nevertheless, he had to admire the magnificence of the work. Rahul marvelled that together the two Henrys had produced a magnum opus with its masterly descriptions and exquisite drawings. He was sure there was no other textbook like it anywhere in the world, but he wished that he didn't have to read the damn thing.

The aroma wafting from the kitchen window shook Rahul out of his reverie, reminding him that it was nearly lunchtime. He vaguely remembered someone knocking on his door to ask if he wanted breakfast, and that he had sleepily mumbled that he didn’t want any. But now he was hungry. In a trice he was up, grabbing his toothbrush. He walked out onto the balcony outside his bedroom, from which he had a view of the garden. The statue of Ganesh stood on a pedestal surrounded by a small pool of water which shimmered aquamarine and was adorned with floating rose petals. A motley flock of birds was drinking thirstily, chattering at the water’s edge. When there was more water after the rains, the birds often took a dip, squabbling like toddlers in a splash pool.

The toothpaste made Rahul’s mouth tingle, and he turned towards his room when his glance fell on the balcony opposite. His friend Dayton lived there, and they would sometimes talk to each other across the railings. That was when he noticed the stranger lounging in the wicker chair. He appeared to be a few years older than Rahul, and he was lean and wore his hair long. Presently he leaned over the balustrade to watch the birds.

That’s funny, I didn’t know the Perreiras had a guest coming to stay, thought Rahul. Wonder why Dayton didn’t mention it?

Dayton was the member of the Perreira clan nearest to Rahul in age, but he was very different in everything else. He considered studies a waste of time and a hindrance to his education. He was into heavy metal, wore his hair in a ponytail and sported an earring as well as tattoos on his biceps, which he proudly flexed to display them in all their glory. His passion was drums, and he created quite a racket at home and much consternation in his apartment block. But for the fact that he had volunteered to play the drums during the annual Ganpati festival which he did with much gusto, his neighbours would not have permitted his talent to flourish. Mrs Perreira doted on her younger son, but despaired of him ever settling down to ‘something serious’, as she put it. She often voiced her concerns to Mrs Joshi as they chatted over coffee or met each other in the park for an evening walk. Rahul’s mother thought Dayton an irresponsible young man and secretly worried that he was a bad influence on her son, but she never mentioned this to Rahul. Young people were so apt to do exactly the opposite of what their parents wished, especially if they were dogmatic or overbearing about it. Besides, her son seemed to be developing into a sensible and mature, if somewhat opinionated, young man. And now he had got into medical college, which was surely any parent’s dream come true.

Presently the stranger straightened up, meeting Rahul’s eyes momentarily across the balcony, and disappeared inside. Rahul walked back into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and towelled it dry, then looked in the mirror as he ran a comb through his thick dark hair. If he had been narcissistic, he might have seen much that pleased him. A long chiselled nose, deep brown eyes and lips that easily curved into a smile. But as things were, he wasn't vain except for being thankful in a general sense that he didn't have a bulbous nose or a receding chin. He was glad too, that he had taken after his father in terms of his height, for his mother was petite. Other than that, he didn't care too much about his looks. His casual attitude and way of dressing rendered him more attractive to the opposite sex, and he had discovered that things worked better for him if he acted as though he was unaware of female appreciation. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days, knowing that the hint of stubble suited him. He put on his spectacles to complete what he imagined to be an edgy but intellectual look, and walked across to the dining area.

No sooner had he settled himself at one end of the dining table, than Surabhi, his precocious thirteen year old sister, burst into the room.

They’ve got a paying guest, she announced grandly, apropos of nothing.

Who has? asked Rahul, attacking his poori and aloo sabzi.

The Perreiras, his mother answered placidly, spooning some mango pickle onto his plate. They finally decided to rent out Derek’s room, as he doesn’t live at home anymore.

Should fetch them about a cool two thousand a month or so, added Surabhi importantly. I heard Mrs Perreira say that’s the going rate in this locality.

Oh yes, I suppose you just happened to be near their kitchen window and overheard her talking, the way you always happen to be around when there’s a phone call for me, teased her brother.

Surabhi rose to the bait at once, as he had expected. "That’s not fair, Dada! I was in the kitchen helping Ma the other day when Mrs Perreira told her about their PG. I suppose you think I should stick cotton wool in my ears whenever grownups are talking! She flounced out of the room in a huff. Rahul opened his mouth to retort, but his mother intervened mildly, Why do you always try to provoke her, you know she’s so touchy about jokes at her expense."

Rahul didn’t answer, but grinned placatingly at his mother. Ma, what are younger sisters for, if not to tease? he demanded. She’ll be okay in a while.

But after lunch, he went up to Surabhi’s room, to see whether she had got over her annoyance at his remark. He was fond of his kid sister, though merciless in his criticism of the new fashions she was always trying out. On the other hand, he called her ‘Little Grandma’ when she tried to act older than her age. Now, he found her lying flat on her stomach on the bed, her nose buried in a book. She didn't look up when he came in, although she heard him enter. He pushed some clothes aside and sat on a chair, surveying the room.

A large poster of some film hero he didn’t recognise adorned one wall, while a glamorous model simpered at him from the opposite wall. The headboard of the bed had a bookrack on it, stuffed with paperbacks and a few hardbound volumes. Surabhi was happiest when curled up with a book and hated being disturbed when she was in the middle of a good story. She had even tried bringing novels to the table at mealtimes, but this had been strictly forbidden by her father.

What’s that you’re reading? asked Rahul, more as a move to open a conversation than out of any real interest. Seeing that no reply was forthcoming, he added, We could go down to the gym for a swim, if you like. I’ve got nothing to do this evening.

Surabhi frowned and shrugged her shoulders, as if she really didn’t care for the idea. But then she said, Okay, because it wasn’t often that her brother offered to take her anywhere—and there didn’t seem to be much point in spending the rest of the day sulking in her bedroom. The weather was warm, and the thought of the cool water was tempting.

Rahul got up. Be ready by 4 pm, he said, adding, Sharp! half-humorously. Before Surabhi could retort, he had left, grinning widely.

The summer heat had abated when evening came, and the cool sea breeze felt good against their faces. Surabhi had been ready on time, which surprised Rahul, and the two of them got on their bicycles and made their way slowly to the gym. Rahul led the way, navigating through a maze of little lanes and avoiding the main roads as far as possible, for Surabhi tended to get nervous if a bus came up behind her. They passed a gaggle of little girls playing hopscotch in the shade of a tree, and a few children in ragged clothes, rolling a tyre along with a stick.

Soon, they were back on the main road. Riding abreast, Rahul glanced at Surabhi who was determinedly looking straight ahead and studiously ignoring him. Normally, she would be chattering away continuously. Rahul realised that she was still miffed over the incident at lunch, but he also knew that she was longing to hear all about his medical college experiences.

Did you know what happened in the nineteenth century when medical students needed bodies to study anatomy, and there weren't enough cadavers?

Surabhi shrugged her shoulders and gave her curls a little toss, indicating that she couldn’t care less.

Some enterprising fellows started digging up corpses and selling them to the students, he continued. Haven't you heard of the Bodysnatchers?

Surabhi seemed uncertain whether this was another of her brother’s jokes, but her curiosity got the better of her. No, who were they? she blurted, giving Rahul a sideways glance. And I don’t want to hear any made-up tales, she said firmly.

I’m not joking! There was a huge demand for dead bodies so that medical students and doctors could cut them up—dissection, as it’s called even today—and study the internal structure of the human body. And obviously, someone had to supply the bodies, so a whole bunch of thieves called the Bodysnatchers began raiding graveyards at night. They carried off the dead to sell them to medical schools and anatomists. The whole business became so profitable that people had to pay to guard the graves of their loved ones, lest they landed up on a dissection table somewhere!

Surabhi made a face, squeezing her eyes shut and making her bicycle wobble. How horrible! That can’t be true, she exclaimed.

And it's even thought that some guys were murdered so that their bodies could be sold, he said, warming up to the topic on seeing that his sister’s black mood was lifting just a bit. Just imagine:—still pedalling, he spread his hands graphically, trying to sound spooky—A couple of fellows sitting in a dark tavern with a companion whose drink they had poisoned, waiting for him to collapse so they could rush him to their customer waiting in the shadows, and pocket the cash.

Surabhi grimaced. Do you expect me to believe that story?

It's quite likely to be true, protested Rahul. Haven’t you read of how trafficking in human organs occurs across the world even today? After all, life was extremely tough in those days. People were put to death for petty crimes. There was plenty of violence and cruelty. And who would miss a vagabond if he disappeared?

That’s disgusting! Surabhi said, as both of them braked, skidding to a stop and hopping off their bicycles. I don’t think I want to hear any more.

The ride had left them panting, with little rivulets of sweat running down their backs. As they wheeled their bicycles towards the cycle stand, Surabhi swivelled around and pointed at the only person in the pool, who was swimming lengths, his body cutting strongly through the water.

There he is! her stage whisper was loud enough to reach the ears of the subject in question, who turned to look at them in amusement.

Who’s he? inquired Rahul, shaking his head at his incorrigible sister.

Oh, that’s Atul, the Perreiras’ new PG! exclaimed Surabhi, importantly. Didn’t you know?

Now that you mention it, yes, that’s the same guy I saw this morning, replied Rahul. What do you think he thinks of you, shouting and pointing at him like that?

They had reached the changing rooms by then and Surabhi did not deign to reply. Instead, she darted inside and was already in the pool by the time Rahul had changed and showered. While he swam a few lengths, she stayed in the shallow end since she wasn’t such a good swimmer.

Atul got out of the pool, tossing his head to shake the water out of his long hair, and made his way to the changing rooms. He was tall and lithe, with a tanned body.

He’s quite dishy, isn’t he? commented Surabhi. I’ve seen him exercising in the balcony—it’s called pumping iron, she informed her brother. Rahul burst out laughing. She really was irrepressible. But he admitted to himself that the newcomer did look exceptionally fit, and he resolved to start exercising regularly. Regrettably, these days he was so tired by the time he got home from college in the evenings, he just didn’t feel energetic enough to do any exercising. Somehow, in the last few years, my studies have completely taken over my life, he mused regretfully.

It had been like that since Class Ten, which was the year of reckoning, so to speak. If you didn’t get a decent aggregate in the all-important Board Exams, you were finished; your fate was sealed. You wouldn’t be admitted into a good college, where everyone was single-mindedly preparing for a career in medicine or engineering, as though those were the only professions worth pursuing. Architecture and dentistry ran a close second, but doctors and engineers were king. You simply had to make the grade, for there were no second chances for those who didn’t. The system was too cruel and offered no redemption. And who would be so foolhardy as to spend time doing useless things like exercising, playing games, or learning to play an instrument? After all, the exams did not take into consideration any of those talents and abilities. Eat, sleep, study…eat, sleep, study…that was the rhythm to which most students performed.

You can stay there a bit longer if you like. I'm going in to change, said Rahul.

No, I’m coming out too, Surabhi replied.

There was a light drizzle as they were returning home, and the pavements glistened with little puddles reflecting the streetlights overhead. The smell of rainwashed earth came to Rahul's nostrils. It would make quite a heady perfume, he thought, if only it weren’t mingled with the faint whiff of decaying fish.

After dinner was over, and the family had retired for the night, Rahul walked out onto his balcony. The rain had cleared up the haze and dust and the sky was bedecked with stars. But the garden below was cloaked in darkness. Suddenly, Rahul saw a match flare, and then a cigarette-end glowed brightly. Someone was on the balcony of the house opposite. It could only be the new resident, as Mr Perreira was out of town, and Dayton didn’t smoke. Mrs Perreira is certainly not going to like that, he thought as he turned away from the balcony. Tomorrow was Monday, and he had to be in college for a morning lecture followed by Dissection. He turned off the light, plunging the room in darkness, and slipped under the bedcovers. He fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Vivek

At about the time that daylight was filtering into Rahul’s bedroom, a light flicked on in the bathroom of an apartment some miles away. Vivek stood in front of the huge mirror that covered one wall, and looked at himself. The young man staring back at him had black hair flopping over his forehead, mischievous dark brown eyes below eyebrows that met in the centre, and long sideburns. Shaking the hair off his forehead, he broke into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they almost vanished completely. He rinsed his mouth, patting down his moustache neatly with his fingers. He was proud of that moustache and had been cultivating it carefully for the past three months, coaxing it into a semblance of respectability just in time to coincide with the start of the college term. He then darted over to the bathing area, grabbed the hand shower and struck a rockstar pose with his legs apart and fist wrapped around the ‘mike’. He swept back his hair with the flat of his hand for a slightly raffish look, and was pleased with the effect, notwithstanding the smear of toothpaste down the front of his pajama top.

The blue pajamas soon found themselves on the bathroom floor as Vivek pulled on a pair of Y-fronts and jeans, then buckled his belt and looked in the mirror again. Flexing his pecs, he thought he didn’t look bad, but could do with a bit more muscle. He pulled on a long-sleeved denim shirt, picked up his helmet and left the house. He had planned to go on a long motorcycle ride this Sunday morning, just him and his machine. There it was, a spanking new bright red piece of solid metal, the chrome gleaming from the polish he had lavished upon it the previous afternoon after college. All he had to do was give it a quick rub with a soft cloth and he could see his reflection in its shining surface. He’d had it for just a few months, and it had become his most prized possession. He had badly wanted it right from the day he had seen it in the showroom window, and had managed to prevail on his mother, who had convinced his father. Vivek usually accomplished his objective if he went to his mother when he wanted something, although his dad often reproached her for indulging him. Still, this time at least, no doubt she was vindicated when he had got into medical college, soon after the motorbike had been bought.

Vivek straddled the machine, gunned its engine to life and zoomed off, leaving a faint blue plume of smoke trailing in his wake. The city still had not woken up from its slumber and the roads were deserted. He chose a particularly broad and straight section of the main road, a distance of well over five kilometres that he called his ‘racing track’. Crouching low, his helmet fitting snugly over his head, he roared down the road at breakneck speed. The ear-splitting whine of the revved engine pierced the early morning stillness, scattering the crows which were scavenging off the sidewalks. Luckily, hardly any people were about to be bothered. And if an old man out for an early morning stroll had his solitude disturbed and shook a fist at Vivek’s retreating back, well, that was only to be expected. These things had been happening since time immemorial, and would continue to happen as long as boys grew up and developed a sense of rebellion, matched by the need for speed. They gradually progressed to indifference once their appetites were satiated, and still later on to indignation and annoyance at the self-absorption and thoughtlessness of callow youth. And so the cycle would continue. Like many young people, Vivek thought that treading on a few toes didn’t matter as long as one got what one wanted. He reasoned that it was pointless being unduly concerned about a few crotchety old men who had forgotten what it was like to be young and optimistic.

Easing off the throttle, he turned off the main road and nudged the bike into a narrow winding lane, a path he knew well. He had been riding along it since he was a kid, maybe nine or ten years old, on a bicycle. The lane wound its way alongside a low wall which was all that separated it from the sea beyond. There wasn’t much of a current in these parts, but further on there was a place called Land’s End, where the breakers smashed themselves into spumes of white foam on the rocks. Vivek had loved this place for as long as he could remember, not only because it was peaceful, but because on the other side the road sloped gently downwards so that the momentum of the bicycle would take him all the way down, right to the entrance of a quaint little marketplace at the bottom. It was quite a long way, and he would often let the bicycle carry him down slowly all on its own, but sometimes he stood ‘in the saddle’ and pumped the pedals furiously, then let them go so that they spun crazily while he sat back and sailed down the hill. He wasn’t sure which was more fun, for it just depended on the mood he was in.

Land’s End was just ahead and he braked gently, cutting off the engine so that the motorbike sputtered to a stop. Without the least trace of selfconsciousness, he pulled off his helmet and lifted both his arms in exhilaration. Then he exhaled deeply and sat down on the rocky parapet to savour the crisp morning air. He sat there motionless for a long time, staring out at the shimmering blue-green waters of the sea extending endlessly beyond.

Whatever else Vivek might have been thinking about as he gazed into the horizon, it certainly wasn’t medical college or the fact of his having gotten into it. That had been a foregone conclusion, although he and his parents had never discussed what they would have done had he failed to get admission on his own merit. He fully expected, however, that his father would have paid the required fee to get him into one of the capitation medical colleges, even in another city if necessary. So he had not been unduly stressed by the fear that he had only this one chance and if he blew it, there was no alternative plan for his medical career. In this sense, he was at an advantage compared to his other classmates, who were either not knowledgeable about or familiar with the world of medicine, or whose parents didn’t have the money to buy them a seat in a medical college. It all boiled down to having hard cash, and Vivek had no illusions about its importance. Money gave one opportunity and comfort, both of which were clearly important. Beyond that, Vivek did not know or care. He had his whole life ahead of him to find out.

A sudden burst of ocean spray half-drenched him as he turned to leave. Feeling calm and relaxed, he cruised slowly homewards. There was still no-one about for most of the way back, and he made the bike weave dangerously from one side of the road to the other, enjoying the motion. He parked the bike in his own special slot, with the number proudly painted on the wall. Getting off, he beckoned to a young lad standing in the driveway, and handed him a piece of flannel, indicating that he should clean the machine. The boy, who was their driver’s son, was equally entranced by the bike, and enthusiastically kept it in immaculate condition. Not only did he get to touch it, but he also got a small sum of money for his efforts from Vivek every month. Vivek suspected that the major part of it went on buying cigarettes and gutka, but he told himself that it was none of his business. He didn’t smoke, but he didn’t care if other people chose to. And the kid was old enough to know what he should or should not be doing.

Vivek and his parents lived in a new apartment block where they had moved just the previous year. Formerly, they had lived in the same neighbourhood but in an old and dilapidated building, like many of the old buildings in the vicinity. Housing societies had neither the inclination nor apparently the funds for the upkeep of their properties, and it seemed that the only time they got around to repairing the buildings was when there was actually a safety hazard. Committee meetings were often a slugfest, or what was worse, a stamping-ground for aspirants keen to be elected to the committee. Vivek’s parents, as prospering doctors, were upwardly mobile or at least they wished to be, which was why they had moved into a newer, better and hopefully more cooperative Housing Society.

Vivek whistled as he ran up the steps to the marbled entrance of the building and walked into the elevator, pressed the sixth floor button and waited for the doors to close. He took a deep breath. When he was alone in the elevator, he always felt a slight sense of unease as the doors closed. He preferred the old-fashioned kind of lifts where there was a cage with a grille, which didn’t bring on an attack of claustrophobia and one could always yell for help if one got stuck. He wondered whether he had ever got stuck in an elevator when he was a little kid and his parents had hidden that fact from him. Otherwise how could he explain why he felt the way he did?

The door opened and he bounded out. His parents were at the breakfast table having their morning cups of tea. The covered balcony where they were sitting was full of potted plants. His mother loved plants, and this was the nearest that she could get to a garden in an apartment building in the crowded city. Vivek slid into a chair.

Did you— his mother began, but Vivek shot her a warning glance. His father couldn’t see him from where he sat engrossed in his newspaper, and Vivek had chosen his seat by design rather than by accident. He sipped from the steaming cup of tea that the cook had just placed in front of him, and tried to read the cricketing news on the back page of his father’s newspaper.

I hope you were studying, his father said, looking briefly over the top of the paper.

Studying? Yes, I was— said Vivek, adding under his breath, —just going to.

His father nodded, for he had heard only the first part of the sentence, as Vivek had intended that he should. No harm done, he was going to get down to it.

Studying for something in particular? his father went on genially.

Yes, we have an Anatomy tutorial tomorrow.

Who’s your Anatomy tutorial teacher? asked his dad.

Thankfully not Old Countryface. You asked me that before.

He’s a terror, you tell me? Can’t believe it. He was such a quiet chap in college. He wasn’t in my batch, couple of years senior to me. But I knew him.

Vivek, who had heard all this before, nodded, and rolled his eyes at his mother. She frowned at him but just then the cook brought in idlis and chutney for their breakfast, and she began to serve everyone.

"Idlis again?" said Vivek in surprise.

"Why, what’s wrong? Don’t you like idlis?" asked his mother, ladling sambar into bowls.

I like them, but do we have to have them three times a week? said Vivek. But he didn’t want to upset his mother, and he was hungry, so he took a generous helping anyway. If his father heard, he might start lecturing Vivek on the health benefits of steamed rice idlis. Better to gobble up his breakfast quickly and escape.

I have to go to the clinic for a while this afternoon, to see some patients. Do you want to come? Vivek’s dad would often consult on Sunday mornings, so this was not unusual. Sometimes it turned out to be an emergency, when the patient needed an operation urgently, but occasionally he had to see one of his large circle of friends and relations. The latter of course, didn’t consider it any kind of obligation even if it was a Sunday. Doctors were expected to be available for emergencies twenty-four hours a day, and how was a patient to know whether or not his condition was an emergency? He would have to see the doctor first in order to find out. So, from the patient’s point of view, it was always an emergency.

Vivek had agreed to go with his dad because he knew that this way his dad would be able to satisfy himself that Vivek was studying. To him, it was funny how they went shadow-boxing around each other, trying not to tread on each other’s toes, but he also had to make an effort not to show his irritation when he felt that his dad’s questions were an intrusion on his privacy. Vivek’s father could, and did at times, display no compunction about asking awkward questions of his son. He felt that he had every right to do so, being in a position to guide his son through his career. Moreover, he thought that he had done all right by his family, having been successful in providing a good life for them and he wanted Vivek in his turn to understand and fulfill his parents’ expectations from him. Generally though, father and son got on quite well and lived in peaceful coexistence without interfering too much in each other’s lives.

So, in order of priority, Vivek’s reasons for accompanying his dad were:

One: to get Dad off his back.

Two: to chat up the cute receptionist at the dentist’s clinic next door. She might not be there, as the dentist didn’t often see patients on Sundays, but maybe there was an emergency tooth extraction or something.

Three: to snoop around the clinic. Vivek was nothing if not inquisitive and loved poking around other people’s stuff. Even his parents’, although he was convinced that they were the most boring couple on earth and never did anything that was the least bit interesting.

He took with him Cunningham’s Dissection Manual, noting his dad’s glance of approval. Score one for Vivek. It was no trouble to carry, being a slim paperback volume, and he might actually get down to reading it if he didn’t find anything else to do.

Vivek’s dad was in the clinic examining a young girl who was there with her parents. Vivek had noticed her as they went into the consulting room. She was thin and nervous-looking, and seemed to be in pain. Vivek sat down in the waiting room after a quick check of the dentist’s clinic, which was locked. Sinking into the sofa, he decided he might as well start on Cunningham’s, which was a practical treatise on how to ‘cut up a human corpse’. That was the literal translation of ‘Dissection’, and every student, especially aspiring surgeons, carried a copy in the pocket of his white coat. But after a while, Vivek began to get bored. His dad seemed to be taking much longer than he’d expected. Maybe those people were friends of his father and were passing the time of day with him. Or maybe the kid was really sick. Vivek jumped up and went over to a glass-fronted cabinet which held an array of plaques and mementoes from conferences his father had attended. There were a few specimens preserved in formalin in Perspex cases—a gallbladder with stones spilling out of it, a turgid appendix like a swollen bean pod, a large knobbly tumour which he’d seen so many times, but still wasn’t able to identify. He never remembered to ask his dad what it was. He found some boxes of photographs on the bottom shelves of the cabinet, and began flipping through them. But they were all of patients or surgical specimens, and weren’t particularly interesting.

His father came out, talking to the kid’s parents. They were probably friends, or at least acquaintances. Vivek thought he had better prepare himself to be introduced, and here it came—This is my son Vivek. After the shaking of hands came the mandatory question and answer—Going to be a doctor too? Yes, I’m in my first year of medical college, and then they left. Vivek shot a glance at the young girl’s departing back. She seemed to be better now, no doubt about it. She had hardly been able to stand upright when she came in.

What did she have? Appendicitis? asked Vivek.

I thought it might be, but after examining her, I don’t think so. Probably just period pains.

That’s called dysmenorrhea. Vivek was anxious to show that he knew.

Correct. Sometimes it can be quite painful, particularly in a young girl who’s just started menstruating. And if it’s mainly on the right side, it could be confused with appendicitis.

Did you give her an injection for the pain? I thought you must have. She looked a lot better when she came out.

Yes.

Vivek thought his trip had served its purpose of deflecting his dad’s attention from his studies, now that he had said and done the right things. That should last for some time.

Zahi

Some people collect coins. Or stamps, or broken hearts. Zahi collected noses. Whenever she met someone new, she was instantly attracted to the nose on their face. She was fascinated by the variety of shapes and sizes of the noses that she saw, and would immediately file away a new one mentally for future reference, discarding it if it was similar to any of those that she already knew.

She had heard that the nose was a phallic symbol, but her interest, she believed, was devoid of sexual connotations. A pert nose, an aristocratic nose, an aquiline nose, a retroussé nose…there were plenty of apt words to describe noses. Of course, she had her preferences. The nostrils should not flare too much, nor should the centre of the nose dip so low that it covered most of the upper lip. And sometimes a nose that seemed almost perfect in profile, was disappointing when viewed en face. Her own, she privately thought, fitted into that category, although one could never be quite sure what one’s nose looked like in profile. Still, she thought to herself that taking everything together, her face could be called attractive. Being excessively critical of her looks, however, she didn’t seem to be aware that there were those who thought her pretty. But with her grey eyes, which were her best feature, her dark brown hair and strikingly fair colouring, this was really no surprise. And she was tall and slim, so one might say she had it all.

She remembered the guy on the bus yesterday, who had got off at the same stop. He had made his way down the steps from the bridge, presumably towards the local train station, while she had walked home. She had an idea she had seen him somewhere, but she wasn’t sure where. He had a regular sort of face, not really the kind to catch anyone’s attention, but he did have a nice nose, Zahi thought. Longish, but not too sharp. She thought that a classical nose on a guy made him too handsome to be attractive, and she had known a few who were excessively mindful of, or even obsessed with their own looks. That was the thing: it spoiled it if a guy acted like he knew he was good-looking.

Now, however, she wasn’t thinking of noses, or of the guys who possessed them. In fact, at that moment, she very much wanted to hold her own nose and shut out the smells which assailed her nostrils. It was a Sunday, and she had got up early and hurried to the local fish market. She was a good cook, and her signature dish was silver-white pomfret sliced and stuffed with a delicious green chutney and then lightly pan-fried. Sunday was the only day when she could try out new recipes or rustle up an old favourite, because it was the cook’s day off. Zahi could have the kitchen to herself without having to put up with unsolicited advice from the cook, who clearly disliked her territory being usurped by the pretender.

The weather was hot and humid, and fish being a perishable commodity, everything had to be sold as soon as possible. At this time, she would get the best fish, and the smell was tolerable. In fact, fresh fish didn't smell bad at all—or at least not to someone who had been brought up on it. Zahi had a keen nose, and if the fish smelt even slightly off to her, she knew it wasn't fresh. All around her, women in colourful sarees were seated on stone platforms, zealously advertising their wares. These fishwives sold the daily catch brought in by their menfolk, in an atmosphere of bonhomie and cheerful banter.

Zahi was haggling over the price of a pair of pomfrets with one of the women. How much? she asked.

Fifty rupees, replied the woman.

Zahi clicked her tongue in remonstration and, not to be outdone, countered, Twenty. She was prepared to pay a bit more, but had left herself some bargaining margin.

The woman shook her head. Fifty, she repeated, and turned to serve another customer.

Feigning indifference, Zahi moved some distance away from the stall, pretending to examine a pile of prawns on the adjacent counter. The seller finished serving her customer, then called out to Zahi, Do you want those, too? I'll give them to you at a good price.

Maybe, Zahi answered, but not too eagerly. But I really want the pomfrets. Too bad that you're insisting on overcharging me for them.

The woman said, These are the biggest and best pomfrets in the whole market today. Look around, you won't get anything like them.

Zahi replied, I know. You get the best fish. That's why I've come to you. Now, are we going to do this deal, or not?

The woman, mollified, came down some way below the price she'd quoted earlier. Forty.

Thirty-five.

The fish-seller agreed, but added with alacrity, And the prawns, take them too. She figured that she'd make up a bit of what she might have lost on the price of the pomfrets.

Once she got home, Zahi put on an apron and got to work on the prawns. They looked pinkish grey and translucent after she had shelled them, which was the easy part. Next she had to remove the black gut running down the middle of the back of each one, a tedious task. She looked down at her apron. It had pretty red flowers on it, in stark contrast with the crisp white ‘apron’ that she had been wearing all through the past week in college. The past few days had been so hectic. But then the first days of college were bound to be. Books, classes, orientation rounds, new classmates…It had been pretty much like this during her first week in junior college, too. Then, there had been the thrill of being out of school. Out of uniform for the first time. But now, there was a different kind of thrill. The thrill of having finally made it to medical college. She had no doubt at all that this was where she wanted to be. When she saw her name on the admissions list, a feeling of exultation enveloped her. Since getting to know she was in, she hadn’t even had the time to grab a few self-congratulatory moments. And now that she had, typically, she wasn’t sure what she should be feeling. She wished she could bask in a warm contented euphoria, but told herself that would be an indulgence. There was so much to be done.

The pomfrets sizzled merrily in the pan as Zahi finished cleaning the last of the prawns, put them in a plastic bag and popped them in the freezer for later. As she flipped the fish over, her thoughts went to Abhi. He had been a true source of inspiration to her with his placid good humour. He had encouraged her through the gruelling months of preparation, as she wearily memorized facts that had to be learned by rote. And now his faith in her had been rewarded. It was a dream come true, but it hadn’t always been her dream. In fact, in middle school, she couldn’t remember being certain about or even seriously considering medicine as a profession. It was only when she had to choose her course of study after the Class Ten Board exams that the idea of becoming a doctor began to take root in her mind, and she opted for science in