The Vision

By Sunanda J. Chatterjee

"You have been given a gift! Use it!" the guru said.

All Divya wants is to become a great pathologist and save lives in order to redeem herself for a childhood blunder. But when her wish for a "good eye" comes true, she starts getting visions of the future. Terrified, Divya wonders if the guru is right or if she's losing her mind. 

Her estranged lover Krish follows her to Los Angeles, complicating her life as she struggles with her newfound ability. Krish claims he has only ever loved Divya. But who is the woman Divya keeps seeing in her visions?

Divya struggles to retain her sanity as premonition and truth begin to blend. When Divya's visions seemingly avert the death of her friend's child, Krish warns her that playing with the future distorts cosmic balance and could eventually hurt her. Regardless, Divya plunges headlong into what she believes is her duty, helping those she can with her visions.

But she faces the ultimate question: in saving one life, must she trade another? Will Divya ever find redemption, or will the attempts consume her?

Exploring science and spirituality, love and loss, duty and deliverance, The Vision is the story of a doctor who becomes the patient.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunanda J. Chatterjee
• Release date: Aug 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9798215463529

Sunanda J. Chatterjee

Freelance author, blogger, and ex-Indian Air Force physician Sunanda Joshi Chatterjee completed her graduate studies in Los Angeles, where she is a practicing pathologist. While medicine is her profession, writing is her passion. When she’s not at the microscope making diagnoses, she loves to write fiction. Her themes include romantic sagas, family dramas, immigrant experiences, women’s issues, and medicine. She loves extraordinary love stories and heartwarming tales of duty and passion. Her short stories have appeared in short-story.net and induswomanwriting.com. She grew up in Bhilai, India, and lives in Arcadia, California with her husband and two wonderful children. In her free time, she paints, reads, sings, goes on long walks, and binge-watches TV crime dramas.

Book preview

The Vision

Sunanda J. Chatterjee

Published by Sunanda J. Chatterjee, 2016.

The Vision

Sunanda J Chatterjee

Copyright © Sunanda Joshi Chatterjee 2016

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced without prior written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locales, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any person, place, or event is coincidental or fictionalized.

2 nd Edition

Editor: Shivani Chatterjee

First published in 2014

Created with Vellum Created with Vellum

Contents

Prologue

1. The Proposal

2. The First Day

3. The Wrong Patient

4. Krish

5. The Dream

6. Coma

7. Blind

8. Mr. Shastri’s Promise

9. The Gun

10. The Gift

11. Gift or Curse?

12. The Ring

13. It’s All Karma

14. The Wedding

15. India

16. Sponge Count

17. Manisha’s Story

18. Radiation Change?

19. Baby G

20. Paul’s Plight

21. Partners

22. Rahul’s Fate

23. A Hike and a Party

24. A Savior in Our Midst

25. The Sessions

26. Bina’s Discovery

27. Maya Returns

28. The Diagnosis

29. The Picture

30. The Carnival

31. Seizure

32. The Last Sessions

Epilogue

Note from the Author

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Other books by Sunanda J Chatterjee

To my loving family

The way to see by Faith is to shut the Eye of Reason.

---

— Benjamin Franklin

Prologue

It was a summer like any other, until young Divya became responsible for two deaths.

At her grandmother’s farm in central India, Divya and her sister sowed and watered, plucked and pickled farm produce in the misty mornings and spent lazy afternoons swimming in the lake by the row of pipal trees, eating ripe mangoes from the orchard. When her sister was deemed too old to swim with the farm children, seven-year-old Divya found a willing companion in Raju, the bull-keeper’s youngest son. The product of an unwanted pregnancy and afflicted with polio from an early age, five-year-old Raju worshipped Divya and did her bidding. Being the bull-keeper’s son, Raju enjoyed special access to Kalia, the farm’s magnificent black bull.

Divya and Raju often peered into Kalia’s enclosure and marveled at his stately horns and rippling muscles. Kalia brought the farm a great deal of profit, for he had sired many a buffalo in neighboring villages, and he was regarded as an esteemed member of the family.

One fateful day Kalia became restless and agitated, and only the bull-keeper could calm him. The children were warned to stay away. But Divya was curious, and she refused to talk to Raju until he took her into the barn. Raju couldn’t deny a request from his only friend, so he led her in. They peered at Kalia from behind the haystacks; the afternoon sun filtered through the slatted enclosure, and dust particles swirled by his hooves. The beast looked up at Divya, and for a moment, his malevolent eyes met hers.

Divya gasped and took a step back, pulling Raju away from the enclosure. She closed the gate but couldn’t fasten the heavy dead-bolt. They started walking back to the farmhouse in the shade of the pipal trees by the lake.

Out of the corner of her eye, Divya saw Kalia, a dark looming cloud of dust thundering toward them.

Run, Raju! she called and sprinted toward the farmhouse.

She heard a thud as Raju tripped on the exposed, gnarled roots of a massive pipal. Breathless and scared, she ran to the last tree. The farmhouse was only fifty yards away, but she couldn’t desert her friend. She paused for a fraction of a second, in two minds.

By then Kalia had reached Raju, whose screams only enraged the bull. Hiding behind the large tree trunk, Divya closed her eyes and covered her ears, trying to drown out Raju’s cries.

It was over in a few minutes.

Divya peered from behind the tree and came face to face with the beady red eyes of the mighty bull.

Glistening mucus dangled from his black nostrils, and the stench of hay and blood hung like an aura. She saw a reddish stain on his curved horns. Behind him, Raju lay motionless and deathly still. Terrified, Divya looked around, found a large rock, and threw it into the lake with all her might. The splash diverted Kalia’s attention and he dashed to the water. Panting, Divya dragged Raju’s limp body across the bumpy earth to the farmhouse. Only after closing the gate did she start screaming.

Raju died an hour later of internal bleeding. The family comforted Divya for the harrowing experience, commending her for valor in the face of danger.

After the funeral, Grandma said, Today it was only Raju. Tomorrow it’ll be someone else.

The bull-keeper’s eyes misted over. Kalia must be put down.

Young Divya was confused. Her mother gasped and turned to Divya. Why didn’t you call someone? she asked in a tremulous voice.

In that instant, Divya grew up. She realized that the farm’s harsh reality favored beast over boy, and Kalia’s fate would be mourned more than Raju’s passing. Raju’s young life had ended abruptly, but he had just been an extra mouth to feed. It was Kalia’s death that had grave repercussions on the farm. And whether from paralyzing fear or perverse fascination, Divya had done nothing. She had distracted the bull and saved herself. She had dragged Raju’s inert body a hundred yards to futile safety and had been applauded for her courage.

But deep inside her guilty heart, she knew she hadn’t done enough.

BOOK 1

The Resident

---

Ask, and you shall receive…

— Matthew 7:7

1

The Proposal

Dr. Divya Bhavey felt the contour of her newly assigned ID badge through the manila envelope, hands clammy with apprehension. She glanced up at the imposing sixteen-story building of the Southern California Regional Hospital, a few miles west of downtown Los Angeles, where she would begin residency training the next day. A smell of French fries emanated from the exhaust of the subterranean kitchen that served hundreds of patients, residents and faculty.

Her chairman’s words echoed in her mind: "If you’re smart and willing to work hard, you’ll make a good pathologist. But to make a great one, ah, you do need a good eye."

Hard work and intellect had got her through medical school and graduate research, but it wouldn’t suffice for the next phase of her life. To be able to save lives, she must have a good eye. Everything depended on it.

But how did someone get a good eye? Her mother always said God answers prayers in the most unusual ways. Be careful what you pray for! She remembered the story of a woman who asked for a beautiful baby and was blessed with a gorgeous infant that was born blind.

If Divya were to pray, she would cover basics, but include contingencies for caveats. God, give me the ability to see what’s wrong with patients.

She scoffed at herself. What was she doing? She was a scientist. She didn’t even really believe in God.

She took a deep breath and turned to her friend Paul Clayworth, who was watching her. Let’s go.

They walked along Mission Avenue, away from the Regional Hospital to the south, toward the research facilities of the University of Los Angeles.

Are you okay? Paul asked. He towered over her, and she looked up at his face, his eyelashes shining golden in the bright summer sun.

I hope I have what it takes, she said softly.

"You’ll be fine. But why did you choose pathology? he asked. Why not internal medicine or surgery, like the rest of us?"

I’ve told you before, Paul, said Divya, hurrying to keep up with his stride. "I want to do something that really makes a difference."

Hey! Paul elbowed Divya roughly. She stroked her arm, but smiled. They stepped onto the pedestrian crossing, and Divya held up the manila envelope to shield her eyes against the dazzling sun.

Just then, a teal top-down Corvette screeched to a halt, inches from her. The smell of burnt rubber suffused the heavy hot air. Divya gasped and hopped back on the curb.

Are you blind? demanded a raspy voice. The driver, an angular-faced woman glared at them with startling blue-green eyes. Her alabaster skin looked as pale as the rolled up white coat beside her, on which lay a carelessly closed Coach purse. Who buys a car to match the color of their eyes, wondered Divya.

I’m so sorry! she said. I didn’t see… you came so fast!

This is America! If you don’t like it here, go back to Iraq!

Divya’s eyes widened. She banged the hood of the car with both hands, letting the manila envelope fly. Pedestrians have the right of way!

Take your filthy hands off my car! said the woman. Traffic began backing up, and Paul grabbed Divya by her shoulders.

I distracted her, he said to the driver with a winning smile. Eyeing the white coat, he said, I apologize, Dr… Schwartz?

Greta, she said, with a hint of a smile on her hard mouth.

Paul and Divya stepped back on the curb as the engine roared. Divya shook his hands off her. As the woman sped away, Divya stared at her license plate: Greta S. Great Ass?

Greta Schwartz. What a bitch! said Paul, with grudging admiration. And you’ll work with her! She’s a pathologist!

I never want to see her again! Look! She ruined my clearance papers.

Paul held up the traffic, as Divya picked up the papers that lay scattered about the road.

Paul said, The signatures are still visible. It’ll look like it came all the way from Iraq.

Divya frowned at him for a second, then prodded him on his side and started laughing. Paul smiled, looking slightly relieved.

They crossed the road and entered the University Medical Research Campus, passing Boyle building where Divya had spent years working on novel oncogenes for her PhD thesis, with Paul as the laboratory assistant. They crossed the central quadrangle, where medical students and research fellows played volleyball at lunchtime and held Friday evening beer-and-barbeques. Today it was filled with familiar faces of people she had seen often, in the library, in classes, in the cafeteria and the bookstore.

Looking around the campus once again, she sighed, nostalgic about hours spent at the Main library, a whole building filled with knowledge and wisdom, yours should you desire to open its doors. Or knowledge to be stored forever in books, should you choose to pass it by and waste precious hours in idle gossip.

Hey, Paul! Don’t I look Indian? asked Divya suddenly, as they reached the café by unspoken consensus.

Paul grinned at her. One hundred percent. From the top of your dark curly hair—

I used mousse! she said, patting down her unruly bob, thinking of the rows of products for frizzy hair lined on her bathroom shelf. She wondered if she should have used a stronger gel, for her hair obeyed the laws of chaos rather than gravity.

And your warm eyes—

The brown pigment reflects earth tones! said Divya. Of course, she emphasized them with black kohl she applied on her eyelids every morning.

To the dimple on your left cheek—

Divya said, A defect in the muscles of mastication.

Except for the super-scientific outlook on life. Aren’t Indians all about karma and acceptance and believing in God?

I’m different, I guess.

But let’s get back to when you insulted my chosen field. Divya looked up at him. He said, "You said you wanted to make a real difference. Like the rest of us are just—"

Divya laughed again. "But you know what I mean, Paul. Internists treat a patient with an antibiotic. If it doesn’t work, they try something else. We all became doctors to save lives. But I need to be right the first time. To help people when their doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with them. I want to be the clinician’s guiding hand, you know? The pathologist. The consultant. The doctor’s doctor. By helping in the most difficult cases, in a way I’ll help all patients."

That makes no sense.

She shrugged. It made sense when Dr. Brandt said it.

Yeah, yeah, said Paul. He took his time to roll his eyes, making sure she was watching him. "But no one will know you as a doctor. Don’t you want to help your family and friends when they ask you to prescribe something? You won’t know Z-pac from penicillin after they’re through with you."

Hey, maybe I’ll marry a doctor. She grinned. "You know, a real doctor, like you."

Paul blushed. You’d have made a great clinician. You’re smart, and you know your stuff!

I can help the doctors too, by being smart and knowing my stuff. But I need to be a great pathologist first.

I told you, you’ll do fine!

She smiled. Paul knew her so well. But the doubt would fester in her mind until she could be sure.

Tomorrow, she would enter a new arena, a place of sickness and health, of cures and death, of despair and hope, where sleepless nights would follow rewarding days.

Paul held the glass doors of the café ajar to let Divya pass. He closed his eyes momentarily, getting a whiff of coconut shampoo as she squeezed through the little space into the crowded room.

One coffee-of-the-day, please, Divya said to the sun burnt young woman. Divya marveled at American college students, who attended classes and studied during the day and worked in bookstores, cafeterias and grocery stores to help pay for college, a contrast from Divya’s own undergraduate days in India, when all she was expected to do was study. She had done more than study, of course. When she’d met Krish…

One cafe latte, Paul said. Div, will you let me buy you coffee?

No, I’ll pay for my own, said Divya, quickly drawing a five dollar bill from her wallet.

The cashier handed her the change. Counting quickly, Divya said, You gave me an extra dollar. She handed her the bill back.

The cashier flushed and said softly, Thanks. Any pastry?

No, I’d better not, said Divya. Paul smiled.

She said, Hey! I have a ‘traditional’ Indian figure. My ideal weight is always a few elusive pounds beyond reach.

They chose a table outdoors in the dappled shade of the Jacaranda trees. Divya drew a cool wrought-iron chair to the shade as Paul pulled up another, grating it loudly across the cobblestone floor and placing it in the sun. Divya winced, but Paul seemed oblivious. Always a little timid of broadcasting her presence in public, she looked askance at Paul’s arrogance as he revelled in the adoring stares he received from others. Even after years of knowing him, she squirmed at his blatant disregard for quiet, for the cafeteria was dotted with students cramming for exams. But, considering she herself had created a scene just minutes ago, she fell quiet.

Squinting his sapphire eyes, Paul added five packets of sugar to his cup. He swiped the table clean with a napkin and took a long sip of his coffee. Man! This is the last time I’m paying for coffee at this dump.

"Yes. Tomorrow, we get free cafeteria coffee across the street at the Regional, when we become real doctors!"

Only some of us, he said.

Will you let it go?

We’re going to miss you, Div, he said. It won’t be the same without you. Manisha, Ravi, and I’ll be together, doing internal medicine like regular doctors. And you’ll be up on the sixteenth floor chopping up liver.

Oh, we’ll see each other at lunch. And while you sleep on the lumpy call-room beds, I’ll be at home, in my own soft bed. How often will you guys be on-call? Like once every four days? She giggled, enjoying the acrid flavor of her coffee.

Yeah, yeah. I know. You guys take call from home, don’t you?

Divya spotted their friends Manisha Nair and Ravi Shetty over the hedge; they were walking toward the cafeteria holding cardboard boxes, arguing as usual. They must have cleared their desks already.

Ravi, an exchange scholar from India, had completed his tenure in the laboratory across the hallway from Divya’s and would start his residency tomorrow. Divya’s roommate, Manisha, a graduate from Ravi’s medical school, had joined him as a research assistant. Manisha and Ravi spent every spare minute together.

Divya heard them arguing behind her, Manisha scolding Ravi for ordering a latte instead of cappuccino.

Ravi placed the cardboard boxes on the ground as Manisha placed her coffee cups on the table. He shifted his weight, a nervous look on his face.

Suddenly, he pulled out a box from his pocket, pulled out a ring, and dropped on one knee. Manisha Nair, will you marry me?

Took you long enough! Manisha shoved Ravi so hard that he lost his balance and fell to the ground, laughing as knick-knacks from their desks fell strewn on the cobblestone floor and the cardboard boxes lay on their sides.

Manisha squatted, hauled him up by his collar with surprising strength, and kissed him.

When Ravi extricated himself from Manisha’s embrace, they sat down at the table and sipped what was left of their coffee. Manisha replaced her grandmother’s ring with Ravi’s. Her face glowed in the reflected colors from the diamond.

Congratulations! said Divya.

Paul smiled wistfully.

To the specialists of tomorrow, said Ravi.

Manisha raised her coffee cup. I’m going to miss studying with you all.

To study groups! said Ravi. And to the Main library!

To the water-fountains of Boyle, said Divya, Around which we became friends.

To stethoscopes and chopped liver, said Paul.

Ravi and Manisha looked at Divya quizzically, who shook her head. Don’t ask.

Guys, Divya lost her temper earlier, said Paul. This woman nearly ran us over. Divya went to choke her, before I—

I wasn’t going to choke her! said Divya. I—

Hey, Divya, said Manisha, I’m taking off with Ravi. Can you bring my stuff back to the apartment?

Of course, she said automatically, glancing at the mess her roommate had left on the floor.

As the couple walked away, Paul looked at Divya. Do you think there’s a chance for us? Like them?

Paul, you know I can’t…

Paul sat there, staring at the dregs of his coffee. Born to wealthy bankers, he whiled his time away in surfing, dating, and washing his Jaguar, all of which Divya told him were a waste of time and resources. He seldom spoke of his parents, but Divya had seen their picture on his desk at the lab, posing stiffly in Armani suits.

Despite growing up in a loveless household, Paul made friends easily, fitting in like water in a pot wherever he went, and yet he stood out because of his rugged good looks and carefree humor.

But how could she be with Paul when her heart belonged to another? To someone who could never be with her… Krish… who was thousands of miles away, probably posted in a remote eastern Indian jungle…

Krish, who had once loved her. Who had broken her heart.

No, she had no time for romance. Paul would have to be content with being a friend. At least for now. They enjoyed an easy camaraderie unadulterated by overt advances, and she was content with that level of intimacy.

She had become a doctor to help people, to save lives. She was in charge of her own destiny and had taken control of her life. And now, at last, she would begin her training to become the best pathologist in the world.

God, she prayed silently, Let me have a good eye.

2

The First Day

Divya made herself a cup of Darjeeling tea and dressed quickly: beige blouse, black pants and socks. Professional and simple, yet distinguished. She considered offering a quick prayer before the first day at work, but decided there wasn’t enough time.

She’d grown up with her mother’s elaborate worship rituals before breakfast, replete with bells and flowers plucked from the garden, and the crunchy tangy sweetness of the Prasad, the offering to God: a small portion of jaggery on a piece of dry coconut. Divya smiled, remembering how she would fight with her sister for the bigger piece.

Her father used to wake her and Jyoti to meditate at the crack of dawn. She had enjoyed those quiet moments when she could actually think her own thoughts. Sometimes she’d scan her mind for the pages of a textbook she had studied for a test, line by line. At some point, she had obtained a photographic memory and a single-minded focus on the task ahead.

Putting on her shoes, Divya remembered her mother’s words on her first day of school. The world is like a house of mirrors, reflecting our own emotions, she’d said. It’s our choice to be the barking dog or the one wagging its tail. Her tail would definitely wag, she promised herself.

Divya cloaked her anxiety behind her white-coat and clipped the shiny ID badge to its starched collar. She rolled up the windows of her 1996 Dodge Intrepid and drove west on the familiar Freeway I-10 toward the Regional Hospital. Feeling invincible in the black car with its logo of the menacing horns of the ram, she pressed the gas pedal, enjoying the rumble of the powerful engine; she felt empowered, controlling the black beast with the horns.

She parked on the top floor of the residents’ lot. The lower floors were already full of mid-sized Japanese cars alternating with large American SUVs, squeezed into tiny spaces like a row of fat men in tight jeans. Walking to the elevator, she saw an occasional child’s car seat with toys, crumbs, and splotches of juice.

Stepping out of the shade of the parking lot, she felt the cruel blast of the summer sun, although it was before eight AM. A transparent moon hung stubbornly in an iridescent blue sky over the gargantuan relic of the nineteenth century, the Regional Hospital. The sixteen-story building dominated the landscape, dwarfing the research facilities to the north.

Divya marched up the majestic staircase leading to the entrance, crossing the steady line of buses that issued hoards of sick and poor to the doorstep of the hospital that would treat them free of charge. Patients and families queued up with raised arms and were checked for weapons, as if at an airport. But once the bored guard saw Divya’s ID badge, he waved her in. She couldn’t believe it. It was almost too easy.

She traversed the dimly lit corridor, thinking wistfully of the bright hallways of Boyle building, where she had earned her PhD degree just days ago. While the north campus of the University Medical Research Center honored young researchers for novel ideas and innovations, the Regional Hospital to the south was rigidly hierarchical; the senior doctor was always right.

Faded life-sized photographs from the early 1900s adorned the chipped walls; the healthcare workers of yore in gowns and caps stared in silent scorn. The elevators creaked, water fountains were rusted, and the dark hallways reeked of stale coffee, their edges caked with streaks of grime.

And yet, here’s where Divya wished to spend the next few years of her life, for the Regional Hospital was a venerable potpourri of pathology, from common ailments to esoteric afflictions, from tropical diseases to elite addictions. Someone had told her that if you trained at the Regional, you’d see it all. For young doctors wishing to learn procedures, it was a simple process: you watched one, did one, and taught one.

The halls and corridors were filled with strange faces and anxious voices: My ID badge won’t let me into the parking lot. My cell phone doesn’t work in the building. How do you use this pager? My back is killing me.

New interns stared wide-eyed at the attending faculty amid the din and hubbub. Their crisp white-coats and scrubs said: Property of Southern California Regional Hospital. Divya chuckled. The label seemed appropriate; the Regional would surely treat the interns as its property, doing with them what it wished. But the grueling hours of training would pay off, for the intern would blossom into a specialist.

She ironed a crease on her white-coat with clammy hands, reassuring herself she belonged here.

The Regional Hospital. A place of illness and of hope.

With white-coat pockets stuffed with booklets on drug-dosage and emergency treatment of diseases, the residents who were the interns-of-yesterday showed a certain calm confidence before the newcomers. Among them was a petite woman with dark silky hair, Dr. Gloria Tan, the Chief Resident of Pathology, who showed the new Pathology residents around the hospital.

She said, The main public elevators divide the building into two sections. She allowed the new residents to exit the elevators on the top floor. To the north is the surgical pathology area. As you know, all diagnoses are made there.

To the south was the residents’ library, the dimly lit and seldom used repository for old and dusty journals no one ever read. Each resident had a cubicle to place their bags and to study. But most residents used the north side for all educational activities, while the library was relegated to an occasional resident wishing to take a post-prandial nap.

They rode the slow elevators down to the second floor, past the administrative offices and the blood bank. Dr. Tan ushered the new residents into the conference room, handing them their rotation schedules, beeper lists, and important phone numbers. They shuffled in for the Chairman’s address.

Every word of Dr. Hank Brandt’s first-day-of-training talk to the new residents was tattooed on Divya’s mind. With a shock of snow-white hair rimming his balding head and a cropped white moustache, he wore a jet-black Italian suit and shiny leather shoes. Thirty years of experience in surgical pathology had given him a daunting reputation of always being correct, unless the disease hadn’t been reported before.

Look at this three by one inch piece of glass carefully, he said, holding up a glass slide. He took multiple pauses for dramatic effect, his tone alternating from crescendo to decrescendo. On this glass slide lies a tiny fragment of someone’s body that could change his life forever. This is a colon biopsy… it may show no abnormality. It may show acute non-specific colitis… that disease is self-limited, so one may just wait and watch. It may show ulcerative colitis, and the patient will need treatment for life… He paused, before continuing, "It may show cancer and call for major surgery. You have in your hands a significant piece of someone’s life. The clinicians have already done blood tests, X-rays, and everything else they can. They may have an idea about the diagnosis, but they still need the final diagnosis. The tissue diagnosis. Without the final diagnosis, definitive treatment can’t begin. You must respect that.

"Delay in reporting a diagnosis will result in delayed treatment or in a patient being lost to follow-up. Always remember, when you hold a case as ‘pending,’ it should be pending for very good reason. Perhaps you want to show it to another pathologist for a second opinion, or you need special stains. But never because you are sloppy or lazy. Remember, behind every slide, is a real living patient. Someone’s father, someone’s mother, a brother, a sister, a spouse, or a child. Just like you or me. Remember, the patient always comes first."

§

At noon, the doctors’ dining room was filled with expectant faces of enthusiastic residents, fully willing and expecting to save lives. They lined up to be fed, like a row of hungry inmates.

Divya swiped her card. 20 meals left announced the display. She scanned the counters divided into three bars. The first bar had deli sandwiches prepared by a plump man bearing the name-tag Ricardo. She eyed him suspiciously as he made sandwiches using the same clear gloves for slices of ham and tomatoes. She asked for a veggie sandwich and requested him to change his gloves. He frowned for a second. One of those, huh? he said, tearing his gloves off.

Divya said, Thanks. Wheat bread, mayo, mustard, cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, please. No meat.

As she waited, she glanced at the second bar. Hot entrees it said: eggplant parmesan or meatballs. She craned her neck and peered beyond the dessert-bar at the Grille, the third bar. Burgers and fries, she noted. She took her sandwich and, as an after-thought, picked up a slice of rich chocolate cake.

Gotcha! said someone behind her. Balancing her lunch tray precariously, Divya turned around to face Paul. How’s it going?

So far, so good, she said.

I had this great case today— said Paul.

Now remember, behind every ‘case’ is a person. Divya giggled. They sat at a small table in the center of the noisy dining room.

Did you run into Manisha or Ravi? asked Divya.

No, but listen. So this old guy comes with a huge belly and skinny arms and legs. He can barely walk. He wants to lose some weight from his belly. I took him to CT. There was a large mass in the colon with an enlarged liver studded with metastatic disease. And the guy just wants to lose some weight!

Can we talk about something else? asked Manisha, joining them at the table with her lunch tray. She had chosen the eggplant parmesan, Divya noticed.

I had such a lousy morning, said Manisha. They expect the interns to run this hospital. I’m the nurse and janitor combined. I don’t feel like a doctor.

Oh, I’m sure it gets better, said Divya.

Says the Pathologist, said Paul, munching his burger. The doctor’s doctor. So what do they do for you guys on the first day? Build a giant pedestal and worship your feet?

Well, as it happens, said Divya, I haven’t had an easy day myself. My back hurts from stooping over the specimens in the hood, my throat burns from all the formalin, and my head is going to burst. I don’t know if I can do this!

Oh, come on, now. It can’t be that bad, said Paul.

Dr Gloria Tan stopped at their table and tapped Divya on her shoulder. She pointed to a distant table. The pathology residents sit over there!

Oh! said Divya, going red. Maybe tomorrow!

Nice to meet you kids! said Dr. Tan to Paul and Manisha, and she walked away to the pathology residents’ table.

What a B! said Manisha. Who is that?

My Chief Resident. Divya smiled at the solidarity. At least I get to go home by five tonight.

"I hope I can get home by midnight, said Manisha. I have to work up three new admissions, draw blood from a zillion patients, get the x-rays for a billion more, and who knows what else the senior conjures up for me."

So get this. There’s a cute nurse on my ward, said Paul. She asked me if I needed help with the IV lines.

Man, you guys have it so good, said Manisha. "The nurses in my ward hate me."

You’re being too sensitive, Manisha, said Paul. They’re just testing you. Trying to see if you’ll break down.

Have you seen Ravi today? asked Manisha.

No, said Divya.

I wonder how his day went, said Manisha. I wish we were on the same team.

I’m on-call tomorrow, and we’ve barely begun, said Paul. "Hey, Div, you wanna come out on