Chapter 18
Kedar
reappeared sooner than expected. And his choice of locale was astonishing. As
we
all poured
out of the lecture theatre to proceed for the demonstrations one day, I saw him
standing
awkwardly in our way, blocking almost half of the narrow passage. Many of my
classmates
turned for a second glance as they walked past him. Girls took a careful
detour,
leaving several feet of safety margin while hurrying past him. His soiled
clothes
and unsavory
odor stood in sharp contrast to the pristine lab coats and subtle fragrances
from the
well-groomed students. I sighed as I stood facing him. Sunil stopped too and
smiled at
him. Achal sped past, giving us a warning glare.
“We’d like
to thank you for your, er, help at Kalyan,” said Sunil, almost bowing in
reverence.
I looked
sharply at Sunil, who quickly resurrected himself.
“You proceed
for the demo, Sunil” I said, “I’ll catch you there,”
Sunil left,
a bit perplexed.
I watched
Sunil disappear beyond the bend. A servant scampered past with a box of
chalks and
other academic accessories.
“You know
what, Ajay,” said Kedar when the lobby was deserted to our satisfaction,
“I’ve always
dreamt of attending a medicine lecture.” I rolled up my eyes.
“Why have
you come here? I asked him plainly. He read me for a while.
“Listen, we
need some more ampoules…”
I didn’t let
him finish his sentence and started to walk. He grabbed my shoulder, and with
great power,
replaced me in front of him. I was surprised by his brute force. The fellow
is
an ape or what?
“Rambo needs
those injections and you’ll get them for me now!” he said in a low, but
firm,
commanding voice.
“I won’t,
Kedar, I’ve told you before.” My voice matched his, if not surpassed it.
Suddenly,
the mighty Kedar melted in front of me. His frown straightened out and he
glanced
around quietly to ensure solitude, perhaps to prevent public display of a giant’s
mellowing in
front of an undersized medic.
“Ajay, Rambo’s
leaving,” he almost whispered, “his stay at the hostel is not possible any
further. He
has worsened so much that he needs to be sent home. I’ll soon be talking to
his uncle in
Bombay about his illness, so that necessary arrangements can be made for the
journey.”
“I hope they
take him to a good doctor,” I said, disinterestedly.
“But he
needs just five ampoules to survive till he leaves. Can you do this much for
him?
Please?”
I couldn’t
believe my ears. Kedar just said please. The desperation had to be
enormous,
and for a
moment I felt sorry for him. The bully who once intimidated me into almost
pissing in
my pants stood begging in front of me. I had come a long way; and if Rambo’s
need was
genuine, there shouldn’t be much harm in helping him just once more. Not
burgling for
a third time wouldn’t absolve me of the earlier thefts, anyway.
“Kedar,” I
said, as straight as I could, “I don’t like thieving at all. Who would? Don’t
assume that
you’ve scared me into doing this, but I’ll get a few ampoules for you, one
last time. And I’m doing this for a sick man. After today, I
would prefer not meeting you
at all. Can
you promise me this?”
He
considered me for a few seconds. “Sure,” he said, finally, “Can we..”
I
interrupted him and said, “I can’t miss the anatomy demonstrations. I’ll do the
job later
in the day.”
I strode away, leaving him where he was.
I couldn’t
concentrate on the demonstrations and Trivedi Sir caught me not paying
attention
twice in an hour. Somehow, my thoughts during the class helped me in deciding
to choose
another area of the hospital for the final picking. Exploring an entirely new part
of the
hospital would be tedious but I had developed a phobia for the medical wards.
It
seemed as if
someone waited for me out there. By the time we were out for lunch, I had
determined
to visit one of the surgical wards, located in a relatively new, multi-storied
building.
I skipped
going to the hostel for lunch and had a quick snack at the canteen. My plan was
to exploit
the post-lunch lethargy among the ward staff.
The surgical
building was four-storied, and looked modern in comparison to the ancient
architecture
of the medical wards. The main building was connected, on all four floors,
with another
building that had only the operation theatres. The connecting conduits had
only parapet
level walls and the rest of the height was covered with wire mesh. Hospital
staff could
often be seen on those bridges pushing gurneys with surgical patients or
trolleys
with huge piles of linen, food from the kitchen or drums of sterilized
instruments.
The ground
floor mainly had the radiology department and the casualty. Lifts were
reserved for
the hospital staff and patients who could not walk by themselves. A sign on
the ground
floor told me that the first floor had the orthopedic wards and a
cardiothoracic
ward. The
upper floors had the general surgical and plastic surgery wards. I had put on
the lab coat
with the usual precaution of shielding my embroidered name. Though I
could, I did
not take the lift as people tend to stare at each other in the claustrophobic
cubicle, and
I did not need the limelight. With the morning rounds over, I noticed a
steady
stream of people scurrying up and down the staircase. A group of senior
students
passed by me
on their way down, their lab coats neatly folded after a grueling day.
On the
reaching the first floor, I faced ward B2. The sign-board said it was an
orthopedic
ward.
Opposite it was ward B1, the cardiothoracic ward. On the other side of the
staircase
landing, the
two wards opposite to each other were wards B3 and B4, both orthopedic.
Impulsively,
I selected ward B2 and proceeded towards it with authority. The earlier two
successful
attempts at stealing had greatly reduced my fears. The foyer between the two
wards was
full of people, who seemed to rule random parts of the floor with their
sprawling
mats and other belongings. People were sitting, standing, dining, reading
newspapers,
and even sleeping on the floor. They were relatives of patients from far away
places and
though the rules were in place, prohibiting families of inmates from residing
within the
hospital premises, the ward attendants allowed the poor souls to temporarily
occupy
surplus space on foyers and porches, in return of token cash, of course.
Everyone
made sure,
though, that the lobbies were deserted for the morning rounds.
I met a
familiarly attired ayah. “Where’s everyone?” I asked casually.
“Everyone
who? And who are you?” she waved a long broom at me precariously.
“Dr. Nirav’s
in?” I said, but continued my stroll inside.
“Nirav who?”
she called from behind me, “Everyone is in the operation theatre!”
I ignored
her words and reached inside the ward. The longish ward was divided into two
halves by a
nursing station right in the middle. The nursing station in this newer building
was
economically built, in almost half as much space as their counter-parts in the
spacious
medical wards. On either side of the station were enclosures for male and
female
patients. Orthopedic patients looked wretched with steel nails and rods jutting
out
of their
limbs at random places. Some of the limbs were put on traction using bricks for
weight.
Crutches and
other supportive aids lay by several beds. A frail, old man was energetically
engaged in
exercising his leg. Half of the beds had relatives sitting on mats spread out
on
floors,
finishing their lunches. A strong smell of cooked food rekindled my hunger and
I
missed my
lunch.
The entire
ward seemed at ease with none of the patients in particular trouble. I made a
leisurely
tour of the entire ward and discovered a lone nurse on the far end of the
female
section,
fiddling with a drip bottle. She saw me, but appeared completely uninterested.
On the next
bed, lay a middle-aged lady with an open wound on her left arm, and trays of
dressing
material by her side. She stared at the nurse with a weak, impatient look,
obviously
waiting for her to bandage her sore arm. I decided that the nurse would be busy
for several
minutes. The rest of the ward appeared unoccupied by anyone particularly
hazardous to
my purpose. Was it going to be so simple? The main room in the nursing
station had
only a large table, several chairs and a cabinet that predominantly contained
stationery.
A pile of patients’ files lay on the table. An X ray film on the view box
displayed a
shattered leg bone. The sign on the door to a smaller room within the station,
read ‘Sterilization’.
I walked into it where I easily located the medicine cabinet. They
were the
same all over the hospital. The plastic jars containing drugs looked similar
too.
It seemed
easier than stealing a candy from a child. I smiled to myself as I prevented
myself from
stuffing more than five ampoules.
I had begun
to search for appropriately strong, final words to say to Kedar, as I finished
screwing the
lid back on the jar. As I closed the cabinet door, the clear-glass pane on it
showed a
hazy reflection of a group of people standing at the door. I turned around
sharply and
immediately felt faint; a chill running down my spine.
Five minutes
later, I was standing in the nursing station that had been sealed from all
possible
sides. I could imagine scores of people gathering on the other side of the
closed
doors.
Professor Joshi, head of orthopedic ‘C’ unit and in-charge, ward B2, occupied
the
chair and
several of his PG students - the resident doctors, stood around him. The ward
matron stood
on one side with hands folded across her chest. They all had just returned
for the
operation theatre and were on a quick round to see post-operative patients. All
of
them had
seen me merrily stuffing ampoules in my lab coat pocket. I nervously played
with the
edge of my lab coat with hands that had turned moist from perspiration. I didn’t
have
anywhere to look, but down, where I could see several meticulously polished
pairs
of shoes. I
wished I had been in one of those.
“You are
trying to tell me that you were stealing Fortwin injections to help a cancer
patient at
your hostel?” said Dr. Joshi in a soft voice, “Who do you think you are? An
oncologist?”
I stood
there without saying a word; one could hear a pin drop.
“C’mon,
speak up!” the professor suddenly raised his voice, and with a jerk, got up and
pulled off
the sticking plaster from my lab coat pocket baring my name. He returned to
his seat
after reading my name carefully and registering it mentally.
“Yes sir,”
my voice was feebler than a cat’s purr.
“You’re an oncologist?!” Dr. Joshi widened
his eyes in mock surprise.
“No sir, I
took those injections to help a terminal cancer patient fight his pain.”
“What
nonsense!” now he grimaced, “do you have any idea what Fortwin
contains?! You
said you’re
in the first MBBS; they don’t teach you pharmacology in first MBBS, do
they?” he
turned to one of his residents for the answer. The resident shook his head and
said, “no,
sir.”
The
professor faced me once again. “So, what’s your story?”
I slowly
narrated, truthfully and wholly, everything about Kedar, Rambo, and his
illness.
“A drug
addict,” said Joshi when I concluded my account, “your Rambo, or whatever his
name is, is
a confirmed drug addict, and no cancer patient, take it from me. Fortwin is
Pentazocine,
a derivative of opium: a highly addictive drug. Addicts use it to get high and
not to kill
pain. It’s a scheduled drug and cannot be bought over the counter. Your friend
obviously
fooled you, or intimidated you, according to your story, into peddling a
narcotic.
Someone give this fool a copy of Goodman and Gilman’s pharmacology and
when he’s
read it, take him to the superintendent’s office and turn him in. If he tries
to
run, call
the police.”
Joshi then
picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was to the superintendent’s office.
A resident
doctor escorted me to the superintendent’s office. He was generous enough to
let me walk
by myself. If Joshi could, he’d have got my hands tied up and parade me like
an under
trial. I think the resident felt sorry for me.
Dr. Saxena,
the superintendent, was busy and made us wait for half an hour. I used that
half hour to
pamper my hatred for Kedar and Rambo. Only if the law allowed two
murders
each. When Dr. Saxena did give us an audience, he did not create a ruckus.
Instead, he
quickly got his PA to note down my details. He had obviously been detailed
by Joshi
about my heroics.
“Ajay,” he
finally addressed me, “I know your story and I’m afraid you’re in a bit of a
muddle.
Myself, Dr. Joshi, and the Dean Dr. Gulati will er, talk with you at four p.m.
tomorrow in
this office. You have until then to build your defense. I’m putting nothing on
paper right
now. Good luck.”
It was
evening by the time I was allowed to be on my own. On parting, Joshi’s resident
doctor asked
me to answer in the affirmative if Joshi ever asked me about Goodman and
Gilman’s. Everyone loved his own neck.
-------------------
Chapter 19
My pulse
quickened as I neared Kedar’s door. It was shut, but I could hear collective
laughter
inside. I kicked open the door and everyone turned silent, stunned by my
impertinently
bold entry. Kedar quickly got rid of the baffled guests and closed the door
behind them.
My body language perhaps warned him of a disaster. Rambo sat on his bed,
puzzled,
scratching himself at random places. Kedar began to speak and I quickly pointed
a trembling
finger at his face.
“Your lie is
out, Kedar; the game’s over!” my voice shook in tandem with the rest of my
body.
Kedar tried
to look nonchalant, and that infuriated me further. I turned to face Rambo.
“You’ve got
cancer, Rambo?” I said, tearing his blanket away from his ugly body,
“You’re dying?
C’mon, show me your cancer, show me your goddamn liver, you
bastard!”
Kedar tried
to put a hand on my shoulder, and I shoved him off with all my strength.
“Keep your
hands off me!” I shouted, “They caught me, Kedar, caught me stealing your
injections
and paraded me like a petty little thief! And they told me what you do with
those
injections, you skunks!” I threw up my hands in utter despair. “Oh, God, I
should
have known!”
my voice cracked, and when my vision blurred, I knew my eyes were
filled up. I
covered them with my hands and cried softly in slow, controlled sobs for
several
minutes.
“What
happened?” Kedar asked, in an almost sorry voice, when I wiped the final tear.
“It’s over,
Kedar; they’ll probably kick me out of college.”
“Kick you
out? Why?”
I was taken
aback, and severely infuriated by the stupid question.
“I may be a
fool myself; but, for your information, I’ve been enlightened as to what you
both have
actually been using those injections for!”
“I don’t get
you, Ajay, aren’t those injections potent pain-killers?”
“Yes, they
are but you both haven’t been using it for killing pain, simply because Rambo
doesn’t have
any pain. In fact, he doesn’t have cancer. You both are hopeless drug
addicts, and
have used Fortwin for kicks- to get high! Your story of being unable to get a
hospital
treatment; and the story about his impoverished family is plain bullshit!
Kedar looked
genuinely puzzled. If he was acting, he was doing a good job. He glanced
at Rambo who
looked lost.
“Rambo does
have cancer,” he said feebly, looking at me straight into the eyes. I hated
the look -
the falsely done up sorry look.
“Then ask
him to dig out some solid proof. And a real doctor’s prescription, with
Fortwin scribbled on it. They’ll be getting together at four p.m.
tomorrow at the
Superintendent’s
office to decide my fate. And after that, perhaps, I’ll sit here with you
two heroes
and fill myself with some of that poison, too!” I banged the door as I strode
out, trying
hard to fight tears that filled up my eyes once more.
My roommates
were understandably shocked beyond words.
“Terrible,”
Achal said finally, “you should have taken us into confidence.”
“Can’t you
see why he couldn’t tell us?” Sunil sounded sympathetic.
“Now what?”
Achal asked
“Don’t know,”
I said miserably, “maybe I’ll have to say goodbye to you all; if they don’t
send me to
the jail first, that is.”
“That’s bad,”
said Sunil, “Is there nothing that we can do?”
“It’ll be
hard to prove your innocence.” Achal added.
“Innocent?”
I said, “I am guilty of stealing. It’s just that I didn’t know I was
stealing an
atom bomb!”
The night
was the longest I’d ever spent in my life. I might have slept intermittently
for a
few hours,
but that sleep was meaningless as I woke up giddy and tired. The morning was
spent
pretending to attend lectures. I was in no mood to be there, but my roommates
refused to
leave me behind at the hostel.
Sharp at
four, I sat outside the Superintendent’s office along with Sunil and Achal who
were there
for moral support. Another guy I had talked to about my plight was Brij, who
offered to
get his father into the picture and get some strings pulled here and there. We
decided to
leave that as the last option. I urged my friends to leave, as my ‘trial’ could
drag on for
a long time, but they refused to budge. At ten past four I was escorted into
the
Superintendent’s
office. I had detested similar trips to professors’ chambers for oral
exams, but
those seemed pleasure-trips now, in comparison.
Inside, I
was made to stand in front of a large table, behind which sat the three
gentlemen.
Peons kept
darting around with glasses of water etc. The AC was running and that
worsened my
already cold extremities. With a dry mouth, I narrated my story once more,
and fielded
a volley of questions from all three, some of them stupid. Joshi was
particularly
aggressive and demanded my expulsion several times during the interview.
He was
against ‘druggies’ like me who gave a bad name to the noble medical profession.
At the end
of what seemed liked eons, the superintendent said, “It seems that you were
unaware of
the gravity of the crime that you have committed. You should have at least
figured out
what Fortwin exactly contained, and that it could be misused. Even if we
assume that
you were unaware of Fortwin’s potential dangers, thieving itself is a crime.
Unfortunately,
the doubt about your covert interest in stealing these narcotic injections
remains.
And, in absence of any evidence to support your story….”
At that
moment a peon entered and passed on a slip of paper to the Superintendent, Dr.
Saxena. He
looked at it and then shared it with the two other men. The three whispered to
each other
for a minute while I stood mystified. Finally, Dr. Saxena signaled to the peon,
who went
out. No one said anything for a few seconds as the mystery deepened for me. I
nervously
dug the rug with the tip of my shoe. The sole had given away from the seam
and urgently
needed sutures. I’d have plenty of time for petty repairs.
The door
opened once more and the peon entered. Following him was Kedar – bathed,
shaved and
decently dressed. Utterly unrecognizable, but it was Kedar for sure; providing
an
unbelievably cheering sight that I would have bartered my life with.
“You’re
Kedarnath?” asked a puzzled Dr. Gulati. The other two men glanced at him and
me in
conspicuous alternation.
Kedar
glanced at me for a second and then faced the threesome before saying, “Yes,
Sir.”
“You know
Ajay?”
“Yes, I don’t
only know him; I have bullied him, frightened him, and terrorized him into
stealing
Fortwin injections for me.”
They’d have
expected anything from him but this. I don’t know about the other occupants
of the room
but I almost lost my balance by the candid statement from Kedar.
“Do you
realize what you’ve just said?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You realize
the gravity of crime involved in the clandestine business of unlawful
procurement,
possession and distribution of a scheduled drug like Pentazocine?”
“I did not
know it until yesterday, but now I know, Sir.”
“What do you
mean?”
My mouth
gaped slowly and widely in surprise as Kedar narrated the following story:
“Ramanuj
Bodaliya, better known as Rambo, was my roommate for the last one and a
half years.
He was introduced to me by a common friend in Bombay who requested me to
accommodate
Rambo in my room for a short period. I readily shared my single room
with him. I
was told that he did not have parents and was brought up in adverse
conditions
by his uncle. I never knew what he did for a living, because he rarely went out
of the room.
He periodically received petty cash for his minimal expenses through
money-order
from his uncle. He did not have to pay for his meals, though, as I had er,
arranged
that with the hostel mess guys. A couple of weeks after moving in with me, he
revealed his
ailment- cancer of the liver. He showed some illegible reports from a
clinic
in Bombay.
He emphasized upon me the need for regular dosage of Fortwin injections to
survive
without pain. I believed him and started trying out various avenues to procure
the
same. Soon,
I used up all my contacts to get those injections from chemists, without a
prescription.
No doctor was ready to write one without a valid reason. We then came
across Ajay,
and decided to frighten him into stealing the ampoules from this hospital.
All these
months, I was unaware of the real reason behind Rambo’s need for those
injections.
When Ajay told me about the narcotic effects of those injections yesterday, I
grilled
Rambo, who broke down and confessed that he was hopelessly hooked to the
thing. He
had been driven away from Bombay by his uncle for the same habit.” Kedar
paused and
looked down.
“Where’s
Rambo now?” boomed Joshi.
“He fled the
hostel late last night and is untraceable since.”
“You want us
to buy this story?” asked Joshi.
“Yes,
because that’s the truth.”
“Can you
give that in writing?”
“Yes, Sir.
And I am willing to face the consequences, too. Please let Ajay go.”
“You leave
that decision to us,” said Dr. Gulati.
After
conferring with his colleagues for a couple of minutes, Dr. Saxena addressed
us,
“Ajay may
please wait outside while Kedarnath can write and sign a statement right
here.” On my
way out, I got to peek into Kedar’s eyes; they had the familiar, stony look
in them. He
seemed unmoved by the turn of events, but my guess is that he was using up
all his
strength to stand up to the truth. Bravo.
“But I still
can’t believe that you tried to kill me for those injections!” I said when all
three of us
sat with Kedar in our room later that night.
“Kill you?”
Kedar looked aghast, “are you out of your mind? It’s true that I have
harassed you
mentally on several occasions, but I’d never have harmed you physically -
in any way,
let alone attempt to kill you.”
I was
surprised more than Kedar now. I narrated the events of the fateful day when I
received a
generous dose of electric shock from the indigenously designed murderous
circuit
outside our room.
“Holy shit!”
cried Kedar, “Rambo! It must have been Rambo; I remember now, he
hunted for a
piece of electrical wire for ‘rearranging his reading lamp.’ Even I wondered
about it
because he never did any reading!”
I was let
off by the authorities with a stern warning, and Kedar’s story was eventually
accepted,
too. No one was really interested in prolonging the turmoil, and in the absence
of the real
culprit, Rambo, or Ramanuj Bodaliya, the chapter was closed for good.
Several
witnesses had turned up from our hostel, courtesy Kedar, including the mess
manager, to
vouch for the morbid existence of a creature called Rambo, who vanished
without a
trace.
------------------
Epilogue
Kedar did
not trouble us any more in the rest of the months that we stayed at the Sardar
Patel
hostel. He continued to live in the same dingy room, and his living conditions
did
not change
even a wee bit when we finally shifted to the medical hostel campus in the
second MBBS.
We did run into him, at times, around the town at theatres and restaurants,
but there
were no planned meetings. Priya Makhija kept changing her boyfriends at an
alarming
rate, even as I removed myself from the race, well in time. Eternal slogging
was
eventually
accepted as a necessary evil, though we frequently indulged in worldly
pleasures.
Sunil turned himself into a boring bookworm over the years, and Achal did
surprisingly
well at exams despite his insincerity with books. My grades improved
marginally, enough to propel me
further each time.
