Chapter 05

Four weeks into the medical college and we already felt drained. The routine with

lectures, dissections, practicals, demonstrations etc continued and we endured in silence.

The bright spots in our days were the evenings when we often freaked out after dinner,

with an occasional movie thrown in. Our rendezvous with books was long overdue and

the tension mounted with each passing day, as the vivas would now soon be announced.

Although my roommates managed to flip through a few pages on a good day, any attempt

at studies on my part was promptly cut short by a confusing collection of books and

poorly compiled notes from lectures. I never went beyond a few pages and suddenly the

dream of becoming a doctor seemed a distant reality.

A bunch of curious batch-mates craning their necks around the notice board drew

my attention, and I jogged to join them. Arun tapped the glass on the notice board

directly over the piece of paper that announced physiology vivas for our batch. The topic

was physiology of blood and though it was scheduled for the next week, I got nervous.

I suddenly craved for Guyton’s physiology. No, not Guyton. Everybody would be reading

Guyton. I needed to do something different. Ganong! yes! I had a task at hand and

Physiology of blood was vast.

I decided to skip the biochem pracs that afternoon and made a beeline for the

library- for the first time ever.

The college library was conveniently and interestingly located on the first floor of

a building that housed the school of physiotherapy on the ground floor. Convenient,

because it was situated right across the road from the college building; and interesting,

because of its ‘strategic’ location just above the physiotherapy department, where ninety-five

percent of the enrollment were girls. The architect had been particularly considerate

by creating an ‘open-to-sky’ central foyer that enabled anyone standing in the lobby of the library’s reading rooms on first floor to have a bird’s eye view of the entire physiotherapy department on the ground floor below. Tired eyes from hours of reading were often soothed out by a generous gaze on the ground floor through this ‘galleria’. In the later years, the library was shifted and upgraded to an independent building, built for the sole purpose. My sympathies are with the subsequent generations of Romeos of the Baroda Medical College.

The entrance to the library opened immediately into the large, main hall that was

sub-divided into several small areas by intelligent use of the furniture and cupboards. The

first such area on entry was for the spectacled librarian (I don’t know why most librarians

are thin, bespectacled females who would talk in whispers even in a fish-market). She

always seemed to be busy with her ‘administrative’ work and looked at enquiries from

visitors as an interruption to, rather than a part of her work. Behind the space for the

librarian was the periodicals section. Deeper inside the hall were several rows of

cupboards, each of them full of thick, intimidating books.

Between every two rows of cupboards were chairs and tables meant for readers. This part

of the hall was, unofficially, reserved for the post-graduate students.

A three feet-wide passage between the librarian’s space and the post-graduate reading

area led to the reading rooms for the under-graduates. These were smaller rooms, and

were furnished only with chairs and tables. The sizes of these rooms and even the tables

were varied, enabling students to choose between studying in absolute solitude, and

studying in the company of several other readers - for motivation, of course.

The library had a rear entrance too, which was kept open from five in the evening

through the night for the convenience of exam going students, who preferred the library

reading rooms to their hostel rooms / homes. The otherwise lackadaisical undergraduate

reading-rooms section of the library had one bright spot - the men’s loo. It was amazing

that brains that fatigued from ceaseless cramming could churn out such interesting

graffiti, and the toilet walls were periodically filled up with funny, intelligent lines. These

graffiti were, on occasions, our sole entertainment for days together, and hence deeply

cherished by one and all.

I stood at the librarian’s desk waiting for her to lift her head from a pile of papers.

Nothing happened for a couple of minutes and I coughed lightly. Still nothing happened

and I tapped lightly on the desk. This time she raised her head with a frown, adjusted her

specs and whispered, “Yes, what do you want?

“I need Ganong’s textbook of physiology.”

She studied me for a few seconds and said, “Your library card, please.”

“Library card?” I said, “I have not been issued one.”

“Not been issued? Did you apply for one?”

I had not. I had never been to the library nor had I thought of being here for a while.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then get one made. I’ll need two photographs and a copy of admission letter to this

college. And yes, fill up this form.” She said, pulling out an A-4 size cyclostyled paper

from another pile. “I cannot issue a book without a library card but if you want to read

the book here, go in and pull out the book from the second shelf of the third cupboard

from here. You can sit right there and read.” She said pointing to a set of chairs in the

periodicals section, right behind her. I picked up the form, making a mental note to do

the needful for the library card.

Ganong’s physiology was heavier than I had anticipated and the print was finer than Guyton’s. I located ‘physiology of blood’ from the index and started reading. At the end of fifteen minutes, on the verge of a blackout, I wondered if I should stick to Guyton’s or Chatterjee’s physiology for the first viva; but then brushed off the thought - for Priya’s sake.

I then scratched my head hard, adjusted the chair, put elbows on the table, rested my chin

in cupped palms and resolved to make sense of Ganong’s writings for the next hour,

at least.

My room-mates found me pasting a photograph on the library form when they arrived

that evening.

“Heh, heh,” chuckled Sunil, “Someone’s getting serious about studies, it seems. Library

card and all?”

“A library card?” asked a genuinely surprised Achal, “What for? We have all the books.”

“We don’t have the reference books,” I said nonchalantly.

Achal’s jaw dropped. “Reference books? You’ve finished reading from the regular

textbooks?”

“No, I haven’t, but one may need to refer to these books once in a while. And one library

card among the three of us won’t harm anyone.”

“No it won’t.” agreed Sunil, more to end the conversation, “what’s for dinner tonight?

Heck, it’s Tuesday and they’ll serve the insipid kadhi-khichdi, ugh!”

“All you can think of is food, Sunil,” I said.

 “Physiology vivas are round the corner and we need to study.”

“Yeah, sure, but we still have a week to go for that. We can take it easy.”

“Not me,” I said, “Now guys, if you’ll please excuse me, I’ve got to study.” I declared

and opened a borrowed copy of Ganong’s textbook.

Bewildered, Sunil and Achal looked at each other before quietly changing into pajamas.

The week went by fast and it was already Saturday evening, just a day to go before our

first ever viva at the Medical College. I finished my dinner early and left my two

gluttonous roommates in the mess, to have their fill. I did not have much of an appetite

and, as such, was never fond of brinjals. I was mentally revising the blood indices on my

way back when, at the entrance of the hostel, I found Kedar, blocking my way. God, not

now.

“Hey, doc, how you doing?” his mouth spewed cigarette smoke as he spoke. At least he

had the sense to turn his face away while doing so.

“Fine, I’m doing fine,” I said, and as an afterthought I added for good measure, “We got

exams from Monday.” May I go?

Kedar ignored my hint. “Doc, we need your help. Come to my room.” He said and turned

to leave, assuming I’d follow. I glanced at the road that led to the mess behind, trying to

locate help in form of my roomies. Or anyone else, for that matter. There wasn’t a soul.

Kedar had, by now, advanced several meters when he paused, turned and gave me a look

that made me follow him like the mice that followed the Pied Piper.

Kedar and co. owned a room that was, well, worse than it was reputed to be. A mixed

odor of cigarette smoke, liquor and chicken curry filled the air. The light was dim but I

could see two tables on the far end of the room, each with a large drawing board on it that

was probably used more often to cover the cigarette boxes and liquor bottles from stray,

prying eyes than for drawing. The chairs had cushions that had been missing, since long,

from the common room sofa. There was only one bed, and a couple of cotton mattresses covered with dirty sheets occupied the rest of the floor area. The walls were full of sleazy posters,

which I, as a medico, preferred not to stare at for long. Two large speakers hung high on

the wall, one on each end. The wires from the speakers ended in one of the closed

cupboards, which probably housed the stereo system. Every inch of space on the

mattresses, chairs and the bed had clothes, sheets, towels, ashtrays, novels or music

cassettes strewn across.

“Sit down, doc,” said Kedar.

Where?

“It’s ok.” I said meekly and stood rooted where I was.

He created some space for himself on the mattress by kicking away whatever stuff that

had occupied it, before sitting cross-legged. His cigarette had almost died out and he

crushed it mercilessly into an ashtray- probably because it was handy. Otherwise he’d

have surely used the wall.

“Rambo here has not been keeping well, doc.” He said, toying a fresh cigarette.

Where’s this Rambo? I don’t see anyone here.

Perhaps Kedar noticed the questioning look on my face and, unfolding a leg, gave a

fierce kick on the side of the bed, shaking it up violently. “Hey Rambo, get up! Doc’s

here.”

The heap of linen and the sundry items on the bed moved a wee bit, and, surprising me,

out emerged from beneath, a large, unshapely man who let out a burp, and a prolonged,

noisy fart in quick succession. I started to wince but gave up the effort lest I offended the

monstrous discarder of the gaseous excreta. Kedar, on his part, managed an ‘Oh, God.’

Rambo, quite lethargically, just about managed to prop himself up on two or three

pillows, taking care not to let the sheet over him slip below the waist. He was probably

naked. He then gestured at me to put on the light, and as the switchboard was right

behind me, by the door, I complied. Not that I would have refused even if the

switchboard were at the end of the lobby. With the room brightly lit, for a change, Rambo

turned around to locate his wallet on the table. Out of roughly a hundred items on the

table, Rambo must have considered himself lucky to find his wallet in three minutes flat.

And out came from the bulging, worn-off, leather wallet:- innumerable pieces of paper, a

few currency notes, several coins, a condom (!) and an I-card (!!). He shook his head and

just when he was about to give up his search, his face lit up. He pulled out a small piece

of paper and threw it towards me on the bed. “Have a look at this, doc.” He said in words

clearer than I had expected.

I picked it up and tried to read it. ‘FORTWIN’ was printed in capitals- in blue. Above

that, ‘Pentazocine Lactate Injection IP’ was written in fine print and several other things

were written at the bottom in such small letters that it was impossible to decipher.

Making nothing out of it, I looked questioningly at Rambo and then at Kedar.

“Know about this injection, doc?” Kedar now stood up.

“Never heard of it. I mean, I’ve told you before too that I’m still in the first MBBS and

we won’t be studying pharmacology until the second MBBS.” I said.

“It’s a pain-killer, doctor. Rambo’s got cancer,” he stressed on the word cancer, “Cancer

of the liver, and it hurts him a lot.”

I was shocked. I looked at the languid ‘Rambo’ and suddenly I was filled with sympathy

for the guy. Cancer?

“Oh!” I said with genuine concern, “I did not know that. I hope you’re getting yourself

treated by a good doctor.”

“Yes I am,” said Rambo, “but the doctors haven’t given me much time. A year, or at best,

two. They say my cancer is so advanced that now there’s no hope. All I need is pain

killing drugs for whatever comfort I can garner.” I thought he was almost in tears. Poor

guy.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. I had forgotten about my viva.

“We want you to pinch ampoules of this injection from the medical ward of your

hospital,” said Kedar.

“What?” I said, surprised at the ungodly request, “Why do you want me to pinch

ampoules of this injection? You can get them from any chemist shop.”

“Listen, doc,” Kedar said firmly, “This injection is a scheduled medicine and it can’t be

procured without a prescription. We’re in no position to go to the doctor every now and

then to obtain one. Doctors’ visits cost money and Rambo here can’t afford that.”

“You all can come to the SSG hospital and get prescriptions for free,” I countered.

“A whole lot of people know us in the faculty of medicine and we don’t want to advertise

Rambo’s cancer. No one knows about his terminal disease, not even his foster parents.

He doesn’t remember his real parents who were killed in an accident when he was a

toddler. He was brought up by his uncle and aunt in Bombay, who’ve not been, er, very

generous with him. Help him, doc, he’ll bless you.” That sounded more like command

than request from Kedar. “And yes, doc, no one should know about this, not a soul.” This

was clearly a threat and I felt my heartbeat racing.

“I… I don’t know anything about the medical ward at the hospital. I’ve never been there.

I mean, how I am supposed to even know where they store this injection. I don’t even

know what the ampoule looks like.” I tried to explain my helplessness.

Kedar stood close to me, akimbo, staring with his red, fearsome eyes, his towering figure

belittling my puny self. “That’s your lookout, shorty.”

Shorty? What happened to ‘doc’?