Chapter 16

The first term exam results had different effects on different people. People who scored

well enough were obviously relaxed, and went about with radiant faces, looking for fatter

and heavier books. People who failed hopelessly appeared relaxed, too. They knew that

they had put in their best possible in the exams, and there was no way of bridging the gap

between their obtained marks and pass marks. Such people started considering alternate

careers. The trouble was for borderline people - like me, and most of the class. We were

urged to work just a ‘bit harder’ to clear future tests. And working any harder was

impossible, please.

Meanwhile, life at the Medical College had started to become too predictable and boring.

There were fewer things to look forward to, and going to college every morning was like

a nine to five job- without a salary. In a bid to bring in some excitement, we started trying

newer things. A picnic was arranged to the Ajwa water reservoir- famous for a garden

similar to the famed Vrindavan gardens, of Mysore. Later, a cultural fiesta, appropriately

named Vibrant, was organized by the seniors, where talented students from the whole

college participated in various extra-curricular events. The fete lasted a whole week and

was a welcome change for everyone. Studies were put on the back-burner, and the

teachers helped by going easy with the curriculum during the week. Some of the teachers

even took active part in the event. Dr. Kamat, of the surgery department, an accomplished

vocalist himself, enthralled everyone with a series of Mohammed Rafi numbers for a full

hour. Brij surprised us all by playing a superb piece on the Hawaiian guitar, and taking

away the first prize in the instrumental music category. He later told us that he had been

trained in music since his early childhood, and that the tight Medical College schedule

prevented him from pursuing his passion for the art any further. Achal, quite sportingly,

participated in almost every event but failed to make a mark in anything. But that was

immaterial; I liked him for his spirit, and envied him for his boldness. After much

cajoling from my room-mates, I agreed to partner them for the dumb-charades event. We

secured the third position, and several of my class-mates turned up later to compliment

me for my efforts. Achal, however, asserted that we could have got the first prize, had I

been a bit smarter. But wasn’t the event ‘dumb’ charades, I argued, at which Sunil

laughed and Achal whimpered.

Although we knew several seniors by name or by face, either for their fame, or for their

notoriety; it was surprising that in the first six months at college we knew very few

seniors personally. That was perhaps because of two prominent reasons: one, we stayed

at different hostel campuses; and second, our schedules were almost entirely different:

the seniors’ schedule was predominantly clinical, and ours, very text-bookish. One more

reason for my disaffection with the senior chaps was that I often found them

unapproachable. Unapproachable because some of them appeared too accomplished:

guys who had cleared all of the first MBBS- an insurmountable feat to me; and because

they seemed to have an air about them: flaunting stethoscopes, examining hammers,

measuring tapes, and an assortment of other symbolic gadgets. And they were the guys

who already seemed professionals; people who could discuss gory illnesses and deaths of

patients with utmost ease over a cup of coffee in the canteen - another unthinkable deed

for me. I was in awe of them, more than anything else.

It was Sunday afternoon, a week after Vibrant, and I’d returned from the library at noon,

an hour earlier than planned. A nagging headache had prevented me from finishing off an

assignment that was to be submitted by Monday morning. Sunil preferred to stay back in

the library and he promised to return in time for lunch. Achal, as usual, had chosen to

savor the comfort of our room to do his project work. I entered the room expecting it to

be disorderly from Achal’s freehand occupancy for full three hours. The room was a

mess, alright, but there was no sign of Achal. His books, pens, pajamas, towel, and even

underwear were recklessly thrown all about. I shook my head, and instinctively started

arranging the carelessly littered things on his bed and table. Just when I was about to

straighten up a ruthlessly mangled pillow, I noticed a magazine beneath it. Only a part of

it was visible, and I would have placed it upon the pile of books on the table, had I not

seen a long and shapely leg on its cover. I pulled out the magazine in a flash, and my eyes

popped out on seeing the whole picture. A fully nude girl had been photographed

performing the pole dance. My pulse raced as I studied the cover some more. The

magazine was somewhat imaginatively titled ‘My, My’, and my mouth went dry as I

browsed through its pages. The magazine was full of similar seedy photographs; some of

them explicitly depicting nude men and women indulging in sexual activity. I confess

here that I couldn’t stop myself from relishing what I saw. I must have been thoroughly

mesmerized by my first ever encounter with such literature, because I did not hear Achal

close in behind me. “Such books aren’t meant for kids of your age!” said Achal, in part anger and part embarrassment, snatching away the book out of my hands with a jerk.

“And you’re like what, thirty?” I shot back.

“I’m physiologically older than you,” said Achal, ambiguously.

“Bullshit! Just because I don’t go about reading downright porn literature, that doesn’t

mean you’ve got bigger balls than me.”

Achal gazed at me, wide-mouthed, for a few seconds. And he wasn’t the only one

astonished; I was equally flabbergasted by my own candid blabber. Later I realized that it

were only my hormones that had asserted their presence in my body, in appropriate

quantity and function.

A few minutes later Achal opened up with me sufficiently enough to discuss girls’ sex

appeal, general adolescent sexual behavior and similar hitherto taboo topics, at length.

“Are you over eighteen?” Achal asked me suddenly.

“I turned eighteen a few days back,” I said, a bit perplexed, “Why, were you going to turn

me to the police for juvenile delinquency?”

“Good,” he said ignoring my wisecrack, “want to earn while you.. err.. shag?” Despite

the coarseness of the subject currently discussed, I was taken aback by Achal’s blatant

query. Masturbation had come naturally to me in early teens, as it did, I suppose, to most

men; and I ceased to be embarrassed by the practice as soon as I read authentic literature

on the subject. Only I wasn’t sure if it was proper to discuss it with a room partner of six

months.

“What the hell!? You mean to say one can make money for masturbating? Are you nuts?”

“Not really… haven’t you heard of Dr. Kanitkar?”

‘I’m not sure if I have; why, who’s he?”

“Last year he resigned his job of an associate professor of anatomy at our College to run

his own genetic and fertility clinic in the city. He’s got a semen bank too, and people say

he’s very good at his present work.”

“Why are you telling me about him?”

Achal lowered his voice, “He solicits semen from young; intelligent men for artificial

insemination on wives of hopelessly sterile men. And he pays for it.”

I was stunned. I looked at him with suspicion, trying to locate evidence of mischief in his

eyes. There was none. I suddenly got interested. “Tell me more” I said, drawing myself

closer to him.

He went on to describe how Dr. Kanitkar procured semen from several medical students

in return of cash. The cash was not much, but any amount of money for doing something

that everyone otherwise did for sheer pleasure was welcome. The procured semen was

preserved and used anonymously on willing couples. Simple.

Simple? I thought. Not quite.

“What about the children thus born?” I asked

“What about them? The couples that undergo the consented procedure become the legal

parents of the children born. The donors never get to know their beneficiaries; and

likewise, the recipients never get to know their donors. In fact, the containers of the

semen are never labeled, that means even Dr. Kanitkar doesn’t know whose semen goes

into whose womb. Dr. Kanitkar only ascertains sound health of the donor before a

donation is made.”

“But why the cash? I mean, doesn’t bringing in the money take away the spirit of

donation?”

“Dr. Kanitkar offers money for two primary reasons: one, he doesn’t do any charity

himself; he earns from the procedure and simply shares his profit with the donor. Two,

he says the money is not for the donation part; the service is priceless. It’s for the

‘trouble’ one takes to collect the sample in the prescribed fashion and delivering it in time

before it gets spoilt. He argues that the meticulousness involved takes away some of the..

er.. pleasure.”

I sat in silence for a while before asking, “Did you just make a contribution?”

Achal smiled and shyly nodded his head. “Guess what, this porn magazine has been

supplied by Dr. Kanitkar.”

“What?!”

“Yes, according to him, the quantity and the quality of the semen depend on the arousal.

And what better means for arousal than visually provocative pornographic literature,

except, of course, the real thing?” Achal winked, and I shook my head in disbelief.

“Is Sunil into this, too?”

Achal jumped up. “No, don’t you dare mention this to that compulsive rationalist. He

wouldn’t let you screw your own wife, if he failed to confirm its legality in a goddamn

book!” I smiled at Achal’s observation. Sunil wasn’t that bad, I thought.

On Achal’s insistence, I ‘donated’ twice, before Sunil one day discovered my carefully

concealed sample bottle. Needless to say, he was outraged, and an intense debate ensued

in our closed room that lasted a couple of hours. Sunil tried to play the emotional card by

saying that many of our children could be roaming the city in the next few years, without

our knowledge about their existence. And that there would be no way of knowing the

kind of lives they lived. He even conceptualized the near impossible scenario of our

confronting, in later years, young men and women with facial features matching ours!

He ended by saying, quite thoughtfully, that issueless couples should adopt children,

instead. Children, who had arrived in this world, but faced the misfortune of losing their

biological parents for some reason. He concluded with moist eyes that he would have

perhaps withered away in some unknown orphanage, had his parents not adopted him in

the first place.

I, for one, stopped the donations immediately and gave away my ‘reimbursements’ to

Sunil for passing on to the orphanage. I don’t know if Achal continued his donations but I

often noticed different editions of ‘My, My’ hidden clandestinely under his mattress. 
Achal swore that they were there for their ‘primary’ purpose. I believed him.

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