Chapters 18, 19 and Epilogue..

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.

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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.

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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.