Bombay Rains, Bombay Girls

by Anirban Bose

  Adi smiled. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I’m from a middle-class family too, with parents with high hopes.’

  The natural beauty of her smile returned. ‘Are you feeling bad that I said I wouldn’t have come out with you?’ she asked.

  Adi wanted to say no, but her candour was contagious. He remained silent.

  She said, ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m glad I came out today. I’ve enjoyed the time we spent together. I think you are a very nice guy, Adi, and that sometimes leaves me a little confused…’

  She looked away without completing the sentence.

  Adi seized on the small window of opportunity. ‘Isha, I think you are a gem of a person, so I won’t lie and say I’m not interested in seeing you more often… And I understand your hesitation. But all I would like to do is get to know you a little better and maybe you’ll get to know who I am. That’s it, no demands or expectations. And any time you feel this is affecting you too much or in a way you don’t like, you can call it off. I promise I won’t complain or demand anything.’

  She didn’t reply.

  Adi continued, ‘Look, Isha, if we do go out, I’ll never talk about relationships, or expect anything. We’ll go out as good friends and just enjoy each other’s company. And any time you want to stop the arrangement or feel it is compromising anything, your studies, your comfort level, your happiness…your tennis game…you can stop. I won’t protest. I promise.’

  She smiled. ‘You are hoping that after going out with you so many times, it will turn into a relationship, aren’t you?’

  Adi smiled. ‘That is the general idea.’

  She smiled back. ‘That’s honest.’

  They walked along quietly, but for the first time, feeling comfortable in the silence. A young girl selling gajras ran towards them, hoping to make a fortuitous last minute sale before calling it a night. Adi obliged and Isha wove one of the strands into her hair. They reached the bus-stand and found seats in an empty bus. Adi bought two tickets to the campus.

  ‘Can I have the tickets?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. Do you collect them?’

  She nodded, then neatly folded the two thin pieces of paper and put them in her pocket.

  As the bus began to move, the rush of cool air from the open windows dispersed the sweet fragrance of the juhi flowers in her hair. It reminded Adi of the last time he had been this close to her, when the stench in the delivery room had knocked him out.

  Adi chuckled softly, feeling a little contrite about letting her carry the guilt of that incident. ‘Hey Isha,’ he said. ‘Do you remember that day in the delivery room when I fell?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Actually, I should be honest and tell you,’ he said, ‘I really didn’t trip over your bag that day. I… I just fainted upon seeing the delivery.’

  She smiled. ‘I know,’ she said.

  Adi looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean, you know?’

  ‘I know because I was standing next to you, remember? We were behind all the others and I had my bag slung over my shoulder all the time.’

  Adi was at a loss for words. ‘So why…what …I mean…why did you say that I tripped over your bag?’

  ‘I thought you would be really embarrassed if people knew you had fainted while watching a delivery. It’s like why I agreed to come with you today. I just happened to be there…so I said you had tripped over my bag.’

  Stunned, Adi could only shake his head in disbelief.

  She smiled. ‘You probably don’t realize it Adi, but you’ve changed so much from the initial days when you were a quiet shy guy, to today, when you have the confidence to walk up to the ladies’ hostel and ask me out…and do it in front of Sheetal. Earlier, you always behaved as though you didn’t belong…as if your presence in medical college was a mistake. But you’ve found confidence in yourself, cemented your position in class and it’s very nice to see you transform …so…so seamlessly. It’s like watching a beautiful tree grow from a tender sapling and develop strong roots…you end up feeling protective, you know?’

  Adi laughed. ‘You feel protective about me?’

  ‘Not you! Your persona, Adi. You like having lots of friends, and people looking up to you. It’s great if you enjoy it, like you do, and I think, since you are friendly and caring about people, it’s good if nothing happens to spoil that image.’

  ‘But it’s not simply an image, Isha. I do care about people.’

  ‘That’s true. I heard about you teaching Toshi before your Biochem exam. That was very selfless and courageous. That’s why it is so nice to see someone genuine get respect in class. But I feel scared just thinking about how vulnerable it makes you.’

  ‘I don’t understand Isha…if you don’t think of me as a good friend, why do you care what happens to my image?’

  ‘As hard as you try Adi, you can’t get me to admit I care about you.’

  Adi laughed. ‘Well, I’m going to believe that until you say something to the contrary.’

  She smiled. ‘Do you remember the frog you saved in the Physiology tutorial? I don’t know whether you kissed the frog or not Adi, but the frog was really a princess and she said so much about you. You know, it’s strange how small incidents sometimes open such a big window into someone’s personality.’

  Adi smiled. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I should thank you for today’s dinner.’

  ‘No, no, please…today’s dinner was for watching out for me when Sheetal was here. How about tomorrow evening? I could thank you for what happened in the delivery room.’

  She smiled but didn’t respond. They had reached the ladies’ hostel entrance. The area outside was empty. Adi could see Khadoos Baba eyeing them with interest.

  He asked again, ‘Isha…Will you go out with me tomorrow evening to give me a chance to thank you for saving my pride in the delivery room?’

  Isha was about to say something when he stopped her.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘let me find Sheetal before you answer my question.’

  She laughed and said, ‘I guess you don’t have to ask me in front of Sheetal again.’

  SIXTEEN

  The only virile facet of the Maharashtra Association of Resident Doctors was their acronym, MARD, the Hindi word for manliness. This organization of doctors in residency training spearheaded agitations every so often, protesting issues as diverse as the exorbitant price of meals in the canteen to the lack of toilets for the resident doctors on call. The residents were the bulwarks of the hospital, performing most of the actual work of patient care. From starting IVs to complicated surgeries, from examining patients to pushing gurneys, there was no hat that didn’t fit those young, devoted heads. In addition, they carried the onus of teaching the students, for which they had to make time in the evenings, beyond their normal working hours. For their services, they received a stipend that was meagre by all standards; an outrage the administration sought to justify by reminding them that they were still students. They lived in miserable makeshift rooms in the hospital (named ‘Resident Vista’ by somebody’s grandiose imagination) whose narrow, alley-like width inspired immediate claustrophobia on the so afflicted. The thin plywood walls separating one room from the next were rumoured to be porous to the sound of a cockroach’s fart, and at the end of such pigeonholes were two bathrooms to be shared amiably by the inhabitants during the morning rush.

  The residents worked tirelessly, ignoring these hardships with a fortitude that bequeathed on them a martyr like aura. However, a subtle undercurrent of exploitation periodically haunted the fraternity. It found a voice in the protests organized by MARD, though the issues were usually so trivial that the demonstrations took the form of black armbands worn for a week or posters put up outside the administration offices in the stealth of the night. Their ineffectual methods of protest were looked on by the hospital administration like the rebelliousness of a truant child who would eventually learn his lesson. The lack of financial ba
cking and a reluctance to assume leadership for fear of authoritarian retribution during the exams were the principal reasons the organization lacked a coherent voice. In addition, the common sentiment that residency was simply a temporary state of torture to be endured for three years and then forgotten, led to half-hearted commitment on the part of most residents towards the protests organized by MARD.

  Trouble began on a hot morning that June, when Dr Seema Mantri went to get her shot of penicillin from the outpatient department. Dr Mantri, a third-year resident in ophthalmology, had suffered from rheumatic fever as a child and needed prophylaxis with penicillin on a monthly basis. That day she had had her penicillin injection as on all other days, except that minutes after the injection, she started to feel nauseous and vomited. Although she was in the middle of a busy outpatient department, nobody paid her any attention. Within a few minutes she started to sweat profusely and collapsed on the floor. That got a resident doctor’s attention. He immediately realized that she was having an anaphylactic reaction to penicillin. Pheru, who was posted at the outpatient department that month, happened to be with the resident, who told him what was going on. They rushed to the nearest nursing station, shouting for adrenaline. However, the outpatient department had no adrenaline. They would have to take her to ‘Casualty’, a hundred yards away.

  By then a crowd had gathered around her and a mini-melee ensued. Somehow the resident and Pheru managed to get her onto a stretcher and started pushing her at breakneck speed along the corridor towards Casualty. At that very moment, the local municipal corporation leader, known to everyone as the corporator, and a couple of his good-for-nothing cronies were coming around the corner of the same corridor. Out on a cursory survey to show his concern for the citizens of the area he considered his personal fiefdom, the corporator was completely unprepared for what crashed into him. Furious at been rammed into, he immediately started hitting out at Pheru and the resident. The two tried to direct their attention towards Dr Mantri who was gasping on the stretcher, but to no avail. A crowd gathered and pandemonium ensued. In the end, by the time they got Dr Mantri to Casualty, she was quite dead. It didn’t help matters that in Casualty, the supply of oxygen had stopped and the nurse couldn’t find the keys to unlock the cupboard and retrieve an IV set.

  To add insult to injury, the corporator and his goons showed up at the dean’s office to ‘protest’. The Dean – a highly qualified but spineless political stooge – promised to take ‘action’ on the matter. Within an hour of having obsequiously wrung his hands in front of the corporator, he ordered the resident and Pheru to be suspended from duty.

  This time the residents exploded in fury.

  Dr Mantri’s fiancé was a highly respected chief resident of surgery. Distraught with grief, he assumed the mantle of MARD’s leadership rather naturally, finding unqualified support for his fury from his fellow residents. In a spontaneous outpouring of sympathy and anger, a rally was organized in the Anatomy Hall within hours of the incident. The news spread through the campus like wildfire and within minutes the huge hall was packed with medical students, residents, fellows, teachers and ward boys.

  Everybody knew Dr. Sanjeev Chaddha not only as Dr Mantri’s fiancé but also as a brilliant surgical resident. Tall and sturdy, with a dignified demeanour that inspired immediate respect, he stood silently in front of the massive gathering, waiting for people to quieten down. He cleared his throat, looked around at the hundreds of faces staring back at him, and began in a loud, firm voice.

  ‘Thank you all for coming here,’ he said. ‘As you know, today Seema died. She died from an anaphylactic reaction to penicillin. Amit, our senior medical resident, and Salim Pherwani, a fourth-year medical student, tried to save her, but couldn’t. So, we gather here trying to understand why a twenty-four-year-old, four months from completing her degree, now lies on a cold stretcher in the dirty morgue.’

  Some of the girls began to cry.

  He took a deep breath and said, ‘So what killed her? Was it because there was no adrenaline in the OPD? Or was it because Casualty is so far away from the OPD that a patient will die ten times before they can reach it? Was it because there was no oxygen in Casualty? Or was it because Amit and Salim were stopped by a bunch of goondas who our dean does salaam to?’

  He paused. Angry whispers and enraged nods filled the audience.

  ‘No!’ he said, raising his voice. ‘We killed her!’

  There were sharp exclamations all around.

  ‘We killed her with our apathy! We killed her with our disinterest! We killed her with our uncaring attitude! If this was a patient, and not Seema, there would be no protest, no indignation, no gathering! We wouldn’t be sitting here, crying! We see this happen day in and day out, with so many of our patients. Medicines that don’t work, IVs that give infections, surgical rooms without suture material, ob-gyn floors without painkillers, neonatal units without incubators… They are all around us. We see them every day and they don’t even register in our brains! We walk over dirty floors, laugh when the nurse runs all over to find an IV, joke about the medicine having the wrong effect, harass the poor patient’s family to get supplies, and count our days until we are out of this damned place. No wonder our patients do poorly and those who come to this hospital, come to die! So why should it be any different for Seema? Because she is one of “us”, not one of “them”?’

  In the room’s pin-drop silence, the hurt in his voice was palpable.

  ‘We are afraid to protest, afraid to bring it to the hospital’s notice that they provide horrible service to their patients, that patients do well not because of us, but in spite of us! We fear that they will retaliate against us during the exams! We have made token protests against this with the administration, and they have, as usual, not responded. They reassure us, but don’t act. They know our threats are empty. But this time…this time it has gone beyond our limits of tolerance! Not only did they not support Amit and Salim against the corporator, they suspended them! They suspended the two who tried to save Seema’s life!’

  The spark had been lit. Raising his hands in the air he unleashed the fury inside him.

  ‘I am sick and tired of being pushed around! I am sick and tired of being a coward! I am sick and tired of being a voiceless slave! I am sick and tired of feeling worthless! I am sick and tired of the administration walking all over me! This is it! No more!’

  Loud desk-thumping rent the air.

  He waited for them to settle down. Then, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk, he said, ‘This is a list of things that we want from our dean. We will put up copies everywhere…but what we want most is that Amit and Salim be reinstated immediately with a letter of apology from the dean, and we want a police case filed against the corporator who beat them.’

  Another round of applause followed.

  Dr. Chaddha raised his hand to silence the crowd. Then, in a steady voice he said, ‘This is an ultimatum. If our conditions are not met within seven days, we will go on a strike…an indefinite strike!’

  The applause continued. Amidst the loud cheering, Dr. Chaddha spotted the look of concern on a few faces.

  ‘I know some of you don’t like the idea of a strike,’ he said. ‘You feel concerned about the patients who will be affected by it, but let me tell you this: they are already affected by it. They suffer the most from our apathy and carelessness. We do this to them! How could this terrible care get any worse if we went on strike? This strike is not against them but for their good. We are doctors, not magicians… We cannot do anything if there is no material for sutures or the IV fluid is dirty or the incubators leak! The responsibility of patient care lies not only with us, but with the administration, and this time the patients are in their hands. They can agree to our demands and prevent this strike from happening, but laathon ke bhoot baaton se nahin maante! Unless we threaten them, nothing will happen… Nothing will change, and Seema will have died for nothing! Nothing!’

  The deafening sound
of desks being thumped shook the walls of the huge room.

  The impending strike became the big news on campus. The dean did reinstate both Amit and Pheru, and even gave them letters of appreciation for their effort in trying to save Dr Mantri. However, he refused to file a police case against the corporator, ostensibly because his had been an act of ‘self-defense’. It was clear to everyone that the dean was under tremendous political pressure to ride out this storm on behalf of the corporator.

  Pheru became an instant celebrity on campus. Suddenly he began to be recognized as the person who had tried to save Dr Mantri’s life rather than the bully who enjoyed torturing freshies. His history of having languished for four years in Pharmacology got buried in the eulogistic descriptions of how he had tried to take a few swings at the corporator. One newspaper mentioned Pheru’s name along with his photograph when describing the event. Pheru promptly cut out the write-up, got it framed and hung it on the wall of the room he now shared with Toshi. All this attention had a strange effect on Pheru. For the first time, he grew concerned that he had an exam to pass and a reputation to protect. He began to make regular trips to the library carrying his Pharmacology text under his arm. He started attending tutorials and participating in practicals that he had missed for the last four years. One night he woke Adi up to borrow notes on the subject. As Adi smiled and handed him the notes he realized that in the warmth of public adulation, Pheru had found the acceptance he had so hungered for.

  Toshi saw the impending strike as a long awaited opportunity to go home. Since coming to Bombay two years ago, he hadn’t been able to go home even once, and it left him extremely homesick. Dissuading a short jaunt was the distance between Bombay and Mokukchung that would consume five days by train and bus. Air travel could reduce this to one day, but the plane tickets were prohibitively expensive. It didn’t make sense to go all that way, at such expense, without getting at least a few weeks at home – a scenario that was suddenly a distinct possibility if the strike materialized.