Oath of Hippocrates Read online

  “I will, sir”.

  “One more thing, Ghafur. Any of the other faculty members wondering about Ram’s disappearance?”

  “I believe most are wondering, but none seemed concerned”.

  CHAPTER 5: A Decent Proposal

  “Aren’t you concerned, Rama?”

  “About?”

  “What you are going to do? Where you are going?”

  “I don’t know if I am concerned, Ananta”.

  “Tell me the truth. I know you better than the others do. You didn’t come here for grandpa, did you?”

  Ramanujam took a deep breath to consider the question and what part thereof he wanted to answer. Slowly, he unfolded the events of the past to Ananta, his cousin, under the pledge of secrecy. The cousin was shell-shocked.

  Ananta had been home-schooled on account of his ailment and raised to be the man who will look after the ancestral home and land. In the extended family, Ananta remained the sole tiller of the soil in his generation. At least, in theory. Forced inactivity had left him with a pleasantly plump physique, which was exaggerated by his shortness of stature. He had never set foot in a town except for medical visits and was always accompanied by someone. How he longed to break free from constant supervision and savour the sights and sounds of big cities!

  And here was his cousin Ramanujam, who had run away from the city to protect himself and his beliefs. What nonchalance, what idiocy!

  “Take me, Rama!”

  “What?”

  “Take me with you. Wherever you go. I want to see the world”. Ananta stopped speaking. He was whimpering. “I was the one who wanted to go out and get a job. I can’t get one in this vicinity because everyone knows about my periodic bouts of hysteria. The doctors I have seen claim that they are self-inflicted. In all your roaming in the next six months, Rama, will there not be one doctor who has a cure to my ailment?” Ananta started sobbing uncontrollably.

  Ramanujam looked on with sympathy for a few minutes. “How will we support ourselves?”

  “I can work. I can lift, I can dig, I can cut, chop, grind, I can clean. Whatever it takes. Only if someone gives me a chance. My hysteria has never come in the way of my work. But, no one in our family or the village trusts me enough to let me be by myself”.

  “Quite so, Ananta”.

  Ananta was right. They had never let him ride a bicycle, climb trees or go to the river alone. It gnawed him to the bone that he was treated as a child.

  “Ananta, no guarantees. I will speak to father and see what can be done. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think father thinks I am in my senses either”.

  “I will agree with him on that count. Please come back with good news”.

  Father had been the head of the household for the past two years since grandfather took ill. He consulted his brothers on key matters, but his decision was final and binding. Facing him was not an easy task. He was a man of few words, particularly with those of his next generation and Ramanujam himself had had only one more conversation with him in the past ten days since his grandfather’s demise.

  “Father, I will be leaving in the next few days”.

  “I assumed so. After the last rites, I presume?”

  “Yes, father”.

  “Where to?”

  “To Mumbai, probably”.

  “Bombay? Why?”

  “I have some friends there who will help me in my quest”.

  “How much do you want?”

  “Not money”.

  “Better be a spendthrift on my money than a philanthropist with borrowed money”.

  “Father, I have some of the money you had sent me earlier. You have my word. If it so happens that I have to live on someone else’s money, I would rather be here tilling your soil”.

  Father’s face showed a semblance of a smile. He was not free with approvals or appreciation of his family members. The shadow of a smile was the closest he got to approving his son’s statement.

  “Rama, what do you want then?”

  Ramanujam’s heart beat faster before he could throw out a single name, “Ananta!”

  Father frowned. “What of him?”

  “I would like him to accompany me. Ananta wants to see the world and he will be there to keep me reminded of my promise to you”.

  Father liked the way his son phrased it, but he wouldn’t show it.

  “You want to take Ananta. Despite...”

  “Despite that. I am not a doctor yet, but I hope that there is some cure out there for his ailment, that our local practitioners are dismissive about”.

  Father shook his head in consideration. “I will talk to your uncle and tell you our decision after the last day’s rites are over”. Father always said something like this when he was unwilling to take an immediate decision.

  Soon after the last rites were over, Ramanujam’s father spoke to his brothers about the proposal. Ananta’s father seemed glad at the thought of his son venturing out. Ananta’s mother held back her tears and her thoughts. Her only son had never been out of her eyesight for longer than a few hours. To have him sent to a strange place was tearing her heart.

  “Who will take care of the boy in the big city?” It was grandmother. She was sitting on the floor near the courtyard with one leg stretched straight, grinding betel nuts with a mini-pestle. “It is all good for the boy to grow up to be a man, but what if he has, you know”.

  Silence cast a long shadow in the house. Before long, grandmother resumed her chore of bashing the betel nut. It sounded a bit harsher now. It was as if she was taking out her angst on the nut. Ananta’s mother silently wiped the tears that were threatening to brim over. Her mother-in-law had spoken her own words.

  “How long has it been since the last time for Ananta?” It was Ananta’s youngest uncle, referring to the last bout of hysteria. “Longer than any of us can remember. For all you know, it might have been his last time ever. Let the chap go. It will be only for a few months. To my memory, Ananta has never asked for anything. If this is what the poor kid wants, let him have it, I say”.

  Father spoke. “So be it. Ananta is to leave with Rama. They are to remain in constant touch during their time away. If they ever fail in this fundamental expectation, they are to catch the next train and return home”.

  CHAPTER 6: A Friend in Need

  Home is the safe haven the student would go to, if he is seeking to escape, thought Dr. Yadav. It had been thirteen days since he had gone and his last sighting seemed to have been in the distant past, but his memory continued to gnaw the brain.

  Dr. Yadav swung the swivel chair away from his desk to face the window behind it. He had a great view of the gardens, but no time to admire it. He had imposed a brutal regimen upon himself to ensure that no one stole a march over him as far as advancement was concerned.

  Who’s that? Dr. Yadav moved closer to the window to get a better look. Well, well, didn’t know those two were a couple, what a surprise, he thought.

  Next to the window, was hanging a framed copy of Hippocratic Oath. The exquisitely printed document had been a gift from one of his classmates, Pyare Mohan, at the time of their passing out. The gift had lost none of its lustre in all these years.

  It was, palpably, in return for Prakash Yadav’s assistance to Pyare Mohan in clearing his exams. Pyare Mohan was the scion of a political family. When Pyare Mohan’s father was founding his party, he grabbed local attention by felling scores of trees to block roads. Within months, he became the messiah of the oppressed masses. Within a few years, he came a billionaire many times over, with the people he claimed to represent still believing in him and his conspiracy theories. Later, the son Pyare Mohan kick-started an organisation named “Green Mother” that gained political mileage out of planting trees. Dr. Yadav chuckled at the irony.

  Pyare Mohan had been an indifferent student. His extra-curricular activities over-shadowed the lack of academic progress. A young Yadav had cultivated Pyare’s friendship for obvious reasons
. Political bearings were to be nurtured, not spurned.

  It was quite obvious to the teachers that Pyare Mohan had had help in completing the work assigned to him. Considering the student’s political background, the faculty wanted to look no further. By the time Pyare Mohan was close to completing his degree, his father had risen to be a coalition partner in his state. Yadav himself was well-rewarded for his assistance to Pyare Mohan. In addition to trinkets, Yadav was told that he could call upon Pyare for assistance of any sort. Dr. Yadav had not encashed the blank cheque until now.

  Pyare Mohan himself went into politics. It was rumoured at the time that post-convocation, Pyare Mohan had been called aside by the Dean and senior faculty and told in no uncertain terms that his graduation was not an academic achievement, but a political one and implored him not to practise as a doctor, lest there be blood on their hands.

  Regardless of the veracity of the rumour, Pyare showed no inclination to get into the practice of medicine. He was now the number two in the family-run party and was being spoken of as a ministerial candidate.

  A bird settling on the window-sill broke Dr. Yadav’s thoughts and brought his vision down to the letter-tray. He remembered that Ghafur had placed a letter in it a few days earlier. No sender details and an illegible post-mark. Had all the trappings of a village or small-town representative seeking a doctor for the local hospice. These hospices were usually windowless one-room shops, built through the munificence and thoughtlessness of a village-expatriate who wanted to prove his roots still exist, without consideration for practicality of everyday operation. Why would I send any doctor to such hell-holes where they have no chance of seeing money, Dr. Yadav thought to himself. These people should be seeing their local medicine-man and live or die by them. After all, parents don’t spend millions for their children to earn pittances in dusty village clinics. Maybe we should send the merit-list students like Ramanujam to the villages. They came from the villages and paid no capitation fees. Yadav smiled as he ripped open the letter. He unfolded it to see the scrawl written with a bad pen.

  Dear Sir,

  My grandfather passed away on the 5th instant and I had been summoned to his bedside. My apologies for not having informed you earlier. I had to leave in a hurry 4th (Friday), when you were out of town and most of my class-mates had left for other interests.

  It burns my heart that I had to do this on the eve of my final exams and beg your consideration to let me take the exams at the end of the next semester. As I have completed all of my coursework-related obligations, I entreat you to grant me a semester’s break to fulfil my personal needs.

  Thank you,

  Ramanujam

  cc: Dean & Director

  Why cc the Dean? Of course, the boy is as smart as they come.

  Dr. Yadav dialled the Dean without further delay.

  “Sir, Yadav here. There is a letter from a final-year student requesting a break and it has been copied to you. I would request you to...”.

  “No worries, Yadav. I have discharged it. I understand you were busy around that time with the conference paper. The student has stated the facts about his course-work completion and I have had Asanka send the response. I have approved it”.

  “You have, sir?” Dr. Yadav’s voice dropped.

  “Any problems, Yadav?”

  “He is playing truant”.

  “His reasons seem genuine. I don’t read anything more in his letter, unless you have something to tell me”.

  “No, nothing else, sir”.

  Dr. Yadav yearned for the student to be back, but the dim-wit Dean has willed otherwise. Ghafur will look up the records for Ramanujam’s location and Pyare Mohan will help in closing the grip on him. He will have nowhere to run.

  CHAPTER 7: The Journey Begins

  “RUN”. That was all the telegram said. It was well enough that Ramanujam was the person to collect it from the postman. This was a village of the friendly-neighbourhood postman.

  “So, it is from your city. What does it say?”

  In the town, this would have been a nosey parker. In the village, the postman knew your extended family and their correspondence frequency, to start with.

  “Nothing, it is just an official sanction of my leave,” Ramanujam muttered his lie.

  “Oh, I heard you are going out to see the world,” smiled the postman. This early morning, the postman, God bless his good nature, was the last person Ramanujam wanted to discuss his future plans with. He was unsure whether to respond.

  The postman continued, “I will know where you are, wherever you are.” He paused. “As long as you keep writing to your people”. He grinned.

  “Of course, I will. You know that”.

  “Let me get on with my beat, son”. Off went the postman on his bicycle much to Ramanujam’s relief.

  “RUN”. Nothing else. It could have only been from Ghafur. No one else who had access to his address would have wanted to caution him. Inferably, someone else also had his address and was after him. The telegram conveyed the immediacy of the missive. Ram’s decision to leave by that afternoon was met by remonstrations, which were efficiently silenced by his uncle.

  “The boys’ leaving later is not going to make it any better for us. There is no better time than now”, he said.

  An auto-rickshaw had been commissioned from the nearby town to ferry the boys to the town’s bus terminus. The good-byes were tearful, but the moment the auto lost the village streets, Ananta chuckled.

  “I am feeling guilty, Rama. I am feeling guilty because I am feeling happy, when my mother is feeling sad. Should I feel happy at all?”

  “Go ahead, feel happy for yourself, Ananta”.

  “Thanks, that makes me feel better”.

  “And, feel a little sad for grandmother and your mother”.

  “How can I feel happy and sad at the same time, Rama?”

  “If you can’t feel sad, feel guilty about feeling happy”.

  Ananta frowned and stared at his cousin. “You are not even trying to make me feel better, are you?”

  “No, not intentionally. Unless you want me to, Ananta”.

  “You are insufferable. You have always been”.

  “Surely, you underestimate me, Ananta”, laughed Rama.

  “No, I mean it and I know it,” laughed Ananta.

  “No, I mean I am worse than insufferable, you will find out”.

  “Rama, do you remember the Aesop’s fable where the slaves are asked to pick up the bags for the master’s travel?”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “The wisest slave picked up the heaviest bag”.

  “Yes, Ananta. What about it?”

  “It contained food. As the travel progressed, the bag got lighter and lighter”.

  “Why are you reminded of this story, now?”

  “Well, Rama, when we get off this auto-rickshaw, I offer to carry the food-stuff and you will carry everything else. Deal?”

  “With due consideration and magnanimity, Ananta, I will let you carry the food bags”.

  “Ah, spoken like a gentleman”.

  The auto-rickshaw rumbled to a halt near the coconut-vendor outside the bus-stand. Flies buzzed around the ears.

  “How much?” asked Rama after all the bags were removed.

  “Already paid”, the auto made a sharp U-turn and waded blindly into oncoming traffic to get back to its base. Trust father to take care of that, thought Ramanujam.

  “Say, Rama, I have a question to ask after we get away from this smell of urine”.

  That was one thing that would welcome a new-comer to these parts. The overwhelming smell of urine. It is mostly of men. The women apparently have better bladder control or modesty, no one is sure.

  “Ananta, three things are guaranteed in our lives,” Ramanujam said as they walked towards the boarding station.

  “I am all ears, Rama”.

  “Death, taxes, and...”, Ramanujam paused.

  “And..?”

&n
bsp; “Body fluid emission practices of the Indian male”.

  “Well said”.

  “You will hear such pithy maxims from time to time, Ananta”.

  “Spare me”.

  “Point-to-point bus to the city. Let us take this one”, Ramanujam jerked his head towards a bus, on account of both hands being weighed down by bags. Ananta walked around to the pool of drivers standing near the tea shop. Two of them were dipping their bun in a glass of tea. Ananta was unsure whether the act made the bun more edible or tea taste better. He became conscious of their sudden silence and gently queried, “Sir, when does this bus leave?”

  “Now. Please take your seat, sir”.

  “Thanks”. Ananta ran around to the entrance of the bus lugging his bags and dropped himself on two seats. He stretched himself to the window and looked outside for Ramanujam.

  “These seats are better, Ananta. You have full control of the window from here”, called a voice from behind.

  “Oh, Rama, already in? Good. Take these bags. I went around to ask the driver when this bus leaves”.

  “And, I suppose he said it leaves now and asked you to take your seat?”

  “Oh, how did you know? You can’t even see the drivers from where you are sitting, much less hear what they say”. Ananta had a look of bewilderment on his face.

  “They always say that. How many passengers do you see in the bus, Ananta?”

  “Five, including us”.

  “That is a good start. Get the remaining 27 and the bus will leave”.

  “What? The driver said...”

  “Ananta, calm down. The driver said what you wanted to hear. Had you asked about any other bus, the answer would have been the same. At least, they are consistent. People like you and me will fill the bus, see that couple is already boarding it”.

  “Hmph”, Ananta was upset.

  “What did you want to ask me when the smell of you-know-what stopped you?”

  “My bag is very heavy”.

  “You chose it, Ananta. The wise slave in Aesop’s fable knew what he was up to”.

  “So did I”.

  “The wise slave did not have his grandmother-made pickles, hermetically sealed to be spill-proof, packed in 1892-made porcelain jars, that will last three generations”.