Oath of Hippocrates Read online

  “Pickles. What? No wonder you let me lift it”.

  “You have a choice of making it lighter, Ananta”.

  “Which is?”

  “The same that the slaves exercised: Finish them before you reach your destination”.

  “Thanks, but no. A pickle jar in the bag is better than one in the stomach”.

  During the dreary drive for hours with multiple stops despite the point-to-point claim, Ramanujam slept off through most of the journey and Ananta kept his eyes and mouth wide open. The duo heaved a sigh of relief as the bus heaved into the bus-stand, overloaded with people who had embarked on the way.

  “Follow me”, shouted Ramanujam as he skilfully wove through the milling crowd and pounced into an auto-rickshaw. “Main Station”. Ananta jumped in with his luggage, very short of breath.

  “Hold the bars, Ananta”.

  In a few minutes, Ananta understood why he had to. The vehicle was doing acrobatics on the road filled with pot-holes. If a tailor were to replicate the auto-rickshaw’s movements on a piece of cloth, it would be an exquisite embroidery pattern.

  “Main Station”. Ramanujam quickly paid up without asking ‘How much?’ and sped to the ticketing counters. He took his position in one queue and bade Ananta to stand in another, just in case it moved faster.

  There was a ruckus in Ananta’s queue about giving tickets to Jam Nagar instead of Ram Nagar. The ticketing official refused to re-issue the ticket and the customer cursed the railways, the official, his family and his dogs. Ramanujam moved to the head while Ananta’s queue was static.

  “Three for Bangalore. Garden City Express”.

  “Exact change, please”.

  Ramanujam quickly paid, stuffed the tickets in his pants and made way for the next person in line. “Ananta, here”, he shouted gesturing towards the platform entry.

  “We need to get on to the train and find a place to sit. These are unreserved. Quick, the train has just come in”.

  Sliding slowly through the gaps, the boys chanced upon an empty upper berth. Dumping the heavier bags under the seat, the two boys perched themselves on the upper berth. They were sweating profusely. The heat and the exertion was upon them. The fans would start spinning only when the train’s engine is turned on.

  “Ananta, I will make a quick trip to the bath-room on the platform. I would recommend that throughout this journey, you restrict your fluid intake to the minimum unless you want to see a place smelling worse than our town’s bus-stand”.

  “Understood. Go and be back soon”. Ananta, unused to exertion, continued to breathe heavily.

  Before long, a couple of labourer-types espied the empty seats next to Ananta. “Anybody?” asked one gesturing to the space next to Ananta.

  “Yes, he is coming back”, replied Ananta.

  “Two of you, then? One more can sit”. With a swift movement, the younger man swung himself on to the upper berth and sat cross-legged, leaving a space for Ananta’s companion. Ananta became nervous and started shifting his gaze from window to window. The upper berth gave an excellent view of feet on the platform. As luck would have it, Ananta was not good at recognising people by their feet. He got nervous as two more people came and enquired about the vacant space next to him.

  “Looking for something, Ananta?” the familiar voice was back as Ananta had been looking outside distractedly.

  “Good heavens, you are back, Rama”.

  “You weren’t expecting me?” Looking up at the other labourer-type occupant, Rama said, “We have one more person joining us”.

  “What? Your friend said two”. The man looked at Ananta with disappointment.

  “No, no, three. I have three tickets. See. One, two, three”.

  “Three tickets?” shouted Ananta.

  “All right, then”, grumbled the labourer-type as he swung down faster than he went up.

  “Where are you travelling up to?”

  “Anantapur. And when are you two, or three, vacating your seats?”

  “Tough luck, sir. Bangalore”.

  “Bangalore”, the man murmured before walking away.

  “Bangalore?” shouted Ananta. “I thought...”

  His voice was drowned by the train’s toot as it pulled itself out of the platform.

  “I thought...”

  CHAPTER 8: Alternativism

  “I thought ...”

  “Yes, my old friend, Yadav. What can humble Pyare Mohan do for you?”

  “That this vermin be taught a lesson”, completed Dr. Yadav.

  “Just a lesson, nothing more?” Pyare Mohan asked in his politicking tone, deliberating over each word.

  “Just a lesson, so that he will keep his mouth shut”.

  “So, this boy is an annoyance to you, just as I was to our professors, I presume”.

  “No, Pyare Mohan, this is different. Ramanujam is studious and a topper. He has no godparents, no political affiliation, lacks monetary clout and plays by the rules”.

  “All that I wasn’t, eh?” chuckled the politician.

  Trust a politician to bring the conversation to himself, thought Dr. Yadav. He waited to see if there were any more of “I” statements coming from him.

  “So, what is your problem?” the politico resumed.

  “This fellow has difficulty in accepting the status quo on the current medical practices, our relationship with the pharmaceutical industry, and the Food & Drug Regulatory Authority. You name it, he has a problem with it. People of his kind are not good for us. The sooner we silence him, the better it is for our fraternity.”

  “I am listening, Yadav”, Pyare Mohan uttered with the patient air of a psychotherapist.

  Dr. Yadav continued. “I was planning to have him set up and put in the dock to undermine his credibility, but he has smartly escaped my clutches under the pretext of going to his home town for his grandfather’s death, skipping his final exams. Last known, he was at his home town. It would help if he is told to lay off matters out of his area of concern.”

  “Is there any area of your concern, Yadav?” Pyare Mohan asked slowly.

  “Possibly. There are some matters of the past that he may or may not have an understanding on. I hope you follow me.” That was as close to a candid admission on Dr. Yadav’s part that there was something he was worried about being discovered.

  The politician was smart enough to grasp the speaker’s reticence and decided to probe further at a later point in time. “Of course, I do, Yadav. I will have someone sent out to check him. Worry not”.

  The old friends continued to chatter for a few minutes more. Details of the truant student shared, Dr. Yadav hung up on a happy note. One problem off my hands, he thought. Dr. Yadav’s mind flashed back a couple of semesters to a quarterly Open House session when Ramanujam had chosen to challenge status quo through surrogacy.

  “Sir, as I understand from our syllabus and our seniors, our course is going to be focussed on the allopathic system of medicine. Are there any thoughts of including the other systems in the course for a holistic view?” Reshma Tivari had piped up during one of the quarterly Open House sessions. The Dean had initiated these sessions as fora for free-wheeling discussions between students, senior faculty and doctors of the attache. The questions would normally be around medical news and health concerns as reported in the news since the previous Open House session.

  Dr. Yadav was seated on the low dais next to the Dean. He slanted his head towards the Dean and offered to take the question.

  “Miss Tivari”, Dr. Yadav was at his polite best. “We, at the Medical Mission, are committed to delivering excellence in education in the stream of proven medicine. Not speculative, experimental or exploratory systems calling themselves medicine”.

  “Is that a definitive ’No’ to alternative medicine, sir?” The familiar voice came from a different direction. Dr. Yadav would not have been surprised if told that the earlier question mouthed by Reshma Tivari was instigated by this voice, that of Ramanujam.
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br />   “Mr. Ramanujam, what you call ‘alternative medicine’, is what we prefer to call ‘alternative to medicine’”. Dr. Yadav paused for effect. A section of the audience burst into laughter. The faculty and doctors on the dais nodded in approval.

  “Despite my reservations, however, the topic is open for discussion. But in the interest of time, let us take this up in the smaller interested group. We would prefer to hear and answer more questions in this forum”, Dr. Yadav looked at the Dean for approval and he promptly nodded.

  The session wrapped up quickly. Slating the Open House session for the last hour of the last working day of the week was a good idea. The students wanted to get out soon and kept the questions to the minimum. Any new questions after the time slot will be met with angry glares and sledging from the students themselves.

  Dr. Yadav wrapped up his Monday morning lecture in 40 minutes. “So, students, I understand you had some questions about, hm, alternative medicine. You have heard my opinion as well. Is there anything you would like to add? Reshma?”

  “No. sir,” muttered Reshma Tivari meekly.

  “You, Ram?”, the professor queried, with a glint in his eye. His pleasure was visible to all who knew his feelings towards the student.

  “I appreciate your views, sir. Could you enlighten us on why the other systems do not merit classification under medicine?”

  “For the simple reason that they are anything but. The white man, in all his spirit of enquiry has arrived at this system of medicine – well-researched, well-experimented and well-founded”.

  “And well-funded”, rejoined Ramanujam.

  “What was that?”

  “Dr. Hahnemann was a white man as well. His system, I understand, is well-researched and well-experimented – on humans, if I may add. Not on lab mice and monkeys”.

  “Homoeopathy is no medicine. It is a placebo. If you need to discuss this further, you may come to my room. A classroom is no place to discuss personal preferences”.

  Ramanujam readily responded. “I agree, sir. A classroom is no place to discuss our personal preferences” and he sat down. Dr. Yadav was unsure if the student was referring to his own personal preferences or the doctor’s.

  The light tap on the door was followed by a short, “May I come in, sir?”

  “Come in, Ram, I have been expecting you. Sit”.

  Dr. Yadav had opened the blinds behind him to let the light fall on the chair in front of him. He liked to observe his subject better. After all, isn’t that what a doctor is trained to do?

  “You had some important question, Mr. Champion of Homoeopathy?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I meant only to ask if there are other systems that can provide succour or relief to a patient, why not embrace them, rather than shun them?”

  “As I have told you, homoeopathy offers placebo drugs. Our research has proven that there is no medicinal value in homoeopathic drugs”.

  “Do they have to bear scrutiny under your research or their own, sir? Would you want to grade a person’s Maths worksheet on English benchmarks?”

  “Poor analogy, Ram. This is not the same”.

  “This is exactly where I agree, sir. Let us take the case of migraine. In our system, do we have a definite cure for migraine, sir?”

  Dr. Yadav looked unsettled. There was no answer. “Ram, we can have this meeting till eternity, but this is not going to resolve anything”.

  Ramanujam continued, ignoring the professor’s non-answer. “If an alternative system is able to do this, why not send the migraine patient there? Is it not right to have the patient treated in whatever means possible, rather than persist with dogma and let the patient continue to suffer. That apart, sir, do we, or do we not occasionally prescribe placebos for hypochondriacs?”

  “Yes, but...”.

  “Sorry, sir, let me complete. If there are a set of placebo pills, which for some reason, are not categorised under your system, why do we have apprehensions about prescribing them?”

  “It would legitimise that system”.

  “So, as on date, you hold homoeopathy as an illegitimate system?”

  “Between you and me, Ram: Yes”.

  “Sir, in that case, I don’t have anything more to say. Thanks for your time, sir”.

  “The pleasure is mine”, smiled Dr. Yadav. “I thought you were going to step into Ayurveda next”. He laughed.

  “Yes, sir, I will. When you have the time, I would like to discuss why we do not approve of the system that identifies a person’s body type and recommends appropriate medication rather than sticking to a one-size-fits-all methodology”, Ramanujam smiled in return and left the room.

  Dr. Prakash Yadav frowned at the thought of another draining sit-down with this intelligent boy. If only he would focus his attention on real matters, he had thought.

  The old discussion was fresh in the mind, as if it happened the previous day. There was a sharp, familiar double-knock at the door. Only Ghafur knocks that way. “Come in”.

  Expectedly, Ghafur walked into the professor’s room and placed a piece of paper on the table.

  “The missing boy’s address, sir”.

  “Thanks. I already have it. He had written to me and the Dean seeking leave. Anything else about him?”

  “Yes, sir. The hostel warden and I inspected his room for any mischief or foul play”.

  “And?”

  “Everything is in order, sir. He seems to have taken his clothes and has not surrendered his key to the warden. The warden will let me know when he hears from the boy”.

  “Keep me posted, Ghafur”.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Dr. Yadav waved him away looking elsewhere and Ghafur made a quick exit to spend time with his thoughts. It had been two days since he had sent the telegram. He couldn’t delay giving the address to his boss any longer and hoped the boy would have got his message and fled. It was not the time for the boy to pause and think about puzzling messages.

  CHAPTER 9: Journey Men

  “It may not be the time to pause and think about puzzles, but I have a couple of questions, if not more”.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You are sleeping, Rama?”

  “I was. Until you woke me up”.

  Most of the coach’s occupants were nodding away after lunch. That was the only thing one could do on a full stomach with hot air blowing on the face.

  “Grandfather used to say, ’Never wake up a sleeping person. It shortens the life’.”

  “If you go around waking up people in this coach, Ananta, I won’t guarantee you will return alive”.

  “No, no, grandfather meant it. Apparently, it shortens the life of the waker and the waked. Think of what happened in Kumbhakarna’s case. Both he and those who awoke him perished soon”.

  “Good, remember this before you wake me up the next time, Ananta”, Ramanujam tried to go back to sleep.

  “Now that you are awake, Rama, I have a couple of questions”.

  “Can’t they wait until later?”

  “Possibly. But they are burning me.”

  “They are?”

  “Why did you buy three tickets? Who is the third person? You told a few of the enquirers that your friend has gone to the bath-room or in the next coach with more friends. It has been more than 12 hours since he went wherever he went”.

  “Look at the people below. Look at those perched on the upper berth opposite to us. Would you want any of them falling over you during their mid-day nap?”

  “No”. Ananta was repelled by the thought.

  “What do we have that they don’t?”

  “Space”.

  “How did we get it, Ananta?”

  “The third ticket! Stroke of genius, Rama!”

  “I was born this way,” Rama said, suppressing a smile.

  Ananta was confused on whether Rama was trying to praise himself or trying to be humble. He resumed, “I thought we were going to...”

  Ramanujam interrupted. “Ye
s, everyone thought what I wanted them to think. Our day of departure was decided by a telegram that asked me to flee. Obviously, if someone were to come looking for me in our village, it will not take more than a few minutes to gather that I have left for Mumbai. Sooner or later, they will know where I am. By setting them off to the wrong destination to start with, I have extended the time available for me to do my work, which might implicate the people who set them after me”.

  “But, our people think...”

  “Ananta,” Ramanujam interjected, “Our people want us to be safe. If that means I have to use them to perpetuate a harmless lie, I am guilty of it. They will know the truth when they need to know it and I implore you to assist me here”.

  “If worldly-wise is to mislead one’s own family, I don’t want to be that, Rama. I will remain a country bumpkin”.

  “To each his own”.

  Both sat silently and sullenly until the next station.

  The tea-vendor peeped into the coach. Realising that he would not be able to go through the crowded aisle, he clanged the window rails from outside, shouting “One cup 5”.

  The external drone thus broken, Ramanujam opened up. He drew a deep, noisy breath.

  Yes, Ananta, in your perspective, I am a liar. Nothing more, nothing less. But, considering what I am up against, I didn’t have a choice”.

  Ananta was unmoved. “So, what would happen if the goons knew where you are going? If they are as powerful as you say they are, how long will it be before they find you in Bangalore?”

  “I have no idea, Ananta. But, I think we will have the answers to both questions in due course of time”.

  “You call this 200?” a voice broke through.

  The cousins looked down towards the window whence the voice came. The bearded man at the side window seat was gesturing pointing towards his tea-cup.

  “Sir, the cup is a 200ml cup”, responded the tea-vendor nonchalantly.

  “Good. If it is not full to the brim, the tea you give is not 200ml. Correct?”

  No answer.

  “Yes, yes”, murmured the bearded man’s neighbour.