Each body and limb should be treated with the utmost respect. “Each of you will be assigned tablemates, and there will be eight to a table sharing one cadaver. Four of you will work on one limb. The head and neck will be common for the eight of you. There will be a weekly test and these marks will count towards the final assessment.” While this lecture was going, Suresh saw the lab assistants dip into large rectangle tanks, each at least six feet in length. They used large L-shaped instruments to dig deep into the receptacle and, between three of them, they slowly lifted up something. It was difficult to believe that it was a whole human body that emerged from the murky formaldehyde (formalin) solution it was immersed in. It was as stiff as a wooden board; more like tree trunks than like the remains of human beings.

 The chemicals had dehydrated it; turning it into the likeness of a dark shrivelled fossil—its face set in death: gaunt and hideous. In the subsequent months, Suresh enjoyed his work with the cadaver they were allotted. Some of the others did not like dissection as much as he did. He, being surgically inclined, liked to cut into the skin and tease it off the underlying fascia. He had to be careful not to buttonhole it. But his skill was up to it. The incision ran vertically right through the centre of the leg and the skin was reflected off latterly in two halves. The calf muscles had to be then delineated, taking care to preserve the nerves and vessel in their relative positions. A mistake here would not mean much, but in real life, a slip of the scalpel would mean the loss of life or limb. At the end of each session, the muscles would be covered with a thin layer of coir fibre dipped in formalin. The skin would be replaced over the whole, providing protection for the underlying structures, much like its function in the living man. A large plastic sheet was draped over the whole table and everything on it, until the next session. Each of them was given a box of bones to take to their room, which included a skull as well. In this study of osteology, they had to learn the names of each major crease and tubercle. The entire set would have to be returned at the end of the third semester. Anatomy was the study of structure. In the physiology classes, on the other hand, they learned the function. 

Now he had all day till 6 pm and time seemed to crawl along. While the lecturers were droning on, he found his mind wandering away to the sunken garden. Would she really come or would she send word at the last minute, declining? The sunken garden lay between the library block and the women’s hostel, the size of an ice hockey rink. It sank in tiers towards the centre, where there was a pond. Each tier had exotic palms, creepers and flowers of every hue. It gave you the feeling of being in a huge green nest. The body of water in the middle had a broad pathway around it with a few stone benches. This was where Suresh was sitting at 5:45 in the evening, nervously awaiting what he at that time thought would be the most pivotal point of his life. A little after six, he saw her glide down the steps towards him wearing a grey sari with little red butterflies on it. He was not one to notice things like this, but this sari he would always remember. Suresh rose to meet her. And they sat on one of the warm granite seats. “It seems you wanted to meet me,” she opened with a playful expression on her face. “Yes,” Suresh said with trepidation. “So, what is it about?” “Just thought we could get to know each other a little bit more,” returned Suresh. “A person like you would be nice to know,” she replied and this time, she had an unambiguous joyous smile on her face. The ice was broken. They talked for a long time that day. She was an NRI candidate. Her father, Mohan, worked as an engineer in the Middle East and her mother was a nurse. In their final year, the relationship bloomed with long walks in the evenings. There were others like them, and so the internal phones in the hostels were always in demand.

What Suresh remembered most was their evenings on the beach. They had to go through a fishing village and out onto the shore. Many a day, they sat on the sand with their backs to the setting sun, watching its thrilling display of colour—a fitting finale to the day. The final year was soon over and then the examinations. They were in different batches and so had varying subjects on each day. They met every evening to exchange news. The medicine clinical exams were over for her batch when she came to the same spot that had become their rendezvous point since that first time. The sunken gardens were as beautiful as ever, but this time, her eyes were bloodshot and her face puffy. She began crying as she collapsed onto the granite seat beside him. “What happened?” he asked gently, wrapping his arms about her shoulders. “It was awful,” she said. “He just finished me off. I got the diagnosis wrong for the long case. The right one was not even on my list of differentials. The short cases were not any better; I got some important findings wrong. There is no way I will pass.” “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “You never know until the results are announced.” “The skilled assistants have told people,” she continued between sniffles and through her handkerchief, “that only half the batch has passed.” 

“It will all be alright,” Suresh said, trying to comfort her. “It’s easy for you to say, you are a clever open candidate,” she shot back. Suresh remained silent, knowing the mood she was in. “Looks like we won’t be starting internship together,” she said after a while. “How will that make a difference to us?” he said emphatically. She only looked up at him and smiled faintly. The next day, they heard all about it. It was a massacre alright. The external examiner, a senior man, was particularly mean and seemed to have needed only the slightest reason to flunk a candidate. The internal was a young fellow who really could not stand up to him. 

She got over her disappointment in time. She left to be with her parents in Dubai for some time. Meanwhile, Suresh started his internship. In spite of hearing some nasty tales from his seniors, he was ill-prepared for the change when it came. From the bliss of his years as a student, to the grind of being at the bottom of a long chain of command, was a sea change. It was like being thrown from the comfort of a warm bed into icy waters. Over a matter of days, his life had changed beyond recognition. Surgery was his first posting. Now they were on grand rounds that happened twice a week. The entourage was on their way to A-ward where the male surgical patients where admitted. The chief, Dr Madavan, was up front, flanked by his assistant on his right and his chief resident on his left. A few junior consultants and the other residents made up the middle. Bringing up the rear was Suresh with his fellow interns. As the company turned into the foyer of the ward, the chief stopped and by the time he turned around, the stragglers had caught up to the group. Dr Madavan in his mid-fifties, a dark-skinned massively built man, well more than the average height. His razor-sharp eyes peered at you through a thick pair of wire-rimmed spectacles held up by a broad-based stubby nose. His puffy eyelids and sagging cheeks were a testimony to his camaraderie with alcohol and tobacco. If you were to meet him in his office or the theatre lounge, he would in all probability have a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. But in all truth, it must be told that he was never once found to be even remotely smelling of alcohol when he was in the hospital. His temper was proverbial. 

“Has he passed wind?” asked the big man. Oby Cherian    161 “No,” came the reply. “And why not?” asked the chief as he bent down to look at the plastic drainage bag hanging by the patient’s side. “How much was the drainage last evening?” “Ten ml, Sir,” said the junior resident in charge of the patient. “And why, for heaven’s sake, is that drain still there? It should have been removed last evening.” “I told the intern to do it, Sir,” said the junior resident, looking daggers at Suresh. “I will do it after the rounds, Sir,” he added meekly. The Lion was roused. “Do it after rounds!” roared the man. “Then why the hell do we have rounds in the first place? You had the whole night, you stupid fellows.” By this time, the decibel levels had increased to the extent that he could be heard on the other side of the ward. “How many times have I told you, idiots, that a drain should not be kept one minute more than is necessary?” “Shankar,” he said, motioning to his assistant, “see to it.” “What are grand rounds coming to?” he muttered as the whole team moved to the next bed. Meanwhile, the resident had drawn up to Suresh and cursed him under his breath. “Sorry, man,” mumbled Suresh as he ran towards the nursing station to get a suture removal pack. As he mechanically went about removing the drain, he pondered the fact that a second instalment of the bawling out would be coming his way later that day. And he mentally braced himself for it. Suresh was interested in a surgical career and was determined to give a good account of himself here. This would stand him a better chance if he were to apply for a resident’s post in this hospital. Sunithi wrote him long letters, but his replies were always short and to the point. For that was all he could afford. He hoped she would understand; at least she would when she got into internship. Sunithi came back to the hostel a month before her examinations, at which time Suresh was into his public health posting. He saw her more often but not for long—their days on the beach were behind them, at least for now.