Oath of Hippocrates

by Sudarsan S

  OATH OF HIPPOCRATES

  By Sudarsan S

  Copyright 2012 Sudarsan S

  Published by Notion Press at Smashwords

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  CHAPTER 1: The Bitter Pill

  “This is just the beginning for you”.

  “You are suggesting that I simply drop a year and probably any dreams of becoming a doctor?”

  “Yes, if you value your life and place in public as a man of morals”.

  “Ghafur, ethics is exactly what I am standing for. Morals are what I am finding as lacking in the system here. I would like to stand for the, not run”.

  “Ram, trust me, I have seen this rot longer than you have and deeper. And, I believe that running away from the wolves to avoid being their meal is not cowardice”.

  “So, you advise me to run away from the problem?”

  Ghafur sighed. Arguing against once own convictions is never easy. In front of him was Ramanujam, an early 20’s final-year medical student from Amrit Medical Mission & College, a premier institution in the capital. There was youth in his looks and fire in his eyes.

  Ramanujam was one of those plain-looking young men in plain-looking clothes. The boy’s average height and build was complemented by his attire that was neither trendy, nor old-fashioned. All-in-all, the in-distinctive appearance of the every man and his quickness of step meant, to Ghafur, an inability to stand out in a crowd, or an ability to dissolve into one. The only thing that stood out was the fire in the boy’s eyes when he held forth passionately on matters close to his heart.

  And now, the boy was speaking Ghafur’s conscience. The argument was thus between Ghafur’s conscience and Ghafur’s pragmatism borne by experience. It was not easy.

  The older man sighed wearily. “Ram, have you ever heard about Satish Bobhate? No? Not surprising. An idealist, a champion of right causes, the brightest of his batch. He never made it. No one was sure what happened. He was planning on publication of a paper titled “Ethics of Medical Practice” with candid references to the system, people and the pharmaceutical industry”.

  “And?”

  “A week before the finals, he was found to be a drug addict, supposedly treated for addiction, which made him worse and reduced to a vegetative state, in which he has been for the past 13 years. His crime? His naïvete and a strong belief that right overpowers might at all times. You, Ram, may be smarter, but so are the authorities now”.

  “I answer to a higher authority, Ghafur”, said Ram, pointing to his heart.

  “As a man of God, I am glad to hear that”, smiled Ghafur. “But, until He comes calling, you have your life, sanity and reputation to save”.

  “Ghafur, let me ask you this direct question: It is apparent that you hate the rot and Dr. Yadav’s lot as well. Why do you, personal assistant to Dr. Prakash Yadav, want to restrain me from speaking up, despite your seeming unhappiness in what you see?”

  Ghafur contemplated for a minute. His eyes twinkled for the first time since this conversation began about 10 minutes earlier in a remote corner of the laboratory after sun-down on a Friday, when most of the students had left for trivial pursuits. The smile that broke through the salt-and-pepper beard of the gaunt giant lit his face as he prepared to answer the boy’s question.

  “First, thanks for the elevation of status. I started as a lab assistant and have not qualified for anything more, barring my practical learning. I happened to move into the good books and offices of Dr. Prakash Yadav, the next Dean and Director of our esteemed Medical Mission and College, as his handy man. Knowing him too well, I would entreat you to play it safe. I can’t stand to see the drain of another Bobhate. Son, please, your life.”

  Half-way through, Ghafur’s face had lost the smile. Were his eyes glistening with tears? Ramanujam didn’t want to know. He looked down and kicked an imaginary pebble.

  “So, you want me to run?”

  “For now, hide. As soon as he returns to town, Dr. Yadav will set actions in motion. If I am not mistaken, misdemeanours and negligences are being committed on your behalf. If I were you, I would find a reason to go away somewhere. Do you have one?”

  “I have a grandfather with one foot in the grave”.

  “Good, then. I mean, it is not good that he is dying, but it is good enough an excuse for you to disappear. When was the last time any of your classmates saw you?”

  “Friday evening”.

  “Good. Friday evening was the last when anyone saw you. Give me your room-keys and I will have your belongings sent, if you need them. You have money to go home? Good. Keep well and keep in touch”.

  “Ghafur, my future, my life…”

  “You will have time to think about them. The earlier you leave, you are more likely to have a future and a life”.

  Ram sighed. Ghafur continued, “This may be the moment to get sentimental about casting away five years of prime effort, and many more years of dreams of a doctor in the family. Now, scrap the sentiments for a life to live. See the writing on the wall.”

  CHAPTER 2: His Truant Highness

  The writing on the wall’s long black-board was a bad scrawl. It was in upper case and evidently by someone trying to mask his or her handwriting. The message was written in white chalk, flaky and irregular. Dr. Prakash Yadav re-read aloud in bewilderment:

  EVERY

  THING

  HAS

  ITS

  CONSEQUENCES

  SURELY

  The tall and athletic-looking professor tapped a chalk-piece on the board repeatedly. “Will someone tell me the meaning of this predicate nonsense?” he growled. The students looked at each other, discussing their ignorance, but primarily to avoid eye-contact with the professor. He looked angrier than he actually was, on account of dark spots near his temples that were tell-tale evidences of his only attempt at dyeing his prematurely greying hair.

  “You won’t. Will someone volunteer the name of the artist who scribbled this? No again? Very well, then. Let us consign the text to where it belongs”. Dr. Yadav picked up the duster and made a smooth wiper-like movement with his left hand. All the words were wiped clean with the exception of the first letters of each line spelling out the word: ETHICS.

  It was sheer simplicity. The vandal had dipped the chalk-piece in water before writing the letters now left unerased. The professor seethed in anger. “Now we know who wrote this, don’t we? So, what do you want, my friend and busybody?” he asked as he scanned the faces.

  “Truant! Manohar, do you know where your neighbour is?” thundered the doctor, referring to Ramanujam.

  “No, sir, not seen him since F.F.Friday, sir”, stuttered Manohar.

  “Very well, we will find out then”, murmured the professor and proceeded with his lecture. The session was listless with the professor’s mind unsettled by the scrawl which was atypical of his students, particularly that one. His mind flashed back to lectures of the past when queries turned into discussions and discussions into arguments.

  Ramanujam was a bright fellow, but a pest right from the second year. One of the early altercations was about clinical trials of products intended for human use. It was the first occasion of seeming disgust with status quo, but was not the last. The running conversation of rejoinders and ripostes was adjourned to a personal tête-à-tête during lunch break.

  Lunch time had not resolve
d anything. Prof. Yadav learnt that the boy was Ramanujam, he was from out of state, lived in the hostel, is likely to be the first doctor from his family and his village. He was keen to make a difference to everyone and sincerely believed that his calling as a doctor would help him achieve that. He had expressed his discomfort about having a running argument with the professor in class and said it had been his nature to carry an discussion to its resolution. During the course of the discussion, Dr. Yadav gauged that the boy was studying more than what was being taught.

  This and many more lecture-sessions that followed were illustrative of Ramanujam’s steadfast refusal to accept matters as they are said to exist. At times, considering Ram’s militant denouncement of pharmaceutical industry as ‘drug mafia’ and doctors as ‘peddlers’, Dr. Yadav wondered if Ram was part of any political organization. However, in view of his independence of thought, this was ruled out. He had antagonized both the left-wing and the right-wing student organisations by questioning their legitimacy of presence in a place of education. This had thrilled Dr. Yadav to no end, as this irritant had no friends to support him if action were to be taken. What also peeved Dr. Yadav was Ramanujam’s insistence on dissecting decisions of the past, apparently in an attempt, as the boy put it, not to repeat the mistakes of the past. This proposed pursuit had made the distinguished professor, with his own skeletons in the closet, distinctly uncomfortable.

  Dr. Yadav’s mind returned to the present, still in a mood of irritation. Now, on the eve of the finals, this bright boy had gone missing. Had we hear the last of him? Probably not. Is he in danger? It does not matter. His convictions could jeopardize many reputations. If only he would hold his tongue.

  “Well, students, I hope all of you are around for the finals, including any who are absent today. Please pass on this message to anyone who is not here today.” He tapped his temples a few times. The professor did that when he wanted to hammer his point home. “I would like you students to focus on what is important. You know I am a bit unhappy about the graffiti and I wouldn’t want anyone in their senses to pawn their chances of graduation. Good luck to him, who thinks whistle-blowing is the best way to improve the lot. Rest assured that someone will be blowing a conch over his dead body”.

  CHAPTER 3: Up in Smoke

  The conch was blown as the corpse was readied for the final journey. The old man’s end was an expected one, and in some ways, a merciful closure. Grief was present, people wept, but there was no wailing. The little ones in the family wondered why grandfather wouldn’t wake up. The older ones remarked about the timing of the demise. All descendants around him, the old man couldn’t have asked for more. Of course, not that it mattered, for, none of them was going to accompany him on his journey beyond.

  By dusk, the mortal remains had been consigned to flames by the bank of the South Yamuna, the house cleansed, everyone washed and back home for the only meal of the day.

  “Tell me, Rama, was it grandmother?” asked Ram’s paternal uncle. Yes, it had been her. She had written to Ramanujam a few days earlier about her husband’s impending end and implored him to see him for the last time alive. He had arrived after the old man had breathed his last. He skilfully uncurled the three fingers of his grandfather’s hand that had lain so since the time of his death, showed the way for the last journey along with his cousins and tucked his grandfather’s hands behind as he was laid on the funeral pyre.

  Ramanujam was well aware that had his grandfather been his alert self, he would have abhorred the idea of interrupting studies to meet a dying old man.

  “I thought so,” continued uncle, in response to Ram’s nod. “She wouldn’t have wanted any open ends that anyone would regret for the rest of their lives.”

  “Yes, uncle”.

  For a while, silence spoke eloquently between uncle and nephew. No one knew it was speaking different languages. The uncle’s silence was mulling about his mother’s needs and reasons for calling over her grandson, whom everyone else consciously avoided informing. The nephew’s silence spoke the fact that he was there not because of grandmother’s letter, but because of Ghafur. He understood why no one else informed him and he agreed with their thoughts.

  “It has been a long day, children, and there is work tomorrow”, rang out grandmother’s voice. Not a word more was spoken. The little ones were sent to bed and the rest of the extended family spread themselves on the bare floor wherever space was available.

  The next morning, ashes were still smouldering in the pyre by the river. The priest recommended pouring water to cool down the ashes and the remnants. Pots of water were taken from the river and poured over the pyre. The ashes sizzled in smoke.

  “Grandfather sure had fire in his belly” remarked a cousin and everyone of his generation laughed. The uncles tried to not to smile. “Funny family,” thought the priest, “joking over a dead man”.

  Father thought for a moment about the transience of life. His father who was flesh and blood a mere 24 hours back is now bone and ashes. But, he would have loved this joke too. It was truthful, as well – no one could accuse the dead man of being soft-bellied.

  The man born by the South Yamuna has gone by it – quietly, as it flowed. His family was there to see him off. Engineers, bankers, accountants, no doctors. Grandfather had wanted at least one of his eight grandchildren to be a doctor – Ramanujam had been the first to rise up to the task.

  “Rama, I had meant to ask you,” said father as they reached home. It was only on rare occasions that father spoke to son directly. He continued, “Aren’t you supposed to be sitting for your final exams some time now?”

  “Yes, father”.

  “And?”

  “I may have to skip a semester due to difference of opinion with the lead professor, father”.

  “Fire in the belly, I suppose”, said father, echoing the words uttered by his nephew a few hours earlier. After a few minutes of silence, he continued, “Your grandfather wanted one of you to be a doctor, and I don’t think he would have been pleased with the likelihood of your failure, not to mention the drain of money for the cause”.

  “Father, I don’t think it is a lost cause. Technically, I am in the top of my class. Practically, there are some impediments to my sitting for the finals”. Taking a deep breath for a pause to steady himself for the next piece of vocal disagreement, Ram continued, “I don’t think grandfather would have valued my becoming a doctor over the three things he held dearest – ethics, transparency and alternativism,” which his three curled fingers are believe to represent.

  “I am not sure I will understand completely the reasons behind your absence from studies, but I hope the day you graduate will not be far away”.

  “I hope not, father. I feel I may not be ready enough to graduate and it may be worth seeing the world for myself before I get into the grind.”

  “You have our village, Rama”.

  “No, father. I want to spend time interacting with the medical fraternity. This practical experience is going to teach me more than a semester of poring over books. As a qualified doctor, I will not have the freedom of being what and where I want to be. The call of duty would then beckon.”

  “And you seek my assistance in…”

  “I simply need your understanding. Nothing more. I will remain in touch from whichever city I plan to call home for the next six months”.

  “You don’t know where you are going?”

  “I have a couple of weeks to make up my mind, father”.

  “Where will you stay? How will you support yourself?”

  “My trade and my faith will support me.”

  “I hope so. Should you need help…”

  “…I will seek Him, who sustains us all”.

  Father sighed. Of his departed father’s grandchildren, Ramanujam was the least expected to get into trouble. Now, he stands here, skipping his final assessment on account of differences with his tutor, a hair’s breadth away from rustication.

  CHAPTER 4:
The Spirit of Enquiry

  Rustication was an option in front of Dr. Prakash Yadav, but that would do no one any good. It would only snap the last rein of control holding in the truant student. Besides, it had been only a few days, not enough to justify his eviction. If only he would return. There was no case against him yet.

  The good doctor had set in motions to implicate the rebel in trouble, but he seemed to have sensed it and gone missing. He will, after all, want to finish his degree. He will have to return. It had been ten days and there was no news of him. He was civil to all his classmates and familiar with a few, but none seemed to have known him intimately. It was as if people were scared to be associated with him.

  “What is it, Ghafur?”

  “There is a letter for you, sir.”

  “From?”

  “Unknown, sir”.

  “Very well. Leave it on the table. Have you heard of the disappearance of Ramanujam, Ghafur?”

  “The final-year student? Of course, I do, sir”.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “To use a rustic expression from my village, he is a bright man with a worm in his brain”.

  Dr. Yadav laughed heartily. “Perfect. What else?”

  “Gets along with classmates, but keeps to himself and his books”.

  “Is he close to anyone in particular?”

  “Now that you ask, sir, I have seen him quite a few times with Honnappa”.

  “Honnappa? I would have never imagined a diverse pair. I wonder what brought them together”.

  “Sir, if I am not mistaken, Honnappa had difficulty in adapting during the earlier days”.

  “Of course, I remember. I thought he wouldn’t last beyond the second semester”.

  “Apparently, Ram was one of the few people who offered to help. Honnappa took the offer and I believe, came out the better for it”.

  “Good! Can you check if Honnappa knows about his friend’s whereabouts?”