1.
He gets out of bed with a start. He does not need a timepiece to inform him he is already late for what will be his first day of the clinical postings which began a week ago. The crescendoing stir of a commercial city area stretching into day envelopes his room: the brash honking of molue drivers with their conductors bellowing out stops; the loud bickering of passengers jostling for space on some metal contraption with a set of wheels. On any other day he would stand by and observe with fascination the way men and women, several of them in corporate attires, adjusted their egos, abandoned decorum, and lunged at the doors of empty, moving vehicles yet to pull into parking. Once he’d attempted the rush, but the adrenaline coursing his veins that morning slowly seeped out through the gash on his forehead mingling with blood.
He runs a quick bath. His white shirt has wrinkle marks, but only a bit — thankfully, his ward coat is ironed, only because it is new and unwrapped. He packs his bag. He’d looked forward to this day for long when he could address himself with glowing confidence as a student-doctor; take photographs with arms folded across his midriff, a stethoscope dangling from his neck, and a focused, dispassionate look in his eyes. He would send them to his mother, who would show her friends at the market and bask in the euphoria of a future once unattainable now in motion. He’d pictured it all too well in his mind’s eye and yet, here he was stepping into the day with apprehension dragging behind his feet. He wonders what has changed about him. But he has barely the time for introspection. He shelves the thought before it takes root.
2.
He sneaks into the ward, and hides among the group of students and residents, following them behind the consultant from station to station, all the while flustered and unable to catch up with the array of jargon. He almost survives the day, but the casualty happens at the Accidents and Emergency unit, where the consultant regards him with suspicion when he is unable to define the Triage.
Are you a student in this unit?
He responds in the affirmative.
He’d spent the duration of the ride to the hospital sifting through excuses in case he’s asked why he missed the first week. He’d armed himself with the most believable excuse. But now, the consultant having fixed him in his gaze, his armory falls away and he is unable to utter a defense.
The consultant directs the triage question to the next student. She answers correctly. He asks him to repeat after her thrice, a mildly humiliating exercise. As the round concludes, he’s assigned to the girl as a mentee, just maybe he’d become intelligent by association.
3.
Her name’s Rosemary. At the clinic, she’s good with the patients, almost like an expert. He watches as she pens down each patient’s complaints. She bites her lip before picking a point of departure, as good doctors often do, guiding the patient’s every response with prompts. “Clerking is an art,” she tells him. “Like solving a puzzle.” She puts one piece after another until, in a lightbulb moment, she arrives at a diagnosis. She urges him to try. He does, he fails. He dislikes puzzles. You’ll get better, she assures him. And with her help, he does.
They hang out often — an entirely platonic arrangement — revising notes, cracking past exams. He regains his passion for the discipline. He spends more time after school studying than he does painting for sale. He needs the extra money, can’t depend much on home for survival. He finds a way to make things work, takes commissions only on weekends, and never does too much work at a time. He’s satisfied. No, content. He’s going to be a doctor soon, make his mother proud. Get a job, make meaning of his life. He can dream once more. He hacks the puzzle of clerking, gets a hang of clinical cases, and builds a rapport with mates and teachers. See? She tells him. You’re doing well.
4.
People ask if they’re a couple. You’re always together. She’s quick to say no. His response is a smirk. He’s nursed the idea of them being a couple a few times. His mother would adore her, he’s certain. He doesn’t want to ruin anything, he enjoys their friendship, takes what is offered, foregoes the rest. Again, content.
He makes a painting of her as a birthday gift, delivers it to her place. She invites him in. They sit on her floor, eat cake, swig wine from the bottle. Chat. Banter. Dance. Silence. They kiss. He apologizes, takes his leave. And on his way home he wonders if he’d initiated it. He berates himself. He avoids her at school, feeling embarrassed.
5.
No one prepares for tragedy. It comes anyway. His mother passes unexpectedly, and his world takes a nosedive. He’s unable to concentrate at school. She offers to help but it’s useless. He feels heavy. Bloated, that’s the word. Engorged to the point of bursting with grief.
When the session is done, he defers his studies. She cries when he tells her that evening. He’s taking up an apprenticeship. They are in a cafe, the lights are muted, and there are a few spectators. He offers his handkerchief, she wipes her face with it, folds it for her keeping. They hug one last time, it is long, and he blinks to keep the tears at bay. She weeps on his shoulder. He promises to keep in touch.
6.
What’s that saying about letting go of something you love? It takes several years. They meet again in the corridor of the teaching hospital’s clinic. She calls out his name before she sees his face. He turns. There is surprise and elation. Their outburst is in stark contrast with the grim atmosphere around them. She hasn’t changed much. He’s changed a lot, looks more mature now, she says.
They go to lunch at the cafeteria. He watches her eat. She’s a doctor now. He’s doing his final year, he tells her, he caught his break as an artist.
I thought you had japa plans? He asks.
Plans change. You didn’t keep your promise.
I didn’t want to bother you.
She drops her cutlery, looks him in the eye. You’ll never bother me, she says.
His eyes well up. And in that moment, he thinks, maybe there’s a story here. They could have a future together. He could ask her to marry him someday, soon, assuming there’s no one already. They’d both work, live together, complain about the hectic workload to one another. They’d swig alcohol straight from the bottle again. He’d kiss her again without needing to apologize. Easy, he tells himself.
Rosemary, he calls her, it’s so good to see you once more.
