The Accidental Surgeon

I sat in an armchair, my legs rested on my fifteenth floor balcony railing. My glasses were pushed up, over my creased forehead. I rubbed my eyes – relished the momentary whiff of darkness, of comfort. The breath-taking view, the tickling drizzle, the subtle music and the delicate lighting – all of these seemed tuned to perfection. Yet, I squirmed in agony, scratched my grizzly, itchy beard and watched the murky silhouettes of the hills, far away. I gazed agape into the glittering Mumbai horizon, as far as my eyes could see.

I looked into my mobile. It was past midnight. The date showed ‘20^th August’.

Fifteen years – felt like a lifetime; yet, felt like, just the other day. My perturbed mind hankered to hit reset and restart my journey, from that day – 20^th August – fifteen years back.

“When’ll you get a hold on your life, Manoj?”

I stood in front of dad, my head hung.

All of twenty-one, I was the youngest of three, a spoilt brat. My elder siblings were the darlings of our parents – managing their lives, in just the way they wanted them to. My brother, an Ivy League educated management professional, was being mentored to take over the reins from our hotelier dad. My sister was in the US – doing a PhD in Economics from MIT. That left me with the ignominy of being the black sheep.

In academics, I always played catch up. My grades and aptitude would never have landed me in a medical college and fulfilled my parents’ wish, of having one of their children become a doctor. With my siblings doing well in their domains, this undesirable responsibility fell on me. Dad’s millions, siphoned into the college coffers enabled my admission. But, unlike my siblings, I was never interested, nor did I have the drive to prove myself, build my own identity. I struggled with my grades in medical college. With money in abundance, I lived life, King-size – parties, wine, a girlfriend; sometimes, drugs and women.

And, there I was in front of dad that evening, having flunked my third-year exams.

“You know how much I’m spending on your course?”

Dad was a broken record. His periodic lectures were replete with ridicule. By the end of each session, I felt like a piece of shit.

“Look at Mahesh and Maya,” he said. “I’d be happy even if you achieve one-tenth of what they have.”

I abhorred this comparison and took a deep breath to control myself. I could not. For the first time, I blurted out what I had yearned to convey, for years.

“Dad, they’re doing what they like. You forced me into studying medicine.”

There were a few seconds of stony silence, but for the subdued buzz of the air conditioner. I fumed. My hands shook. But, I did not dare to look at dad’s face.

“You’re so shameless,” said mom. “You’ve failed in your exams and now you’re arguing with your father?” She did not have a choice, but to side with my dominant dad.

I put my chin up and stared down at her, along the length of my nose. She opened her mouth to continue her sermon. I signalled her to stop. “I’m not arguing, mom. I’m stating facts.”

I felt that this was an opportunity to utilise her as a conduit – to voice my point of view to dad. But, he was a volcano waiting to erupt.

“Enough.”

The yell stopped my heart for a second. It, then, beat hard and fast. Dad glared at me, his eyes wide and menacing. I stepped back in fright.

“Did I force you into studying medicine?” he said. “You wanted a course that you like? Like what, you lazy bum?” He stuttered behind his dangling, grey moustache. His broad, shiny forehead was red and drenched with sweat. He gasped and sat on the sofa. Mom and I rushed towards him; he stopped us with a wave of his hand.

A few steadying breaths later, he was back to his sarcastic best.

“Like partying? Boozing? Lazing around? Unfortunately, there are no courses on these.”

I refused to tolerate his humiliating harangue any longer. I shook my head and stormed out.

“Go, go...,” I overheard him say, interspersed with the hissing sound of mom weeping. “Go to wherever you want. Go to hell...”

I drove to a pub and drank to my heart’s content – different drinks, mixes and flavours. They made a weird cocktail in my systems. I was full and sick. It was past midnight when I stopped. I plodded out of the pub and into the car. I did not want to go back home, into captivity.

I put on some music and drove, on to the main road and then, the highway – sloshed and aimless. It drizzled. After some jerks and sputters at the start, the drive was smooth. My happy feet pressed the accelerator to the extent that it could. The car sped – like never before. Within minutes, I had crossed the boundaries of Mumbai and zipped Northwards, on to the Ahmedabad Highway. There was hardly any traffic – a few trucks, which I overtook with disdain, and the rare sighting of another car, which I passed in a flicker. Then, there were a couple of auto-rickshaws, returning to their shed after the day’s business.

The drizzle changed form into a consistent shower.

The speed, the rain, the music, my inebriated state – it was heaven. I was in a trance, felt like a superhero, zooming through space – set to reach where the journey would take me to, without a clue of where it would.

Then, suddenly...there was a deafening bang.

The car wobbled and bounced. My glasses flew off my eyes. I saw a hazy form of an auto-rickshaw swing into the bushes on the side of the road. Out of instinct, I slammed the brakes and brought the car to a screeching halt. The impact jolted me into my senses.

I felt a sharp jab on my ribs. The seatbelt was stretched to its limits. My face had hit the steering wheel. My nose felt warm and slushy. I gasped for air, and coughed. I saw drops of blood spray into my palms – from perhaps, my nose, my eyes or my mouth. My head reeled. I saw in twos and threes. The pain was unbearable, in my head and chest.

I assimilated all my energy to park the car to the side of the road, and opened the door. I was nauseated and threw up. The rain had stopped. I got off the car and took a deep breath of fresh air. I felt better than I was a few seconds earlier. The car was dented on the left edge, but there were no other damages.

I got over the initial shock. Then, reality dawned.

“Did I hit that auto-rickshaw?”

I could see it amongst the bushes, tilted to ninety degrees, a few metres from where I stood.

I trudged towards the auto-rickshaw, my heart in my mouth. It missed a few beats when, in the faint illumination of the car headlight, I saw a young man lying still, in a pool of blood. I went closer to him and saw his dark, partially closed eyes and open mouth. They implored for help. Blood gushed out of his smashed forehead. It oozed from his nose and mouth. I went closer to check his breath.

“There’s no way that he’s going to survive,” I thought. “I can’t take a chance.”

I looked around. There was not a soul in sight. In a sudden spurt of indiscretion, I scurried towards the car, panting, and climbed in. I took a U-turn and drove back home, leaving the man to his fate. I could not risk arrest. It would ruin me. It would give my father yet another weapon in his arsenal, a powerful one, to attack me. I would not let that happen.

The man’s gory face haunted me. Twice, on my way home, I slowed down, intending to turn and go back to the accident site. But, overcome by fear, I continued my journey, home.

I could not sleep that night. I dreaded its darkness. Each minute felt like a year. My lips quivered. My legs shook. I was cold. I could not, but, wait for the first rays of the morning sun to permeate through the translucent window curtains of my bedroom. After an agonizing few hours, I heard in my daze, the dull thud of the newspaper hitting the main door. The night had passed. I took the newspaper and sank into a cane chair on the balcony. The dull grey Worli skyline sneaked from behind the thick, translucent layers of rain and clouds. Bleary-eyed, I browsed through news about accidents in the city, the previous day. There were a couple of stories. Neither resembled the one that I was interested in.

“This happened so late,” I thought. “It would, perhaps, take till the mid-day edition to get published.”

My brain was in knots. My gut pricked me to assess the state of the car. In the dark of the previous night, my mind had only focussed on sneaking back to the ‘safety’ of my home. I rushed down to the car park. The car stood safe – not too different from what I construed at night – a dent and a few scratches. However, the windows were lowered and the key stuck to the ignition, with a shiny keychain dangling from it. I went nearer to the car to find my phone carelessly plonked on the front seat. I looked around. There was no one. Without wasting a minute more, I went about to set everything right – the windows, the key, the phone. 

I was losing control over my actions. A weird ‘something’ had taken over me. I started my bike and drove in the direction of the accident site. There were four hospitals on the way. I stopped at each of them and, in as clandestine and unsuspecting manner as I could, checked on the details of accident victims who had been admitted the previous night. In the fourth hospital, I traced someone who resembled the person I was looking for. I did not see him – the man was in the ICU, fighting for his life. But the circumstances – the place of the accident, the nature of injury and the description of the victim – seemed spot on.

The next four days were treacherous. I alternated between checking the newspaper and visiting the hospital. I wanted the man to survive. That was essential for my own survival. Everything else – friends, college, parties and parents – took a backseat. On the fourth afternoon, I reached the hospital to learn that the man was no more. I saw, at a distance, an aggrieved and agitated throng waiting in the hospital lobby to receive the body. My heart skipped a beat. I turned back, darted towards my bike and sped back home.

I was a loser, a reckless party animal. But, not in my weirdest dreams did I imagine that I would be responsible for someone’s death. I could not forgive myself. Although against my wish, I was a medical student – who was supposed to save lives. I had taken one.

I stopped short of letting this incident out to my parents, my siblings, or my friends. It was suppressed deep within me. I was in trauma – entangled in shame, fear and guilt. My life turned upside down. I lost interest in activities that I loved and people who I liked to be with. For months, I would soak in sweat on hearing a police or ambulance siren. I was tied to myself, became a recluse. With time, I lost my friends. And after a few half-hearted attempts at resurrection, my girlfriend and I broke our relationship.

Everyone was surprised by my sudden aloofness. My parents, my siblings were worried; the others were not bothered. I was numb.

Life could not go on, the way it was. I sought distractions to assuage my distressed state. One evening, I flipped the pages of an Anatomy text book – one amongst the lot that was strewn all over my bed. I read the book – page after page. I was surprised. It felt like magic – satiating and enjoyable. This, certainly, was a distraction – a lot more than that. In due course, I found my calling in what I had least expected – the medical profession. I submerged myself into studies – enjoyed some of the subjects so much, that I explored far beyond the requirement of the exams. My parents were pleasantly surprised with the outcome. Two years later, I topped the MBBS exam and secured admission to the Master of Surgery course at a prestigious college. That was my stepping stone to an illustrious career as a surgeon.

I worked with single-minded commitment to my profession and built my reputation, my identity. Dr. Manoj Shetty became the leading paediatric heart surgeon in Mumbai, and one of the top names in India.

However, my obsession with my profession subverted my social life. I, also, found it hard to get over that night. My shame, fear and guilt, which had its genesis that night, were still intact. Unable to get over these emotions, I was averse to getting married. After some initial resistance by my parents, I had my way. At thirty-six, I was a bachelor.

The face of the man – the half-closed eyes, the parted mouth, the bloody visage – they were vivid in my memory and haunted me from time to time, over these years. They haunted me, again, that day – fifteen years on.

 The sonorous ring of my mobile broke my rumination. I was half-asleep, sprayed by the drops of rain that managed to make their way into the balcony.

“Who’s it at this hour?”

I adjusted my glasses and took my mobile. The call was from the hospital.

“Dr. Shetty, this is Dr. Sen. Sorry to have bothered you so late.”

I yawned. “What’s it?”

“There’s a curious case of a five-year-old. She’s serious, struggling to breathe. I think she needs an immediate surgery for a congenital defect.”

Dr. Sen explained the symptoms and his observations. I listened. The situation was grave.

“Okay,” I said. “Take the mandatory tests. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be there.”

I took a warm shower; it felt good. I did not mind the post-midnight call – it was a welcome diversion from the negativity that surrounded me. In a few minutes, I was at the hospital.

Dr. Sen escorted me to the patient. Her parents waited outside the ICU. I gave them a fleeting glance and dashed into the room. The child was on the bed, eyes closed, covered by an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, tight, across her cheeks. She breathed deep from the mask, sucking in as much oxygen as she could, into her little lungs.

I examined her and studied her reports.

“You’re right, Dr. Sen,” I said. “It’s a congenital heart problem. The lungs are filled with fluid. This will need an immediate surgery. They’ve pushed it too far.”

Dr. Sen nodded.

“Have the team prepared for the surgery in five hours. I’ll document the instructions.”

“Okay, doctor.”

Dr. Sen watched me move towards the door. I sensed confusion.

“What’s it?”

“What about the expenses?” he said. “I checked with the parents. They’ll not be able to afford the surgery.”

I was silent for a couple of seconds.

“We’ll figure out,” I said. “Let’s save the child. I’ll speak to admin.”

Dr. Sen did not probe further.

“Also, please explain the situation to the parents,” I said. “I’ll need a little rest before the surgery. Please take the documentation from my room in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet the team an hour before the surgery.”

Dr. Sen was pleasantly surprised that I had delegated to him, my hitherto closely held responsibility of briefing the parents of patients. He was an introvert, who was not interested in knowing beyond what he needed to. An earnest, experienced hand, he ensured that everything went as planned, in the next few hours.

Before long, I was in the operation theatre. I breathed long and deep. The five-year old lay on the operation table, draped in green, under the glare of the light. Her eyes were shut, peaceful and tight, from the effect of the anaesthesia.

I looked away from her face and closed my eyes for a little prayer. I put on my mask and looked towards my assistant for the knife. I could feel drops of sweat on my forehead move towards my glasses. Soon, they became frosty. My legs wobbled, my hands trembled – I was about to make my first move on the little one.

“No, Dr. Shetty,” said an inner voice. “This is not how a great surgeon does it. Remember, you’re one...”

I closed my eyes again, and took a few short, sharp breaths. I had no choice but to make this happen. I had to continue – steady, composed. I had to perform the surgery – for the child, for her parents, for me...perhaps?

For the next two hours, I shut myself out from the mortal world. My hands made the right moves, incisions and stitches. The operation was successful. I disposed of my blood-stained gloves and breathed dollops of the operation theatre’s antiseptic air. I sank into a chair – relieved, exasperated.

After a couple of minutes, I walked out of the operation theatre. The parents stood up – their hollow, expectant eyes asking a million questions. I smiled and gave them a thumbs-up. They hugged each other; cried of joy and relief.

Then, they walked up to me.

“She’s out of danger now,” I said, and walked towards my room. The father looked at me, his hands folded and his eyes full of gratitude. I felt obliged to stay on.

“You’re lucky,” said one of the officers from the hospital administration, who happened to be around. “Dr. Shetty did the surgery for free and also sponsored...” I shoved my hand at him. He got the message. He stopped.

“Thank you,” said the father. His dark, dilated eyes narrowed into deep, thin lines engraved into his wrinkled face. He cupped his hands around mine.

“Thank you, doctor saab,” Tears rolled over his cheeks, a few drops flowing into his hands, and mine. I avoided looking at him. I just could not, any more. My tired, shifty eyes looked around the white, austere walls of the hospital. I craved to get out of there.

“This is the second time...,” he said. “...that I’m seeing God. The first was on this day, fifteen years ago. I was left to my fate by a moron, who rammed his car into my rickshaw and sped away.”

A chill ran down my spine. I looked towards the ceiling, a coward, still avoiding the man’s eyes.

“I hope he doesn’t recognise me,” I thought. “There’s no way he could. He was unconscious; almost dead.” I reassured myself.

“A good soul, like you found me after one and a half days, and rushed me to a nursing home in time,” he said. “It saved my life.”

His voice cracked. He unlocked his hands from mine and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. I nodded and patted him on his back.

It was a long, tiring day. I heaved a deep sigh and drove back home.