Arman Kashyap had stacked up medical degrees from premier medical colleges, but he wasbest known for his degree in attitude from God knows where. He walked the hallways ofGKL Hospital with a confidence not seen in doctors three decades older and much wiser.His peers said he was arrogant because he belonged to a family of remarkable doctors andextraordinary businessmen. His father was the country's leading heart surgeon, his mom, asensitive and highly popular psychiatrist amongst rich, bored and horny housewives, and hisolder sister, a paediatrician whose average day was littered with appointments withcelebrities—medicine and excellence ran in his blood.But the arrogance didn't stem from his impressive background. He just knew he was thatgood.And he knew he wasn't just a jerk. Had he been one, he would have worked in the chainof hospitals his father had amassed in the last twenty years. He would have been sittingpretty in a corner office with a few brilliant doctors working under him, doing whatever hewould have asked them to. But he didn't choose to be that, instead he chose to work out thegrind and prove his worth every minute of every hour in a hospital where he held noinfluence. He had earned every bit of the reputation that he had got himself in the last threeyears. His sincere good looks—he stood at six feet, had short hair and wore expensiverimless spectacles—and savage drive to succeed had helped.'So, you look like you made someone's life hell today,' Zarah said as Arman approachedher.'Hell? Guys like him make their own lives hell and come here with diseases which I haveno intentions to diagnose or treat. It's a waste of resources,' he said and added with an evilsmile, 'I was praying he wouldn't wake up. Wouldn't that have been so much better?''You wished he would die?' she asked, shocked. Just a few weeks had passed of herinternship under Arman and she was still trying to come to terms with the genius doctor'sbehavioural eccentricities. Arman knew he wasn't the best boss or the most cooperative ofcolleagues to have. But he believed it was other people's liability to accept him for what hewas. He was, after all, a rare genius.'Don't you think he should die? A guy who cracks a competitive exam to a goodengineering college only to drink and smoke himself to death. Should he live? Or should thepeople who die on the streets be given that chance?''Well, they can't afford it,' Zarah retorted, trying to outsmart him.'I don't care about them. But the guy on that bed doesn't deserve to live,' he answered.'Imagine what his parents must go through. Disgrace.''As if you get along with your parents.''How was it when you were growing up, Zarah? Did your parents tell you what not todo? Don't meet that guy, don't stay out that late, and please don't get less than 95 per cent inyour examinations? And when did that stop? When you got through medical school in Delhiand they had no idea what you were studying and how much you should score? When theycouldn't make sense whether 657/1230 meant good marks or bad?''Well, more or less,' she responded.'Imagine that, only three times as bad. The hospital mails them details of every case Iwork on here and they keep telling me what to do. The patient coughs up blood, my dadcalls; a seizure, my mom calls; and someone slips into a coma, my sister calls! It's a crazyhouse,' he explained. 'As if saving assholes like him was not enough, I have to answer toevery damn question that my parents pose.''Is that why you don't work at your parents' hospital?''I don't work there because I think I deserve better than that.''I hope I start to understand what you mean some day, sir,' Zarah said and flicked her hairbehind her ear.'And that's not even the worst part. The worst part is—they are never right!''That's funny, sir.''You have to stop calling me "sir" first. It makes me feel, well, old,' he said. 'Anyway,we have a new patient. Pretty standard case. The good thing is that the girl is like you, onlyyounger. She got admitted into medical school last year, found something wrong with herhands and diagnosed it herself. Impressive, isn't it?'Looking at her face, he knew Zarah didn't know what to make of what he said, whether hewas genuinely impressed or was being sarcastic. Anyway, he always felt something waswrong with Zarah. She was way too reserved for the way she looked. At five feet seven, shetowered above even a few male doctors. She didn't have a shred of fat on her body,probably because she smoked a lot. But her lips, the lightest shade of pink, didn't leave anytelltale signs of her smoking habit. Neither did her chocolate-coloured exotic skin, whichwas smooth and velvety. To be honest, the first time Arman saw her in her white doctor'scoat and the three-inch heels, he thought she wasn't from India at all. Maybe Brazil. OrChile. Or Uruguay. Some place not India. Usually, the prettier female doctors wereoutspoken; Zarah, on the other hand, was reserved. It was intriguing. Maybe she was aperfect case for his mother, the acclaimed psychiatrist. In her mother's words, she wasdamaged.'Can you check her up and get her forms done?' he asked her and gave her the file. 'She ishere for a few tests. We will admit her to the hospital in a day or two.''Right away, Arman.' Zarah took the file from his hand and started reading through it. 'Itsays in this file you were her external consultant? I didn't know you do that.''It's a special case,' Arman responded with a straight face, 'and it will be better if youkeep it to yourself.'Pihu Malhotra. Age 19. Arman saw Zarah's eyes rivet on the file. She didn't move amuscle.'Is there a problem?' he asked.'She has ALS? As in Lou Gehrig's disease?'Arman could sense the shock in her voice—a definite marker of a young, inexperienceddoctor. He had expected it. When he had first heard about the case, he had felt the samething. Shock. Disbelief. Pity.'Yes, why do you look shocked?''Isn't it something that afflicts people over the age of forty? She is just nineteen.''That's what makes it interesting. Have you heard about Stephen Hawking?''The super-genius scientist? The wheelchair-bound physicist who can't talk any more?'she asked, just to be sure.'Yes, the same guy. He was diagnosed at the age of twenty-one. Doctors said he had threeyears. It has been forty years since then. His disease was progressing slowly. Hers, on theother hand,' he pointed to the file, 'is progressing at a faster rate. She was diagnosed oneyear back and she might not make it through the next three months.''What do we do? There is no cure, right?''No, there is not. I am on the research panel trying to find one. Let's see what happens.We will decide when the right time comes,' he said and got back to his work. He had nointentions of indulging in a 'poor girl' type conversation with Zarah. Clearly, Zarah wasstunned and her face contorted to signify the pity she felt for the nineteen-year-old dyinggirl.Zarah had studied to be in the noble profession and save lives and get people healthy, butshe never really had the heart to overlook the pain of sick people in the first place. Itreminded her of her own angst. She felt sorry for Pihu, and for the bastard who lay in theroom with a damaged liver.
