It was a Saturday morning, and Rumi was at her clinic attending her newest patient.
Just fifteen minutes into unlocking the sliding doors of her petty, scanty entranced clinic, a tall, gangly tween had shuffled in. His t-shirt was awkwardly baggy, hair ruffled from the moistureless, scorching Madras air, and face, damp from the unsparing perspiration.
Cautious in not disturbing the thick paper box in his hands, he brushed his sweaty face on the sleeves of his t-shirt, advancing to Rumi's table.
As Rumi watched him attentively pushing her glasses up her nose, he held out the box with a nervous, timid smile. "There's an injured squirrel, doctor," he said.
Rumi put on the lights that flooded the examining table, and padded around her desk to reach it. She patted the table, signalling him to place the bag on it.
Opening the bag gently, Rumi found a wounded, palm squirrel wrapped around in a worn out cotton shirt. Bending down to have a clear view, she clutched the shirt by its flanks and lifted out the hurt squirrel lying on it.
The boy who brought it in, watched Rumi keenly, as she assessed the bruises.
"How did it happen?"
The boy stayed silent for a few perceptive seconds, before shaking his head. "I don't know," he replied, a despondent curve hanging on his lips. "I found him under the tree when I was playing with my friends on the street. I have no idea about squirrels, so I googled on my Amma's phone to check. They'd asked to keep the squirrel warm with a soft cloth, so I dug out an old shirt from my cupboard and scooped him up with it."
Rumi listened to him with big, amused eyes, and gave an insightful nod.
Having finished her examination on her patient, she looked up at the boy. "Okay, so I have done some first-aid. His bruises do not need anymore medical intervention. He will be okay on his own completely in a few days time," she explained, with an addressing smile.
The boy did not seem assured with her words. "Are you sure he doesn't need any medicines?" He asked, unsatisfied.
"Ofcourse." Rumi nodded, walking across the room to reach the wash basin in the diagonal edge of the room. "He doesn't need anymore medicines."
"Okay." Caving in, he stepped forward to catch hold of the squirrel wrapped up in the bag. And then, as if something had rang in his mind, he halted, his hand involuntarily starting to dig up his pants pockets.
Rumi watched him silently, as his reddened face roused to her with his hands holding out a tiny roll of tattered ten, and twenty rupees notes.
"How much should I give?" he asked, demurely.
"Nothing."
He blinked at her, surprised. "What? Really?"
"Yes. I don't charge from students like you," Rumi said, noticing how his face relaxed at her words. "Leave him in an area away from other animals. He will survive this by himself."
"Okay."
"One more thing," she added, stopping him from taking his next step towards the exit. "Don't hold him or pet him. Squirrels aren't naturally aggressive, but they do have sharp teeth and jaw. He might bite or claw you, at this time. Okay?"
"Okay. Sure. Can I feed him though?"
"Yeah, but without holding him. You can give him any raw vegetable, fruit, or nuts."
"Okay. And then I will name him, too," the boy muttered, mostly to himself.
Tweaked with a smile, a very curious question left her lips. "What will you name him though?"
