As Good As A Mile

He missed getting into medical college by a quarter of a percentage. That’s a lot, any twelfth standard student in Mumbai will tell you, competition being what it is. His teens had dissolved into his twenties heaven knew when, he didn’t remember anything beyond class six…maybe seven at the most. Then life was a tight schedule, a routine that couldn’t be flexed by a minute.

Couldn’t even make it into dentistry. Like the others who could fill no quotas, whose parents had neither influence nor money, he took the next best option, B.Sc. with Life Sciences. Thus, after a post-graduate diploma in medical and laboratory technology, he found himself in the ranks of the might have-beens, wearing a white coat with half-sleeves to distinguish the lot from the doctors.

Amongst the paramedics, the hierarchy was unclear. Audiologists, occupational therapists, perfusionists, X-ray technicians, optometrists, counselors, each had their area of expertise, not understood or appreciated, or so they thought, by the others. Some of the therapists looked down on the technicians for they thought they (those therapists) actually dealt with patients, gave treatment, contributed directly to the management of the patient’s recovery. Perhaps they had insufficient knowledge of pharmacy and surgery, but they could occasionally diagnose a condition: degree of deafness, for example.

The technicians, on the other hand, were ‘workers’, mechanically doing things either with machines or consumables, not a high skill, they said. They whispered indignantly amongst themselves, there were places abroad where therapists were called ‘doctors’. In fact, any therapist in private practice did put up the ‘doctor’ sign outside his/her clinic. The dieticians, females all and pretty, too, talked only with each other, and were strictly civil when they did speak to other colleagues. The nurses were another breed, with an ethos all their own, gentle, non-interfering, apart from all the others.

Anonymous, that’s what his designation was in this hospital. He was never part of the squabbles. They irritated Tushar. Those who’d got into the coveted stream weren’t necessarily cleverer or more able, they’d been just plain lucky in the twelfth boards, that’s all. He knew so many who didn’t even have an aptitude for judgment, but they were labeled ‘successful’ (read, potential money-makers) merely because they’d scored a mark or two extra. Or paid the boggling fees of the private colleges. Somewhere within him, Tushar knew he was meant for bigger things in life. In the end, their training and their exposure would jettison them well ahead unless he did something to change the course of his life. He wanted to have a laboratory of his own, perhaps he could apply for a bank loan to set it up, or do his M. Sc., anything. But, though he dreamt and thought endlessly about it all his waking hours, although he thought of a hundred alternatives to his present job, he hadn’t the courage to quit.

He’d taken this job for lack of knowledge of what to do. Since studies were ‘over’, earn he had to. What was worse, the daily aspect wasn’t pleasant. This was the only job that caused constant discomfort to patients. Even the surgeons’ scalpel did not slice without the relief of anesthesia. He was part of the hated tribe: the pain-givers, the ones who bled ill people. The idea repulsed him. He often debated in his mind, it was a worthwhile profession: come on, without the tests there could be no definite diagnosis, no treatment, it was a valuable task. But another part of him argued: how was he contributing to anything at all ? He could be replaced by any other, it wouldn’t be a big deal.

There was no great satisfaction in this job, if he was looking for a bigger, brighter future, he’d have to leave. And do what? With this killing routine, though, where was the time to think of the nitty-gritty of hopeful dreams? The only free time he had was whilst traveling in the train, and then, with the effort of balancing against sweaty bodies, recovering from an eight hour shift, he was exhausted. But every waking moment, one thing was clear: he had to crystallize his ambition and take the plunge. He was prepared for the outrage of his family: “Secure job…regular salary….medical benefits…time to get married…” But he’d have to be brave and just do it. When and how, were the questions. This year, next year, tomorrow ?

*****
His hand is steady, he squints at the site, the vein is clear and bulging. It’s the hand of a Very Important Person, and although Tushar reminds himself consciously that it’s the same flesh as any other, he’s intensely aware of the fact. This room costs six thousand bucks a night, more than his monthly salary. Oof, that’s the good life, he thinks. The wrist flops when he turns it. Clench it, please, he reminds the patient. The man is flabby, no muscle at all. It annoys Tushar. What’s the big deal about VIPs, eh, they are all helpless, dependent, when I’m by their side.

Today there aren’t many patients on his list. There are days when, after the thirtieth prick, his hands begin to hurt and his eyes have to be washed to keep them focused. It’s ok when the veins and patients are like this one, but oh, they aren’t always brittle veins, wrinkled skins, invisible veins, veins which were pricked a million times, at the elbow, the wrist, the other hand, un-co-operative patients, terrified ones …

He’s about to prick when the relative sitting by sleepily interrupts, “What’s the test to be done? Last evening also someone came to take a sample”.

Tushar’s reply is curt. “Auto 14, T2, T3, T4.’

“What’s that?”

“They’ve been prescribed. Best to ask the doctor.” He can’t understand why the relative wants to know something she wouldn’t understand even if he told her. Why can’t Indians just let people do their jobs. Always, why this, why that.

“It’ll be ok, won’t it, see we’ve come from Borivli and next month is my daughter’s wedding. When will we come to know…..”

Before she finishes the sentence, Tushar’s concentration’s gone. The needle is in, stuck, juggled and out. The man draws his hand jerkily. Tushar applies pressure. The blood spurts out as Tushar’s mind screams, oh hell, big puncture.

The stain on the patient’s white shirt-sleeve spreads as Tushar tries to arrest the bleed. The patient winces, but turns his head away. It is a quarter to five in the morning, and he’s still full of sleep. But the relative persists in asking what are you doing, why is there so much blood, you have hurt him, call the doctor, the nurse, what’s wrong with you. She runs to the bell, then to the door.

Tushar mumbles an apology, says these things happens when veins are thin, aging. But the patient is twenty-six years old, he’s not old, objects the relative. And just what are you doing? Tushar inarticulately says something, fumbles with the tube as he corks it, more than the required blood collected in it, puts it back in the little crate, makes sure it’s nestled snugly and hurries out. I’m going to complain about this, he can hear the relative grumble aloud.

Back at the nursing station, Tushar checks his list and slumps against the wall. Oh shit, this is bed number six. Wrong bed. Shucks, wrong patient. He was to have gone to number sixteen, not six. He remembers that he hadn’t checked the name because just yesterday he’d gone to the same bed. But that patient had obviously been transferred elsewhere or been discharged. How stupid of him. Now what?

Out in the corridor, he can hear the relative talking to the nurse, her reply is staccato. He hears her soft steps coming closer. The relative has obviously gone back. His pulse races with fright and panic. He tries to reason, another eleven patients to go to before my shift gets over, better rush. No more mistakes.

He checks the same patient’s folder again. The nurse asks him very casually what happened. Difficult collection, he says. She is busy shuffling her papers, ready to leave for home at the 7 am shift, not bothered about him. This bed number six, what test is to be done, I don’t see anything written here, she says, a little alert now. Tushar mumbles whatever comes to his mind, inaudibly. Who’s asked you to do the collection, she persists. He changes the topic: When’s this patient getting discharged? Instinctively, she answers his question and is momentarily put off track. Before she can recover, Tushar has left. Behind him, echoing through the ward, he can once more hear the sound of the relative’s voice, and the nurse’s. Now the tones are agitated.

He sprints away, downstairs. This patient is to be discharged today, he won’t see him again, that’s good. At another nursing station, he checks the computer, no test has been indented for that patient, he confirms that. He can throw away that sample and hope the episode will not be noticed. Not likely, though. He wipes his face with a paper napkin, draws on another glove, picks up his tray and rapidly strides out to the next ward.

Four years of experience, he is one of the best technicians here, and this mistake is, in his own eyes, an unpardonable one. There is a reason for it, he thinks, his heart isn’t in the job. Here, he feels like a loser, always missing a mark, a question, a submission, a bed-number. After years of slogging, tuitions, no-tv, no-talking, no-friends, no-sleep, he is not heading anywhere. There’s no mazaa in his life, no thrill of any sort. He runs down, two steps at once, careful to swing out his hand to balance the tray full of samples.

What’s the punishment for wrong collection ? Ohgodohgodohgod, what is he to do now? Story of his life, always getting into trouble. HOW could he have made a stupid mistake like this and with a VIP too!!

A glimpse at the receptionist’s face outside the laboratory counter and the tension in her voice tells him he’s in deep trouble. “Sister called, said you collected from the wrong… Dr. Daji wants to see you immedia…” Before the sentence is complete, he’s put the tray on the counter, flipped the sheets of paper beside it, taken off his coat, flung it over and across to the bin beyond, and run away. ‘Tushar…’ the receptionist calls out sharply.

I’m not coming back, not ever. His voice is lost in the corridors. He isn’t sure where he wants to go, but he sprints away. Just the previous evening, he had trotted the other way, towards the same counter, because he was late.

Suddenly, he halts. Full stop. A forced exhalation, head bent low, chin on chest, his shoulders drooping. Hey, a smile comes over his face, relief and amusement mix and blend, ‘I was late yesterday. I didn’t punch in at the time office. And I haven’t punched out now. Which means I wasn’t officially present. No one but no one can prove I drew blood at all, correct or wrong.”

Missed again !! For good this time. He can’t get into trouble now. This is it!! This is his chance, the incident overwhelms him, the decision is instantly made. Fate has decided, not I. It is written in my naseeb that I mustn’t work here.

He isn’t going back, no longer will a quarter of a percentage decide what he has to do. He has to escape the whirl of marks-marks-marks. When he lost the battle by a fraction, there was no second chance, or so it seemed. He now looked in his mind’s eye at a world away from syringes, swabs, ether, bandage spots, screaming children and squirming adults, beyond texts, exams, permanent jobs, promotions.

The moment he knows he’s out of job, he feels a surge of confidence. Paradox. He feels his wallet, the remainder of the month’s pay is in it. They won’t give him his gratuity, now. It can’t be much. He’ll earn it back. He’ll send his resignation by post. Should he send it at all? Let them do whatever they wanted to, it is a mistake he’s made, not committed a crime, people have got away with worse. Youth nudges out reason and caution.

His hormones allow him to take the risk his middle-class values would never allow. He turns to see the building, where he’s spent most of his waking hours for the past four years. And he feels so detached, as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Funny, how the decision, abruptly made, taken alone, unplanned, involving no member of his family, has given him a sense of independence. He takes a deep breath, puts his hands in his pockets, and sets course towards home. He will be passing colleagues rushing towards work for the morning shift. He feels sorry for them. His dream of owning a laboratory is going to come true. He grits his teeth, then moves on, now calm, with even strides, as he walks towards the station.