The corner room opposite the main bazaar was finally taken. The servant of the new tenant from Calcutta was attracting more than usual attention, peeping in and out of the front door, in full view from the public at the main road.
He was about twenty-eight, wore washed Jeans, a black T-shirt and a pair of Adidas trainers. He didn�t look like a servant.
He dragged an upright electric machine, the shape of a tube-well that made a whining sound, forwards and backwards, looking at the floor of the open veranda by the roadside. At times he walked inside leaving the machine alive. The sound was new to the town and could be heard from a distance. The crowd was from nearby villages attending the market day, and had no idea what it was. Public buses on the main road decelerated for their passengers to enjoy the spectacle, providing free entertainment.
One affluent-looking man in the crowd explained, �this is a �Hoover.� Instead of sweeping with a broom, it sucks dust into a bag.�
�What�s that sound?� someone asked.
�It�s sucking the dust. You make sound when you suck air, look�� he pursed his lips and sucked air, whistling, making his point. Villagers were impressed.
Suddenly there was uproar. The crowd shuffled for a better view, as part of a human skeleton came into view behind the window; then it disappeared.
�A London trained surgeon will start practice here.� he said. To most, London was England.
�A surgeon? Then I don�t have to travel to Burdwan for my Hernia operation,� a voice sounded from the crowd.
By mid-day, the Surgeon had established himself well. People returned home and spread the news. Some were already planning to visit the doctor, they were yet to meet.
During the next three Market-days, the rigmarole with whining of the Hoover, and the peeping skeleton, continued. The stage was set for the big arrival.
The Surgeon arrived in a car with an English lady, who attracted most attention. He introduced her as his wife, which created an intense clamor. He was about twenty-seven, smart, sporting a perpetual smile. His dark suit and flowery tie were an instant crowd-puller. Someone arranged a photographer, and a political leader opened the clinic. The occasion caused a roadblock and the doctor was firmly established.
Over advertised and ready to roll, the clinic appointed a local man, who diverted patients from other doctor�s chambers. The Hoover man was gone.
The first day attracted eight patients, the next day twenty, and by the end of the month the waiting crowd caused a part traffic jam, to the dismay of other doctors. The patients concluded that the Surgeon listened to their problems and explained the treatment. They didn�t always understand the medical terms, but since he was from London, this was considered a virtue. The large framed F.R.C.S. degree and the photograph of the Surgeon in knee-deep snow in a white coat, attracted visitors. In four weeks the clinics drained most patients from nearby practice.
Far away in the alcove of a Calcutta restaurant, the Surgeon disbanded his team of promoters. He paid off the Hoover man, his make-believe English wife and the wise man in the crowd. His bandwagon was rolling well, considering his meager one-year stay in England, attending surgical clinics at Yeovil, in the U.K. He failed to pass the Surgeon�s degree, the F.R.C.S. several times, before abandoning his pursuit. He had a surgeon�s acumen, but had difficulty in passing exams.
About the same time, worried doctors at the town, whose practice had dried up, sat down and took stock. Since they couldn�t compete openly, so it was time for covert tactics. Being rural practitioners in depths of India, they knew that nothing was more fragile than a doctor�s reputation. They spent the evening considering the options.
A week later, two policemen arrived in a Jeep at his clinics. The senior man was visibly distressed. The buttons of his sweat-soaked, khaki police uniform was busting at his belly. The wide belt sagged to his groins. His trousers were hugging his ankles, as he gasped, �Doctor, my mother has vomited a large amount of blood. She is dying, you must attend immediately.�
�She will need blood transfusion; you must take her to the hospital.� The doctor replied.
�But you are the only London-qualified Surgeon in town. If you don�t come, she will die.� The man insisted.
Going over the causes of vomiting blood in his head, the doctor packed his medical bag, saline bottles and Intravenous sets. Outside it was a warm day in April, but the hot wind was tamed inside the chamber with a noisy second-hand air-conditioner. He slung his jacket at the back of the chair, before they rushed out through the back door into the police Jeep. The patients waited outside, realizing there was an emergency.
The elderly lady in her eighties lay on the bed. A cupful of blood was left next to her in a bowl, covered with banana leaves. Her Blood Pressure and Pulse was normal. The doctor started a Saline drip into her vein and advised transfer to the hospital.
�But, doctor, my mother will die if you don�t escort her to a Calcutta hospital.� The policeman said. �I�ve lost my wife for lack in medicine.�
�Your mother is fine,� the doctor reassured, but the policeman insisted that he should escort her to Calcutta.
�What about the my waiting patients?�
�We�ve asked them to go home and return later.�
The doctor tried again but there was no way out. Two policemen were standing at the door, as the driver entered the room and saluted, �the Jeep�s ready, Sir.�
No sooner the doctor was escorted into the Jeep, in full view of his patients, two policemen entered the place and sealed the front door.
�The doctor is arrested for rape of a young girl in town. He is being escorted to Calcutta right now,� they announced to the stunned patients, �you can all return to your own doctors, as before.� They left a placard, saying the doctor was under arrest.
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