She struggled to hold on to an upturned umbrella that did little to shelter her against the monsoon deluge. Skipping over puddles of rain water, she ran towards the covered porch of the Nagpada Neighborhood House. Wisps of her wet hair curled and formed spiral ringlets that fell delicately over her brow. Raindrops dripping down her face, coalesced into winding streams and raced down her long, slender neck, before finally disappearing into her drenched clothes.
She looked pretty. She always did.
“Doctor.”
“Doctor, are we done?”
He turned his attention back to the thirty something TB patient he had been examining.
“Yes Ramesh.”
“Looking good. Lungs are clearing up. Stay away from the beedies and keep taking the medicine regularly. I’ll see you in a month.”
Turning to the nurse he said, ”Swati, can you give him another thirty day course of Isoniazid ?”
The two hours he spent weekly, volunteering at the Neighborhood House, had initially been an attempt to beef up his application for a postgraduate FRCS degree. However, with every passing week, he found the experience surprisingly more relaxing and fulfilling. The hawkish supervision of the Attending Physicians at JJ Hospital and the competitiveness of his fellow interns was intimidating and exhausting. Working independently in the makeshift clinic at the Neighborhood House was so liberating. He enjoyed the freedom and control and the fact that he was actually making a difference in people’s lives was very gratifying. But in the past few weeks, he had another more compelling reason to come.
He peeked out of the window to catch another glimpse of her on the porch but she was gone.
“Swati,” he shouted, “I’ll be right back.”
The Neighborhood House was a rather featureless two story concrete structure. A dark and damp cafeteria that served the needy and homeless took up most of the ground floor, which also had an office and a few multi purpose rooms, one of which was used as the clinic. A couple of staircases at either end of the building led up to a long corridor that was lined with tiny rooms that were primarily used by visiting staff for boarding. A few were set up as classrooms where tutoring and evening classes were held.
As he made his way up the staircase he heard voices coming from one of these classrooms. Tip toeing towards it, he peeked through the crack in the door. There she was: wearing a sky blue shalwar-kamees, embroidered with white and pink flowers. Colorful earrings dangled from her ears and a thin gold chain glistened around her neck. She had a couple of white chalk marks streaked across her cheek. Her lips, full, red and radiant moved to form words that he did not hear.
What he did hear was a loud crash as the stethoscope, hanging around his neck, slipped and fell to the floor. As he bent down to pick it up he noticed her staring at him. Embarrassed, he grabbed it and started running down the corridor.
“Hey,” he heard her call, “What do you want?”
“ Who are you?”
It had been the first time she spoke to him. He turned around to look at her. There was so much he wanted to say but words failed him. Shrugging his shoulders he continued walking backwards, a sheepish grin plastered across his face and disappeared down the stairs.
Zarine walked back into the class where she was just getting started with her tutoring lesson. Was it that doctor from the clinic downstairs? She had noticed him before. He was tall, lanky with wispy hair that seemed to be thinning. A loud voice. Big laugh. Spoke Urdu with an accent. Gujrati, maybe ? What did he want? Could it be? She know she was reasonably attractive, but he was a doctor. Why would he be interested in her ? She felt her heart beat a little faster.
The rest of the class passed without incident. Occasionally she’d glance at the door to check if he was lurking behind it, but didn’t see or hear him again. When the class wrapped up she cleaned the black board, dusted herself off, straightened the chairs and gathered her belongings. She glanced over the classroom one last time to ensure that it wasn’t messy and then walked out. She closed the classroom doors and as usual struggled to pull the latch shut and just as she turned to walk away, she saw him standing by the stairs. Despite her natural instinct to lower her gaze she was drawn to him. His awkward demeanor, his soulful eyes, his bright, sparkling but slightly crooked smile, his immense forehead with a nasty scar that ran across his right temple. Nearing the stairs she forced herself to lower her eyes. A hint of a smile unwittingly escaped across her face as she tried to walk around him. But just as she passed him, she felt him grab on to her wrist. She turned around surprised, then horrified, then angry and was about to scream, when he put his finger gently on her lips and whispered, “I am Rasool Akhtar.”