Mamta Kalia

unsolved for long. On his bedside, between
course-books some books appeared which
had no relation to medicine. Sometimes
he read the manifesto of Communist Party,
sometimes Das Capital. Often he remained
absorbed in the books of Karl Marx,
Angles, Lenin, Mao-tse-Tung and when
tired, thought something with closed
eyes. He thought Vijay Mitra is wasting
his time. Being his room-mate, he didn’t
like this deviation of Vijay Mitra and
he had tried to advise him —”Vijay, why
are you wasting your time in these
worthless books.”
Vijay Mitra was ready for this attack.
He had said quickly —”The books you
are calling worthless will change the
world one day.”
“But these won’t let you become a
doctor,” he had protested.
“Perhaps yes!” Vijay Mitra had shown
flint instead of wavering,” perhaps I won’t
be a doctor… perhaps I won’t heal
patients…but the disease that’s eating
away human society… I will try to heal
it, surely.”
He had looked at Vijay Mitra,
speechless— as if his mind were disturbed.
But no, Vijay Mitra was looking at him,
smiling. He had tried once more, this
time attacking his heart— “Vijay, don’t
you think, you‘ll hurt your parents. They
have sent you here to be a doctor. They
must have a lot of expectation from
you. I think this is too much for them.”
This time Vijay Mitra didn’t protest,
but he had not agreed, it seemed. He
118 :: April-June 2010
felt the meaninglessness of his effort and
a deep silence had come between them.
It was clear now that what Vijay
Mitra read or what he did at night outside
the hostel wasn’t related a bit to medical
studies, he had become almost suicidal.
This was sad. He felt for him and wished
well from all his heart. So strange were
his feelings towards Vijay Mitra that he
couldn’t check himself to advise him
time and again. He always asked him
at such times — “Vijay, don’t you think
you’re wasting yourself? This opportunity
of being a doctor, you are losing it…
a great career, a great future…. Above
all you’re losing a chance to a better
human service.”
“I respect your feelings, Comrade.
I know what you say is more attractive…
life can be more comfortable but….”,
he was emphasizing every word, “poverty,
inequality, hunger, injustice,
exploitation,…. Insult of man’s labour
— I can’t stand it… I get hurt…. And
feel guilty. I don’t think I can be part
of this machinery.”
A decided attitude of Vijay Mitra
was flourishing day-by-day. He now spent
his nights in slums. And days passed
in movements… protests… seminars. He
didn’t return to hostel for days. And
as these activities increased, his interest
in medical studies decreased.
Whenever he tried to catch Vijay
Mitra he shut him up with some sharp
question. He often said, “comrade, this
behavior with medical students… this