Short Story

A good medical boy

Asgar Hussein

“I have found a good medical boy for your daughter.”

This, I suppose is what the marriage broker told a couple in Kandy after meeting my friend Rajpal.

Rajpal had approached the man saying he was a medical student, and that he was looking for a nice, respectable girl to marry.

The problem was, he had nothing to do with medicine. Like me, he was a third year student studying political science at Peradeniya. There was no truth in his wish to marry a nice and respectable girl either. All he wanted was to be entertained lavishly at the expense of some unsuspecting parents.

I have never forgotten the consequences. It is now fifteen years since, but I still try to avoid him as far as possible. My wife thinks I’m being cruel, but once I narrate what happened I’m sure the reader will understand.

It all began when we saw a strange, middle-aged man loitering near the campus gates. He was short and balding, with ruddy cheeks and a thin moustache. We noticed that he accosted students to make discrete inquiries.

We soon learnt that he was a marriage broker named Bandara, and that he was looking for medical students to introduce to some affluent families in Kandy and its outskirts.

It was certainly a sensible thing to do. After all, as doctors of the future, medical students were much sought after by parents with young daughters. The man who succeeded in making a match could expect to be rewarded well.

One afternoon, as I was about to step into the campus library, someone came from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw Rajpal.

“Yes, what do you want?” I asked sharply, for the fellow had got into the habit of borrowing money from me.

“I want to talk to you, machan,” he said.

He looked around furtively and led me to a corner. I felt nervous, wondering how much he was going to deprive me of.

Then he told me about his discussion with the marriage broker, and his plan to have a good time by posing as a medical student.

I stared at him. “Are you mad, Rajpal? Do you seriously think you can do this without getting yourself screwed?”

He was hardly worried. “Listen, machan,” he said,placing his hand on my shoulder. “I can later come up with some excuse not to follow-up on the proposal. The important thing is to have a good feast. They might even pour some expensive liquor, heh, heh... They’ll go all out to impress me hoping to have a doctor as their son-in-law...Yes, they’ll give us the royal treatment.”

Now I got alarmed. “What do you mean ‘us’?” I shouted. “Do you really think you can drag me into this?”

He glanced around anxiously, and asked me to lower my voice. Then he begged me to accompany him, saying it would give him a sense of confidence. By now I was beginning to wish he had asked for some money instead.

“Nothing will make me go with you,” I told my batchmate firmly. “This can blow up in our faces, and besides, it’s not a nice thing to do.”

“Please, machan,” he again pleaded with me. “I’m really sick of this canteen food. I want something different for a change. I know you sometimes have lunch at the Devon. That’s something I just can’t afford these days.”

I felt irritated. The fellow was trying to build some sympathy for himself while making me feel guilty. I stood firm, and he walked away looking quite upset.

However, a few hours later I began to feel sorry for Rajpal. I also felt restless - for campus life can get tedious after a couple of years - and thought his plan would liven things up. It would certainly be an amusing experience, I told myself. It would be something to be fondly recalled long after we had graduated!

I walked into his hall of residence to say I had changed my mind. Both his roommates were out, so we spoke freely.

It was then that I learnt he had given a false name to the broker. He had the southern surname Peiris, but had claimed to be a Dunuvila. The matchmaker’s eyes had apparently lit up on hearing this.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why. After all, family names like Dunuvila, Rambukwella and Unambuwe are highly regarded among the Kandyan Govi Buddhists. By using such a name, my friend felt we would be treated with great hospitality when visiting homes with the broker. A medical student was good enough, but one with a name like that was a prize catch.

Now, before getting tour first visit, I must say something about Rajpal. Like me, he came from a family in the south. His father was a successful businessman, but Rajpal had, after entering university, got drawn to socialist ideals.

He also made a habit of airing his views when he went home. This had angered his father, who shouted, “You’ll end up with one of those Juki girls who stitch jungees for foreign women.” He also cut Rajpal’s monthly allowance; he said that when undergrads are given too much, they take things for granted and let foolish ideas enter their heads.

This filled my friend with resentment. Now he had to stint on expenses, and borrowed money from batchmates whenever he could.

Before our visit to Kandy with the broker, I felt Rajpal’s motives went beyond a good feast. For some reason, I suspected he also wanted to deceive those with a ‘bourgeoisie mentality’. On one occasion, I even heard him ridicule parents “who want their daughters to mate with doctors and engineers.”

On the appointed day, we skipped lectures and strolled out the campus gates. Bandara was waiting for us at the bus-stand. He smiled genially when Rajpal introduced me as Harendra from the Engineering Faculty and said I would be accompanying them.

It was around 10.30 when we got down from the bus in Kandy town. As we walked towards the clock-tower, I couldn’t help noticing my friend’s jaunty stride. I also caught him glimpsing at his reflection in the windows of passing cars. He was certainly dressed for the occasion!

Normally, he looked sloppy, but now he was quite smart. He wore a well ironed long-sleeved white shirt and beige trousers. He had also shaved off his stubble. He looked perfect, from his neatly combed hair to the shine on his shoes.

As we neared the gate, we heard a low growl and saw a dog’s nose jutting out from under it. A moment later, when Bandara rang the bell, the mongrel began barking loudly. Then we heard a bellowing voice, “Sumana, tie that dog up in the backyard!” followed by the humble reply, “Yes, Hamu.”

The gate was opened by Mrs Herath. She was reverentially greeted by the broker, who clasped his palms and said, “Ayubowan.” She smiled and led us to the house while the servant dragged the struggling dog to the backyard.

Mr Herath stood at the doorway and welcomed us with extended arms. When the broker introduced Rajpal as the prospective groom, he patted him on the back affectionately and said, “Ah, come, come in putha.”

We sat on a couch in the spacious living-room. Looking around, I noticed that this was a well-kept home. The white walls were adorned with framed prints of English artists who had sketched the scenery of Kandy. The furniture and the floors were polished to gleam, and not far from us stood a grand piano with a sheet of music.

Mr and Mrs Herath seemed to be a pleasant couple. He wore a full moustache (probably to divert attention from his big nose and protruding chin). There were flecks of grey in his hair, and his skin had a yellowish tinge. The wrinkles around his eyes became clear when he smiled. His wife had a bird-like face that thrust forward from a slender neck, and her hair was tied up in a bun. She looked quite graceful in a pink osariya.

After the exchange of pleasantries, the broker felt it was time to talk about my friend’s virtues. He pointed at Rajpal and told Mr Herath, “This boy very good, sir..... No smoking, no drinking, no girlfriends.”

I don’t know how I kept myself from laughing. It was true that he didn’t smoke, but he was quite fond of liquor and had three girlfriends at campus.

Mr Herath smiled as he listened to the broker. “Ah, good, good,” he said. “Our daughter is also a good girl. She’s also very clever, you know. She was chess champion at school, and got good marks in her studies. She could have gone to university, but that year they raised the cut-off point for admittance.”

Then he asked Rajpal, “So tell me, putha, how long have you been at university?” My batchmate was quick in his reply, “I’m a fourth year medical student, uncle, so I’ll be a doctor soon.”

“Ah, that’s good!” said Mr Herath. “And what area are you hoping to specialize in?” This took Rajpal by surprise. He thought for a few moments with a frantic look on his face. I desperately hoped he wouldn’t say “gynaecology” and provoke Mr Herath to say he didn’t think his daughter would like a husband who probed into other women’s private parts.

Finally, my friend replied, “I’m thinking of becoming a nervologist.” Mr Herath stared at him for a while. “A nervologist?” he asked, looking quite bewildered.

It was then that his wife spoke. “I think he means a neurologist,” she said. The undertone of contempt in her voice was unmistakable.

Rajpal wore a sheepish look and nodded.

Then the lady began inquiring about his family. Here, he came out strongly. In a very convincing way, he told her that his family was a branch of the Dunuvilas of Harispattuva; he also said his father was a dentist and his mother an accountant in Colombo.

The couple seemed quite impressed.

Mr Herath now felt it was time to talk about his own accomplishments. He told us that he is a successful planter, and had come up with some innovative ideas to boost productivity in the estates. We also heard that a Cabinet Minister had once worked under him, and that a former president wanted to appoint him as Ambassador to Italy but he had declined.

Then he began talking about his father, who had been a civil servant.

He stressed the importance of being in the civil service before it was scrapped in the sixties: “You know, at that time they were the most respected people of all. Only a few were chosen each year, and rich parents did their best to catch such a man for their daughters. They were preferred over engineers, lawyers and even doctors!”

Mr Herath rambled on about his father for several minutes. Then he stroked his moustache and decided to talk about his great-grandfather.

He pointed at a framed picture of that eminent ancestor - who had posed for the camera wearing a white coat - and told us that he had been a wealthy landowner. We also learnt that during the colonial era, he had never hesitated to travel in first class train compartments, which were reserved for white and the most powerful local elites.

By now, I and Rajpal were feeling quite hungry. That morning at campus, we had only had a bowl of sago porridge. We didn’t have a heavier breakfast because my friend felt we should leave room for the much-anticipated feast.

The problem with sago porridge, we now learnt, is that after a couple of hours your stomach begins to let out embarrassing rumbles. I could hear not only the sounds coming from inside me, but also those that emerged from my batchmate. We began to feel very uneasy. I hoped our hosts - who sat just a few feet in front - wouldn’t hear the rumbles.

Mr Herath, having told us about his great-grandfather, then paused a while. I hoped he wouldn’t start rambling about an even more distant ancestor. He certainly had a peculiar look now; it was the look of a man contemplating some noble ancestor who had battled the Portuguese at Gannoruwa.

Fortunately, his wife spoke before he could open his mouth again. “I think we should now introduce Duwa,” she said.

We weren’t exactly overjoyed on hearing this. We were sure she had a nice daughter, but at that point we would rather have been introduced to some sandwiches.

A few moments later, the girl gracefully descended the spiral staircase with her mother. As the broker had said, her face was round like the moon. Now we saw that it had craters as well! Her face had many pock-marks, no doubt the result of squeezing her pimples as an acne-ridden schoolgirl.

Nevertheless, she was a charming girl, and the turquoise blue dress she wore added to her elegance; she had large eyes and wore pink lipstick to match the looped earrings. Her name was Priyanka.

As she shook our hands, I’m sure she heard the rumbling in our stomachs. At least, she seemed to stiffen a bit.

After sitting between her parents, Priyanka began to tell us about herself and her ambitions for the future. We heard that she wanted to be a marketing professional. She spoke quietly, in a clear voice, and came across as a sensible girl. However, she must have soon noticed the strained expression on our faces, for she leant to a side and whispered something to her mother. The lady rose excusing herself and walked away. She was back in a few moments, carrying a tray of short-eats and fruit cordial. We were immensely relieved.

As we munched on the food, the broker turned to the girl and told her what a decent boy Rajpal was. She looked at him with a tight-lipped smile.

The conversation then moved to life at campus, and here I got a chance to talk. However, I finished quickly as I felt they were more interested in hearing what my friend had to say. When all eyes shifted to him, indicating that it was his turn to talk, he assumed a studious air. He then spoke of several things he had heard medical students do, from examining patients in state hospitals to dissecting corpses. He spoke in a very general way, but somehow managed to sound convincing. Maybe it was is confidence that pulled him through.

When he paused for a while, Mr. Herath informed us that he had hepatitis. Then, without thinking, my friend asked, “Ah, so you take insulin, uncle?”

Mr. Herath’s jaw fell. “Why should I take insulin?” he asked. “It is people with diabetes who take insulin. I told you I had hepatitis.”

“Ah yes, I forgot,” said Rajpal, vainly trying to appear unruffled. A long and awkward silence followed.

I was now getting worried. It was true that my friend was a good student, but his knowledge was largely confined to political theory., If you asked him, he could talk at length from Plato to Chomsky. Sadly, his focus on that field alone meant he suffered from a frightful ignorance of other things. Furthermore (as he once boasted), his family members rarely fell ill; this meant he would know little about medical matters.

Anyway, it was not long before Mrs. Herath announced that her daughter was a good pianist. She claimed the girl could play Mozart as well as some modern pieces.

“Priyanka has also composed some short pieces of her own,” she said proudly. She then turned to the girl and told her, “Duwa, why don’t you give us a performance!”

The girl got up and walked gracefully towards the grand piano. However, from that moment her fingers descended on the keys, we were treated to some of the most appalling music ever produced. She certainly had an aptitude for making the piano wail.

Normally, I’m not critical when it comes to music, but this was more than my ears could bear. This was a lesson in dissonance. A glance at Rajpal confirmed my view, for the man had leant back against the couch and had an agitated look. I felt further vindicated when the dog tied up in the backyard began to howl.

Our hosts didn’t notice any of these things. They listened with rapture and their heads swayed to and fro. They were so profoundly affected that I felt sorry for them. This was a performance guaranteed to discourage any prospective husband.

Anyway, when Priyanka finished and made a bow, we were so relieved that we clapped enthusiastically.

Quite moving, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Herath asked, and we nodded. It was well past 1.00 o’clock when the lady said it was time to serve lunch. By now, we were ravenously hungry. We were led to a large rectangular dining table, which promised a truly sumptuous feast. Spread across it - on a lacy tablecloth tasseled at the edges - was a tantalizing array of dishes. In the centre was a large plate of steaming yellow rice, with slices of boiled eggs and cadjunuts on top.

Among the dishes were large batter-fried prawns, seerfish curry, a stuffed roast chicken, potato curry, dhal, tender polos curry (temptingly red and dry, the way Kandyans make it), devilled mushrooms and brinjal curry. It was just what we had expected. I couldn’t help feeling grateful to Rajpal.

After we served ourselves, Rajpal made sure to sit to my left and at the corner of the table; he was a left-hander, and didn’t want to spoil his lunch with the colliding of elbows.

Seeing that we were relishing the food, Mrs. Herath, who sat in front of us, said her daughter had helped prepare many of the dishes. “Soon she’ll be a better cook than me,” she said, looking proudly at Priyanka. The food was great, but I doubted the girl had anything to do with it. Anyone who played the piano like that was capable of putting a glutton off food for a long time.

Suddenly, the bell rang, and Mr. Herath shouted, “Sumana, go and see who has come!”

The servant emerged from the kitchen saying, “Yes Hamu.” As she walked past us, we noticed that her eyelids kept twitching. My friend couldn’t help inquiring about it from Mr. Herath.

“Why do her eyes go like that?” he asked. “It looks like she’s winking non-stop.” Our host took a few seconds to reply. “Sumana has a tic,” he said quietly.

Rajpal was surprised. “So why can’t she just pull it out?” he asked. The family looked at him curiously.

“Pull what out? .... Her eyes?” asked Priyanka, looking quite baffled.

“Not the eyes!” exclaimed Rajpal. “I meant the tick!... It’s just an insect, right? .... the kind you find in cats and dogs....”

They all stared at him. It was so quiet that I could hear the fan whirring above. Finally, Mr Herath spoke.

“No, no putha! I said tic T-I-C- which is what happens when a muscle in the face goes out of control and moves like that.”

I glanced at my friend. His face had reddened, and he looked down at his plate and began eating again.

Sumana was back soon, looking slightly worried. She was accompanied by a middle-aged lady wearing thick glasses.

“Hullo, Mrs. Herath”, the lady said as she entered the living room. “I was just passing this way, and thought I’ll drop ‘by.”

Our hostess rose from her chair. “Ah come, come and join us for lunch, Mrs Wijetunga,” she said. “We are entertaining a prospective husband for Priyanka.”

The lady was offered a chair beside Mr. Herath, who told us that she had been Priyanka’s maths teacher in her O/L class. They all seemed quite fond of her.

As soon as Rajpal was introduced as a medical student, Mrs. Wijetunga beamed at him. She seemed to be a nice lady. Just after serving herself, she said, “Priyanka is a very well-bred, decent girl. I still remember how hard she used to study. Her only bad habit was pinching her pimples!”

Then she winked at the girl, who began to giggle.

Mrs. Wijetunga now turned to Rajpal, who was helping himself to a few more prawns. “I can tell you one thing, son,” she told him. “Whoever marries Priyanka will be a very, very happy man”

The poor girl blushed deeply.

Then the lady smiled at Rajpal and said, “Now, son, since you’re a medical student, I must ask you for some free advice.’

He nodded and replied, “Yes aunty, tell me.”

“You see,” she said. “For the past few days, I have been having a pain in the middle of my abdomen area. I also feel vomitish at times. What do you think is wrong?”

My friend placed two fingers on his chin and thought for a while, looking studious again., Now I felt very nervous. The fool had already said he wanted to be a “nervologist,” and thought insulin was administered for hepatitis. He had also confused a tic with a parasite. I dreaded to think what he might say this time.

He didn’t take long to give his diagnosis.

“I think it’s some stomach problem,” he said. “Why don’t you take some laxatives?”

Suddenly, Mrs. Herath dropped her fork on the plate and glared at Rajpal. He looked very uncomfortable and gulped as her eyes scrutinized him.

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about!” she cried. “What Mrs. Wijetunga just described could be appendicitis. I should know, because I had my appendix removed. Haven’t you heard that when laxatives are taken in such cases, the patient could even die?”

Now the place became unbearably tense. The air seemed thick and oppressive. We hurriedly finished the food on our plates while they eyed us suspiciously. Mrs. Wijetunga kept peering at us over her glasses, reminding me of a stern science teacher I hated in Grade 7. I glanced at the broker and noticed the beads of sweat on his brow.

We didn’t care what they had prepared for dessert. It was obviously something good, like a fruit trifle or cheesecake, but this was not the time to contemplate such delicacies. We rose from our chairs, and Rajpal said we had to go now as a lecture was set to begin at 2.30. The broker cursed under his breath and wiped off the sweat with the back of his hand.

Mr. Herath looked at us in a very contemptuous way. “Yes, you’d better leave!” he bellowed, pointing at the door. Then he turned to his wife and said, “I don’t know what kinds of fellows they admit to university nowadays.... That’s what happens to these bookworms. They study too hard trying to become doctors, and a few nuts come unloose.”

The lady shuddered. She shook her head and said, “Yes, I think he’s going to leave a lot of corpses behind.”?

We turned back to look at them as we walked away from the house. The family, Mrs. Wijetunga and the broker all stood outside the gate, staring at us. We felt their eyes hovering behind us long after we returned to campus.