And God smokes Marlboro....

Inspite of the centralized air-conditioning, Dr. Vishnu Prasad had beads of sweat on his face. They originated from his slightly bald head, ran through the sides of his nose and died on the mask covering his mouth. The surgery lights could not pore inside his eyes behind the glasses and show that he was afraid.

"Lalitha, get me the defribbilator" he ordered his nurse.
She handed him the solution and equipment. Even she could feel the tension in the air. He was tense but didn’t show it around. It was a trait that could only come with years of experience. There seemed to be no reaction from the patient.

‘Doctor. I think he is dead’. The team of nurses and junior doctors knew the obvious and still were hesitant to tell it to the top chief surgeon in the hospital. They knew that the man did not know to give up.

He thumped his chest again. No reaction. Dr. Vishnu picked the pulse of the patient and confirmed his worst fear. The patient was no more. He wanted to throw the machine to one corner of the room and thump on his chest with his bare fist and try to bring him back alive...but that was childish and that was not what a top doctor does. He walked out of the surgery room with the possibly saddest face ever seen. It was a coincidence that Dr. Vishnu had been wearing spectacles since his school days, but they had been useful more in these trying times.

Call it cliché of cinema, but the instant a doctor removes his spectacles while addressing the kith and kin of the deceased, they know the result before hand. He went to the college -going son of the deceased and just said "I am sorry" and walked away. He could hear the wails and cries of the wife, daughter, son and scores of some relatives who had gathered outside the theatre expecting a miracle to happen. He wanted to run away from that spot as soon as he could.

Miracle. That was what had drawn Vishnu to this profession. He could have become anything with his state top marks in school, but he chose to be a doctor. The sheer amount of adulation and respect that a doctor earns in society is only next to god. He had always dreamt to be a top surgeon and had worked very hard for it. Today his name was synonymous with quality, perfection, skill...and miracle.

He threw his hand gloves in the dust bin and washed his hands twice with the hand cleansing liquid. Slowly he walked to the near by car parking area where his Honda CRV was parked and sat on the hood. He drew a Marlboro from his pocket and gave life to it with his lighter. He realized the irony of a doctor being a smoker and still advising his patients to give up smoking to live life longer and healthier. The smoke from the cigarette seemed to draw away all his frustrations of today's operation into thin air.

Every time an operation succeeded, he felt second happy to the relatives. He realized that he had enabled someone to live few more happy or sad days with his family, witness some good functions of his or her wards, maybe make some more money, most of all...he would have saved them from being non-existent. To him the operation theatre was a battle ground and his surgical instruments, his experience and skill were his weapons he used to fight the lord of death.

The trouble was when the operation would have failed. He felt like some pile of shit when it would happen. Inspite of doing everything he could, he would have failed in his battle with death. He wished he could become a child and cry on his mom's lap. Sometimes he feared that he may need counseling for taking away their sorrows as his own. How many of them knew what a doctor goes through outside the operation theatre. He had to keep reminding himself that he was a doctor and not their near and dear.

Just then his mobile buzzed." Doctor. We have an emergency. A patient is seriously injured in an accident. Could you please check him?"

He crushed the Marlboro under the skin of his shoe and drew a long breath. It was time to fight death.

It was time to save someone and their family.

It was time to play god.