bijoyv
Through an X-ray, darkly


My radiologist frowned at the backlit X-ray film like a director who wanted a retake. Before he could speak, a phone trilled distantly. He ran to get it.

The film was on the wall, unattended.

Alone and shirtless, I squinted at the fluorescent afterglow of Röntgen's all-seeing rays. Distinct from the still-healing crack on my right humerus was a scratch that ran along its length. It looped, crested and swirled into curious characters.

Letters. Not English. Probably Kannada or Telugu.

And numbers: today’s date – 14/9/07.

I peered to get a better look. Just then the radiologist, preceded by an explosion of excited conversation, burst in. He was followed by a frazzled duty doctor in his twenties and an officious man in a light blue suit and a bad tie. They glanced at me and then at the film on the wall.

The doctor’s ruddy face bottled up a cry. The man in the suit resembled Sadashiv Amrapurkar at his midnight best.

Gold watch glinting, he shoved the doctor into an adjoining room.

From within, whimpering from the doctor. And one-sided conversation from Suit in halting English and Kannada:

“When did you know? Has he told anybody else?”

Radiologist re-emerged. He was sweating.

Ignoring me, he pulled at things on a high shelf, spilling a desiccated cockroach, sheaves of paper and stacks of X-ray reports tagged with yellow cards. He was interested only in the X-ray films, which he took into the room.

“My God!”

English, gruffly. It was Suit.

Whimpering.

“See, sir. All the films have it.”

Tinny voice. Radiologist.

“Here,” said Radiologist, apparently pointing at something, “He has written: ‘He knows.’ This was last month. And here, ‘Save me’.

“And this one, sir…”

His pause was too long for comfort.

“It’s your name, sir. Dated last week.”

Silence – longer than the five seconds it lasted.

“Did the other surgeons know what he was doing?” Suit’s voice was frayed with anger. I caught every word of what followed despite the doctor’s frenzied sobbing and Radiologist’s ‘calm down, calm down’.

“Totally, there are nine, sir,” Radiologist said as he came out of the room followed by the others. “He has put a date on each one.”

“This one,” he pointed to my X-ray film, “has today’s date. Here he says…”

They looked at me.

“Please wait outside, sir,” Radiologist told me.

Shuffling into my shirt, I complied.

The door shut.

Inside, the doctor broke into a wail.

“You killed my Subhash! YOU!”

“Shut up! I’ll call the police. Do you know what they can do to homosexual bastards like you?”

“Locate all surgeries where Dr. Subhash assisted.” Suit’s tone indicated he was now talking to Radiologist. “Destroy all the X-ray reports.”

A phone rang.

I made for the elevator.

Outside, wearing the weight of the dead surgeon’s last suicide journal on my humerus, I hailed an auto.

I had to get another X-ray taken. At another hospital. Then call the cops.

Röntgen's rays never lie.

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