Page 22 - Till the Last Breath . . .

‘I hope I start to understand what you mean some day, sir,’ Zarah said

and flicked her hair behind her ear.
‘And that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is—they are never
right!’

‘That’s funny, sir.’
‘You have to stop calling me “sir” first. It makes me feel, well, old,’ he

said. ‘Anyway, we have a new patient. Pretty standard case. The good thing
is that the girl is like you, only younger. She got admitted into medical

school last year, found something wrong with her hands and diagnosed it
herself. Impressive, isn’t it?’

Looking at her face, he knew Zarah didn’t know what to make of what he
said, whether he was genuinely impressed or was being sarcastic. Anyway,
he always felt something was wrong with Zarah. She was way too reserved

for the way she looked. At five feet seven, she towered above even a few
male doctors. She didn’t have a shred of fat on her body, probably because

she smoked a lot. But her lips, the lightest shade of pink, didn’t leave any
telltale signs of her smoking habit. Neither did her chocolate-coloured

exotic skin, which was smooth and velvety. To be honest, the first time
Arman saw her in her white doctor’s coat and the three-inch heels, he

thought she wasn’t from India at all. Maybe Brazil. Or Chile. Or Uruguay.
Some place not India. Usually, the prettier female doctors were outspoken;
Zarah, on the other hand, was reserved. It was intriguing. Maybe she was a

perfect case for his mother, the acclaimed psychiatrist. In her mother’s
words, she was damaged.

‘Can you check her up and get her forms done?’ he asked her and gave
her the file. ‘She is here for a few tests. We will admit her to the hospital in

a day or two.’
‘Right away, Arman.’ Zarah took the file from his hand and started

reading through it. ‘It says in this file you were her external consultant? I
didn’t know you do that.’
‘It’s a special case,’ Arman responded with a straight face, ‘and it will be

better if you keep it to yourself.’