“Samar!”
He jolted, facing the soldier with blood not only on his uniform but on his neck and ear. His eyes were grey, dark, piercing, holding firm. Not a single blink. A thick scar ran down his cheek.
“Kill the panic.” He ordered, holding his eyes.
Samar took a deep breath. Released.
“Kill the pain,” his voice boomed. Samar tore his eyes from him, glanced down at the man. The patient. The body.
“Kill the fear now.” His words reverberated, and Samar realised how good he was at medicine. How extraordinary he was at trauma surgery. He realised why he had come here and his hands hovering in the air automatically clamped down to hold pressure. Blood, warm and thick, coated his fingers. Slithery flesh was in his hands. And the patient’s breaths were now under him.
“Ready IV! Fluids!” He called out. The soldiers around him were pushed off as paramedics in uniform like his own took over. Samar glanced at the first face that came into his sight — “Gauze.”
His feet moved with the stretcher, as did everybody else’s. As he rushed the soldier to the dispensary, Samar’s eyes caught the soldier bathed in blood. His eyes had finally blinked.
Samar blinked, and found himself seeing the sun setting, having steadied the soldier, at least till this dusk. His shirt drenched in the soldier, Amol’s blood, he found himself staggering out of the dispensary, without a drop of water or food in his stomach. He had to report to his Commanding Officer. Samar glanced up at the sky, darkening, the birds making shrill sounds as they flew home.
“Daaxsaab.”
He whirled, and the soldier who had brought Amol here was walking down from the barracks. Cleaned up, in a new camouflage uniform, he carried a bottle of water. His face wasn't hard or angry now. He was smiling, a naughty glint in his eyes.
“Did they rag you already?” He opened the bottle of water and held it out to him. Stunned, Samar began to reach for it, then realising he still hadn’t washed his hands, retracted it.
“Here.” He held the bottle up and Samar opened his mouth, welcoming the first gulp of water after what seemed like months. His throat worked thirstily. Samar kept going until the entire bottle was emptied. Then wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth.
Bolstered after the drink, Samar found a small smile to offer him — “I can’t even remember what happened this morning.”
“Happens.” He capped the bottle. “First posting?”
“Yes.”
“Armed Forces Medical College or Short Service Commission?” He sat down on one of the steps.
“Armed Forces Medical College, Delhi.”
“Where are you from?”
“Jammu.”
The man glanced up at him, and his face stretched into a smile. The scar on his cheek stretched with it, looking aged and baked into his skin. “I am from Srinagar.”
“Sir, what happened there…” Samar started. “I have done this before, I don’t know why I panicked.”
“Happens.” He set the empty bottle by his side, on the one outside of where Samar stood. And Samar found himself lowering beside him. It was after he had sat down that he noticed how just by placing the bottle on his outside, he had made him sit down.
“How is Amol?”
“Stable. We’ve contained the internal bleeding and performed emergency grafting over his abdomen.”
“The fucker will wake up flaunting it.”
“I don’t think so.” Samar huffed.
The man’s eyes rose.
“We’ve taken healthy skin from his thighs. If anything, he will be screaming for the next two months because those nerves are alive and the sites are a road rash.”
“You picked SFF or they saw your skill?”
