By Alan Saldanha

Almost all the inmates in Ward No. 12 were of little means. I wasn't ... but found myself there anyway.

My friend's sister was the assistant professor of surgery at the Government Hospital and she promised to take care of me. It wouldn't cost me a thing, I was told. Even the ``modern" bread and powdered milk concoction they served for tea was courtesy of the government.

They prepped me for the surgeon's table as the barber wielded his razor with intermittent swipes at a coarse leather strip. He went about his job absent-mindedly as he cleaned up my lower torso without a trace of lather left behind. I didn't bother to look in the direction of my feet; I felt the feeling of a clean shave. Then he left without a tip; I had no coins on me anyway. All that was on my body was a ventilated loose gown ― the prelude to being wheeled into the operation theatre. That was to take place early next morning.

I lay on my bed at 5 o'clock in the afternoon and, for want of anything better to do, I tried to socialize. The young man with a bandage on his head in the brain surgery section of ward 12 waved out to me feebly.

Four years later I saw a likeness of his actions in that of another inmate in the movie ``One flew over the cuckoo's nest." His movements were protracted, but he knew how to smile. I nodded. A week later we were good friends.

The patient in the neighboring bed had had throat surgery. He was coming out of anesthesia and showed signs of life. Someone came to visit him. There were no nods, no smiles ― no words. Then he left to sit outside the ward. There was a likeness in their features and I guessed it was his brother.

The hours rolled by and I slept.

When I awoke there was only one bluish light in the ward that created shadows and silhouettes. And I could see my neighbor's mouth move. He was chewing at something. It took a few seconds to realize the implication: He was eating something soon after throat surgery.

``Good God!" I told myself. The man was going to die!

I sat up with a jerk and supported myself with my hands. I was angry, furious, enraged. I had no words for him. I could have told him off before he left for good. Then I took off and asked him, ``Why ... why ... why?"

His answer was to the point: ``Mannae bhook lagyoo Saar! Mannae bahoo bhook lagyoo!"

`` I was hungry, sir ... I was very hungry!"

The author is an Indo-Canadian freelance writer and was editor of ``Daywatch'' newspaper from 2006 to 2007. Now semi-retired at the age of 61, he lives in Surrey, British Columbia, Canada. He can be reached at alansdaywatch@gmail.com.