People came to him when the patient was on his last legs. Dr. Raman often burst out, "Why couldn't you have come a day earlier?" The reason was obvious - the visiting fee was twenty-five rupees, and more than that, people liked to shirk the fact that the time had come to call Dr. Raman: for them there was something ominous in the very association. As a result, when the big man came on the scene, it was always a quick decision one way or another. There was no scope or time for any kind of wavering or wholesaling.

Long years of practice had bred in the doctor a certain curt truthfulness; for that very reason, his opinion was valued; he was not a mere doctor expressing an opinion but a judge pronouncing a verdict. The patient's life hung on his words. This never unduly worried him. He never believed that agreeable words ever saved lives. He did not think it was any of his business to provide unnecessary hope when, as a matter of course, nature would tell them the truth in a few hours. However, when he glimpsed the faintest sign of hope, he rolled up his sleeve and stepped into the arena: it might be hours or days, but he never withdrew till he wrested the prize from the Yama's hands.

Today, the doctor felt that he himself needed someone to tell him soothing lies. He mopped his brow and sat down beside the bed where lay his dearest friend in the world.