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—visting fee twenty-fine rupees, and more than that, people liked to shirk the fact that the time had come to call in Dr. Raman; for them there was something ominous in the very . As a result, when the big man came on the scene it was always a quik decision one way or another. There was no scope or time for any kind of wavering or whitewashing. Long years of practice of this kind 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 Dr. Raman. He never believed that agreeable words ever saved lives. He did think it was any of his business to provide comforting lies when as a matter of course nature would tell them truth in a few hours. However, when he glimpsed stepped into 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 yama’s hands. Today, standing over a bed, the doctor felt that he himself needed someone to tell him soothing lies. He mopped his brow with his kerchief and sat down in the chair beside the bed. On the bed lay his dearest friend in the world: Gopal. They had known each other forty years now, starting with their kindergatten days. They could not, of course, meet as much as they wanted, each being wrapped in his own family and profession. Occasionally, on a Sunday, Gopal would walk into the consulting room and wait patiently in a corner till the doctor was free. And then they would dine together, see a picture and talk of each other’s life and activities. It was a classic friendship which endured untouched changing times, circumstances and activities.