The stranger who fell at my feet when I opened the door of my hostel room door that summer couldn't have imagined how lucky he was. He couldn't have known of all the things that had to have fallen in place for his request to be met. He couldn't have known that I was one of only ten students staying back that summer vacation in a hostel that could accommodate 180. He couldn't have known that I understood and spoke his language, Hindi, even though I was in Tamil Nadu. That my only task every day was to prepare for the GRE, and thus I had lots of spare time. Most importantly, he couldn't have known that just a few months earlier a stray dog had bitten me and that fact was somehow very relevant to his request being met.
But let me back up just a little bit. One of the sayings that my mother would spring on us kids from time to time was Everything happens for the good. I never bought into that philosophy, seeing it only as an overly simplistic view created to conveniently escape facing up to reality. I saw on TV and read about too many bad things happening which couldn't be explained away with her credo.
In the years that I attended college in Madras, my parents were living in Bombay. My summer and winter vacations, I spent in my parents' place. On the last day of my winter vacation in my second year, in Bombay, I went out of the house in the evening to make a few last minute purchases. I had a train to catch that night to get back to Madras. We lived in Ballard Estate, a commercial area that was bustling during the day but became desolate after work-hours. I was walking on the curb in a side road when I heard some dogs barking ahead of me. I crossed the road to avoid passing the street dogs. From across the street, one dog came barking and rushing at me. I stood paralyzed and when the dog was very close, I turned around in fear. I felt the dog's teeth on my calf before it ran away. I looked down and there was plenty of dog saliva on my pant leg. I hurried back home and went into the bathroom to assess the damage. When I rolled up the pant leg and inspected my calf, I saw that the area was red but it didn't look like the skin had been torn. There was no visible blood.
I agonized over whether I should tell my parents, stay back, get treated first and depart another day. My classes were starting in two days and I hated the idea of joining late and catching up. Also, I didn't want to miss the excitement that accompanies every semester's beginning. Train reservations weren't easy to come by during school breaks and I held a confirmed berth for that night. Prudence dictated that I should stay back in Bombay and get treated first. However, I chose not to alarm my parents by mentioning the dog and cause them any anxiety. That night, I boarded the Madras Mail and headed out.
The train takes 30 hours to make the journey, and so I was in the train the whole of the next day. I examined my calf area repeatedly and took comfort in the fact that it was not getting worse. The following morning, after I reached Madras and got to my hostel, I noticed in the bite area one small line - an archipelago of dark red dots - the kind we get two days after we scratch ourselves bad. The dog had nicked my skin after all.
That evening in Madras, I met up with some of my high school friends - my ex-classmates from KVCLRI. We were attending different colleges in various cities but a couple of years earlier we had all gone to school together. The end of summer meant that these were the last few days for us to hang out together before we went back to our respective colleges. Sometime that evening, I mentioned the dog incident to them. One guy in particular was shocked that I had not gotten it looked at. He spoke knowledgeably of the effects of rabies, painting a scary picture of unquenchable thirst and uncontrollable drool, and absolutely insisted that I go see a doctor right away.
Worried, I cycled back to IIT, and headed straight for the campus hospital. The doctor there scolded me for not coming in right away. He told me that he couldn't ascertain for sure whether or not the dog bite posed any danger. As a precautionary measure, he prescribed seven injections for me to get around my navel starting the very next morning. He prepared and handed me the papers necessary for me to go to a government-run hospital in Royapettah, a suburb a few kilometers away from campus.
The trouble was my absolute and morbid fear of injections. 
Years earlier, an inept nurse had poked and poked my forearm raw in search of an elusive vein. Since then, for well over a decade, I had managed to dodge getting any injections. I detested the very idea of something piercing my skin. I spent that night agonizing over the impending ordeal.
Early the next morning I got up before almost anyone else in my hostel, skipped breakfast, pedaled my bicycle to the gate, and took a PTC bus to the Government hospital in Royapettah. There was a strong smell of Dettol everywhere. I located the specified ward and was surprised to find over a dozen other dog-bite victims there. Sitting in the waiting room for my first shot of injection in the navel, I was reminded of my mother's aphorism - everything happens for the good. I was bitter about the whole dog-bite ordeal. I couldn't see any good whatsoever in getting bitten by a street dog, especially when I had meant it no harm whatsoever. I tucked this away as one more example of how wrong the everything-is-for-the-good sentiment was.
Eventually, I was called into the injection room, told to lie down and bare my navel. Instead of the small, cigarette-sized syringe that I had pictured, the nurse pulled out a huge one that looked more suited for decorating cakes with piping. I learned the hard way that the injection for dog-bites is of industry-strength. I lay down clenching my stomach in fear, closed my eyes and somehow got through the first one.
Every day for the rest of that week, I missed my 8.00-8.50 a.m. class. While my classmates and professors thought that I was bunking class by sleeping in late, I was actually sitting in a waiting room in the hospital along with a few other strangers. We were a disparate group, and the only thing common to all of us was that some crazy dog somewhere had bitten each one of us in the recent past. Like regular commuters of the same local train, we began to recognize and nod at one another. There is a certain unspoken camaraderie that blossoms in any regular meeting. But I knew that this would last only for a short period of time. People who had completed their allotted quota of injections stopped showing up. When I was done with my seventh injection, I was elated that I could abandon this laborious trip to the hospital.
I didn't mention the bite or the injections to any of my IIT classmates (or hostel-mates) and soon enough the incident vanished from my mind.
That summer, I stayed back in Madras for a few days to study and give my Graduate Record Examinations (GRE) before going home to Bombay. One morning, there was a knock on my door and when I opened, a man in his fifties fell at my feet. He told me that his young daughter had a rare disease and he begged me to donate blood, which he claimed would save her. My blood type happened to be the one he wanted: A+. I was not yet fully awake, and impulsively I agreed to the man's request.
The man came around the next morning to pick me up. The blood must have been worth a lot to him, for he'd arranged for an expensive taxicab ride from my hostel to a hospital that was quite far away, in Avadi. All around the hospital there were small clusters of people waiting. Inside, there was a strong antiseptic smell. For the first time in my life, I was donating blood. I did flinch when the needle was inserted into my arm, but compared to the dog-bite injections this wasn't at all painful.
Lying there, in the hospital bed while my blood was being drawn, I was forced to acknowledge that something good had indeed come out of that stupid dog bite. It had helped me overcome my mortal fear of injections. The man's daughter was hopefully going to benefit and get better. At least in this instance, my mother's everything-happens-for-the-good motto had been correct.
When I walked out of the hospital, the man was waiting near the taxi. He had herded his whole family over to thank me. I saw the shy, wisp of a girl, a few years younger than me, who would be getting the blood. I sat in the taxi for my ride back, and the family waved goodbye to me. The man seemed delirious with gratefulness and through the taxi window he pressed a wad of money into my hand. There were several fifty rupee notes in there. Obviously, I couldn't accept the money, which I didn't really need. I handed the money back to him. I understood his desire to express his gratitude, but I wanted to cling on to the feeling of righteousness that comes from doing good for goodness' sake.
I never mentioned the dog bite incident to my mother. But I made up mind that the next time I heard her saying "everything happened for the good," I would surprise her by agreeing instead of refuting her as I always did. Funnily enough, I have been waiting for years and in all this time she has never ever said that again.
Ram Prasad
February 2003