The man across the table fixed me with his gimlet eyes.  I thought he was boring into my very soul, and enjoying every minute of my discomfiture. I shivered in my thin grey coat, and pulled it closer around me. “Thank God I didn’t take it off,” I thought. I felt like a mole receding into its burrow. “Dear God! I can’t stand it any longer.  I feel like making a dash for the door.”        I was being interviewed for a Senior House Officer’s job.  The man hardly asked any questions.  With his finely shaped hand, he caressed his beard and continued to stare at me.  Now I could recognise the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.  He was enjoying every moment of it. “Those white blotches in his beard,” I thought, “How very becoming!  Like a little boy who’s spilled porridge down his chin!  If only he wouldn’t stare!” “You’ll do,” he said at last, “Can you start work tomorrow?”        I was an Indian doctor who had come to England for my post-graduation.  But I wasn’t as young as the other housemen.  I had taken a few years off from professional life, to become a wife and mother.  But premature widowhood had returned me to the fold.  England was new and strange, and there was much I had to learn.        I realised that the Boss wasn’t a popular figure at the hospital.  Housemen trembled at his footfall and nurses scuttled away.  His temper tantrums were the talk of the Unit. “A very difficult man!” they said, “Stay clear.”        I fell to watching him closely - this demon who put the fear of God into those around him!  Even the patients stood in awe of him. “If he weren’t such a good surgeon we’d go elsewhere,” they said.  “Why, the man isn’t human at all.  He has no feelings.”        I was his houseman, and had no other choice but to spend many hours in close proximity with him.  I stayed silent most of the time, and spoke only when addressed.  In his presence I felt clumsy and completely inadequate.        One day while assisting him at an operation, I couldn’t do anything right.  I dropped the instruments, cut the wrong ties, and obstructed rather than helped.  He was furious and muttered under his breath, which didn’t help much, especially since the eyes of the entire staff were on me.  Tears trickled down and seeped through my mask. “You may leave the theatre,” he said. The humiliation of his dismissal cut through me like a knife. “Don’t stand for his nonsense,” someone said. “He’s a bully and needs to be told off.”        Later in the day, I was summoned to his office. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he said.  “But there’s a limit to what I can take.  Stop treating me as though I were an ogre.  Perhaps then I can teach you something.  Isn’t that what you are here for?” “I don’t think I’m good enough to assist you,” I said, “I better try elsewhere.” “Coward,” he yelled, “What were you expecting?  Some molly-coddling?” “I’ll leave at the end of the week.” “I won’t give you a good reference,” he threatened, his moustache twitching angrily. “Then I’ll just have to pack up and go home,” I said, tears rushing to my eyes.        I had been worked off my feet without much rest or sleep.  And his yelling really unnerved me.  I had no intention of leaving.  There was no guarantee that it would be better elsewhere.  Besides, he was an excellent teacher.  But I would have to find a way to douse his fiery temper.        The change in our relationship was very gradual.  There were no confidences exchanged and no intimacies shared.  Life for some reason began to feel different.  I stopped trembling and quaking in his presence.  Difficulties were sensibly discussed.  He changed into a kind and patient teacher and I was quick to learn.  Neither was he as tight-lipped or distant as he used to be.        During our coffee breaks we discussed subjects ranging from Medicine to Politics, Music to Religion.  We agreed on many things but differed on quite a few.  At times our discussions sounded more like quarrels. Onlookers watched with bated breath. “Don’t push your luck too far, girl” they said.  “One day he’ll turn around and chew off your head.” “He seems to like you,” others said.  “I guess it’s because you aren’t afraid of him any more and don’t hesitate to air your opinions.” “He’s always singing your praises when you’re not around.” some said.        One day, he invited me home to meet his family.  His wife was a local politician - a sturdy, handsome woman who wouldn’t let the poor man get a word in edgewise.  I got the distinct feeling that it was she who wore the pants at home.  Their three teenage children were as timid as their father. “I get the message boy,” I thought, as he drove me back.  “There’s going to be no nonsense between us.”        But that was not what he wanted to convey.  Because he was so hen-pecked at home, the only way he could preserve his self-esteem, was to pretend to be a bully to the rest of the world.        I also surmised that he had back-slidden from his faith and had become an agnostic.  He was impressed by my simple uncomplicated faith in God, and wanted to re-capture what he had lost.        We spent many evenings together - musical concerts, movies, and sometimes church. Sometimes we just sat together in companionable silence. “What a dull, boring preoccupation for a pair of grown-ups,” one may say. But these interludes were psychologically therapeutic. He gave me the self-confidence I needed, and by talking about his own problems, he drew me close to his heart.        We never realised how time flew.  Three years sped in no time at all.  Each new day had brought with it a new kind of happiness.  Our feelings were communicated non-verbally - a touching without actually touching, a glance, a word, a smile that indicated  “I love you for no reason at all - absolutely unconditional.” “What have you done to the guy?” my friends asked.  “He seems to have mellowed.  Why, he even smiles these days.”        My days in England were over all too soon.  We said our “Good-Byes” in a crowded dance hall on Christmas Eve.  It was easier this way.  Somewhere among those faces was his wife.  Perhaps she was glaring angrily at us.  But we were oblivious of anyone but ourselves. “I never realised how little you are,” he said, “You barely reach up to my shoulders” His gentle hands caressed the small of my back, as he drew me closer. “It hurts so much to let you go.  You gave me what I hankered for. A friend’s esteem and understanding!” His lips brushed my tear-filled eyes “Thank you too,” I said, laying my head on his chest, “And now I need high courage to press on....” *