Cutting for Stone

by Abraham Verghese

Her father used to say, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”

“When a man is a mystery to himself you can hardly call him mysterious.”

“Dr. Stone. Your patient,” she said to the man who everyone believed to be my father, putting in his hands not only the life of a woman that he chose to love, but our two lives—mine and my brother’s—which he chose to hate.

Hema would always tell us that it was over the Gate of Tears that she had the awakening that would change her life. “I heard a call when I was in that plane. When I think back, I know it was you.” That rattling, airborne tin can always seemed an improbable place for her epiphany.

Wasn’t that the definition of home? Not where you are from, but where you are wanted?

When the abdomen is open you control it. But once you close it, it controls you.

Matron leaned her head on the windowpane. “God will judge us, Mr. Harris, by”—her voice broke as she thought of Sister Mary Joseph Praise—“by what we did to relieve the suffering of our fellow human beings. I don’t think God cares what doctrine we embrace.”

I asked Matron later if she thought that the death of her pups left scars on Koochooloo’s insides. Matron said she didn’t know, but she did know that Missing couldn’t afford to breed dogs, and three was the limit. And no, she didn’t think there was a separate dog heaven, and frankly she did not know God’s opinion on what was the right number of dogs for Missing, but He had given her some discretion on this matter and that was not something she wanted to debate with me.

In a land of beautiful people, she would be most beautiful and exotic. Men—I knew this before I should have known—would perceive her disdain and would want her. I would want her most of all. She’d put up obstacles. I might never be as strong for her or as close to her as I was this night. Despite this knowledge, I’d keep trying.

You’ll find a woman who loves you, and you’ll explain it to her. If she loves you for yourself, you’ll both be glad that you are alive.”

LIFE IS FULL OF SIGNS. The trick is to know how to read them. Ghosh called this heuristics, a method for solving a problem for which no formula exists.

“Death is the cure of all disease, isn’t it?

“You see, young Dr. Marion, that’s what makes us human. We always want more.”

“What I do is simple. I repair holes,” said Shiva Praise Stone. Yes, but you make them, too, Shiva.

They were displaced people, just like us, and they understood all too well these kinds of reunions, these moments when a piece of your old house comes floating by in the river.

The world turns on our every action, and our every omission, whether we know it or not.