Hey, Mazda!” an orthopaedic onco-surgeon introduced himself to me as I was getting into my operation theatre scrubs in the surgical changing room. For the uninitiated, the surgical changing room is the sanctum sanctorum of any hospital, where all men (without exception) who are meek and silent at home, disrobe from their submissive domestic attire, and become loud and boisterous, adorning their superhero capes, getting ready to take on the egoistical world of saving lives. 

“You probably don’t remember me, but I operated on you around two decades ago,” he said to my surprise. The only operation I’ve ever had was to remove a benign (non-cancerous) tumour from a small bone in my left foot, I recollected. “I was part of that team,” he smiled, reminding me of how nervous I was getting an incision on my foot to now transform into someone who cuts people open every day. I was instantly reminded of the ordeal that I had wiped out from my memory. The surgical changing room is a great place to catch up on old times.