The dean declined. But he was laughing.

“From tomorrow,” Asthana said quietly, “you will teach a new elective. Bedside Manner and the Art of Hugging. Two credits.”

Two months later, Asthana collapsed in the middle of a lecture. Myocardial infarction. The senior doctors rushed. Machines beeped. Everyone panicked. The man who had memorized every nerve, every artery, was now a pale, sweating heap on the cold floor.

Asthana did something no one had ever seen. He smiled. A real, rusty, human smile.