Lessons Not Taught in Medical School

 There was a time when Dr John Abraham believed psychology was largely about listening carefully and then saying the right thing at exactly the right moment.

By then, he was already well known in Ernakulam, calm in manner, neatly dressed, soft-spoken, the kind of psychologist who never glanced at his watch while a patient spoke.

People trusted him instinctively. And if he were honest, he trusted his own judgment a little too much in those early years.

This story belongs to that phase of his life.

He told it to me one evening, years later, with a quiet smile, the kind people wear when they recall a mistake that shaped them gently but firmly.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Susan Fernandez walked into his clinic. Outside, the sea breeze from Marine Drive had begun to lose its patience, carrying with it the noise of buses, horns, and hurried footsteps.

Susan, however, carried herself with the discipline of someone used to order, early thirties, crisp saree, hair pulled back tightly, posture upright, expression polite but guarded.

“I work in a private bank,” she said, settling into the chair across from him.

Dr John nodded, making a mental note.

“You’re an officer in the bank?” he asked, mildly curious.

“No,” she replied. “I’m the secretary to the officer.”

She hesitated, then added, “Doctor… there’s a problem.”

Dr John leaned back slightly. Over the years, he had come to know the problems of secretaries well: long hours, blurred boundaries, and silent pressures.

“I know exactly what’s bothering you,” he said, with a reassuring smile.
“It’s a man, isn’t it?”

Susan gave a small, tired smile.
“Yes. Very much a man.”

“And what does he do that troubles you?” Dr John asked.

She took a deep breath, as though steadying herself.

“He insists on kissing me,” she said. “Every day. That too… in the office.”

Dr John stiffened, but only briefly.

“At the office?” he asked carefully.

“Yes.”

His expression hardened now.
“That’s completely unacceptable,” he said firmly. “You must refuse him. Be very clear. Very firm. Put your foot down. Never allow such things, especially in the workplace.”

He leaned forward and spoke in a lower, measured voice, as though these were things best said carefully.

“Keep conversations strictly professional,” he said. “No personal jokes, no private remarks. Sit where others can see you. If he comes too close, step back, physically. Sometimes distance speaks louder than words.”

He paused, then added, “And start noting things down. Dates. Places. What was said. You may never need it, but clarity protects you. If there are emails or messages, keep them. Don’t delete.”

Susan listened closely.

“If he persists,” Dr John continued, “redirect the interaction. Talk about work. About files. About deadlines. Let him understand that the office is not a place for emotions or familiarity.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing each point, as though committing them to memory.

“Alright, Doctor,” she said at last. “I’ll do that.”

She returned after a week.

Dr John recognised her the moment she walked in. She looked less confused now, more irritated, like someone whose patience had been tested.

“So,” he asked, “what happened?”

She adjusted her bag on her lap.
“Doctor, I am fed up. Now he insists on hugging me.”

John frowned.
“Hugging?”

“Yes,” she said, exasperated. “What should I do now, Doctor?”

He sighed.
“Then you must refuse that too. Don’t soften. Some men test boundaries to see how far they can go.”

Once again, he offered practical suggestions, professional distance, firm responses, and consistency.

Susan listened quietly.

“I see,” she said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

She came again after another week.

This time, she did not wait to be invited to speak.

She sat down heavily. Her eyes were red, her composure frayed.

Dr John leaned forward, concern replacing confidence.

“Tell me,” he said gently. “What is it now?”

Susan stared at the floor for a long moment before speaking.

“It’s terrible,” she said, her voice trembling.
“He wants a divorce.”

Dr. John blinked.

“A divorce?” he repeated.
“From whom?” he asked instinctively.

Susan looked up, surprised.
“From me, Doctor.”

The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable.

Dr John cleared his throat.

“Just to be clear,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care,
“This man who kisses you every day… is your, ?”

“Yes.”

“And the man who hugs you in the office?”

“Yes.”

“And the new officer?”

“Yes.”

Understanding arrived all at once.

Susan sighed softly.
“He was posted in the Kozhikode branch earlier,” she said. “He got transferred here just a week before. We thought working together would be easier.” She paused. “I only wanted to understand why he was behaving so differently.”

Dr John nodded, quietly absorbing the weight of what he had missed.

That evening, when he finished telling me this story, he laughed softly, not out of amusement, but humility.

“Since that day,” he said, “I stopped assuming I knew the story by the second sentence.”

Outside, Ernakulam moved on, buses, horns, restless life.

Inside that clinic, a psychologist learned the lasting value of asking just one more question.