Mr Mukherjee shakes his head impatiently. ‘No. What are you hoping to achieve at our hospital?’ He is a small, plump man with incongruously long and slender fingers. Surgeon’s hands. I wonder if this physiological advantage sits somewhere on the same DNA strand as the icy egotism most surgeons possess.

‘A different perspective on healthcare?’ I blurt out, feeling sweat blooming under my arms.

‘And your first impressions of our hospital suggest it will be very different from the NHS?’

It feels like a trick question. ‘I don’t like to judge anything on first impressions.’

‘Hmm.’ His eyebrows arch above his glasses. ‘We don’t need unqualified British students to save our patients’ lives.’ His accent has traces of Manchester vowels – I read his bio and he worked there for a decade before returning to India.

‘Of course not, I never—’

He talks over me. ‘And if you wanted the chance to live out your saviour fantasies, you should have gone somewhere a lot less developed.’

I almost want to tell him that I came here in an attempt to prove to my girlfriend that I am interesting and adventurous. ‘This isn’t poverty tourism. I promise that’s not why I’m here.’

‘That is something. Although I note that on your application, you don’t even have a specialty in mind yet.’

Should I invent an enthusiasm or vocation? My mind has gone blank. I cast around the room, looking for something I could latch on to: as my eyes race over the spines of the books on his shelf, I notice a desk calendar with the image of beaming schoolchildren playing on a beach.

He’s shaking his head. ‘It’s irrelevant anyway, Tim Palmer. The electives were organized by a colleague who left and the last thing I need is an underwhelming British medical student who can’t even string a—’

‘Public health!’ I blurt out. The desk calendar has been sponsored by the public health department.

Mr Mukherjee raises his eyebrows. ‘So you applied for a surgical elective in a teaching hospital because your interest lies in public health?’

‘It’s a recent development.’

He is about to call me out on the lie. As I wait to be put in my place, I wonder if it is a lie. Public health has barely been mentioned in my training, but isn’t it about analysis and logic?

‘This hospital is the wrong place for you, young man.’

I go to rise from my chair, wondering how I am going to tell Kerry we’ve flown halfway around the world to be told I’m not wanted.

‘But . . . I do have an idea. A former colleague has a project a little north of here, involving maternal and child health in rural areas. You might be able to do something useful.’ He sounds sceptical. ‘There is one caveat, however. How do you feel about working in a conflict zone?’