A SAD PATIENT.

Doctor !! Doctor !! "Please don't give me an injection".
It was a loud wail which resonated and reverberated in my consulting room every month when the young boy named Nimesh used to come for his monthly androgen shots. My able bodied ward boys along with myself used to hold him and the nurse would jab him on his plump buttocks. The cries would shatter our window panes. After the jab, he would still cry for a couple of minutes outside the room. The crowd of outdoor patients would sympathise with the poor boy, some offering him chocolates.
Nimesh weighed over a ton despite only being 17 years old. His ears were shaped like a wrestler and slightly deformed since birth but not too evident. His acoustic acuity was hampered since birth, hence his conversations were very loud. His cries too, were amplified. He was a mentally retarded child as a result of hypoxic birth injury. He went to a special school and did pretty well out there. although his body was like that of an adult, his mind was like the one of a small baby. He had a huge head with crew cut hair with big bead like eyes. But, He was a cute boy. Consistently he had removed various hearing aids from his ears, pleading ear ache and tinnitus. He was a fidgety kid who played around with whatever object he could lay hands on. My torch and the stethoscope were also not spared by him.
He used to be accompanied all the time by an ageing frail lady whom he used to call Ammi. I was perplexed by the tremendous age gap between the two and one day I asked Ammi about it all.
Ammi told me that she was the maternal granny of Nimesh. His parents had left him with her when he was just a year old. They had simply given up on him and deserted him as they did not want an abnormal baby. They moved out of town, had a healthy child, a couple of years later. Soon, his mother too stopped enquiring about Nimesh. Such depravity was unbelievable and shocking. I silently muttered the choicest abuses for such parents. Their act was shameful and unpardonable. The poor Ammi had no choice but to rear Nimesh as her own son. Life moved on monthly pension.
It was a sad tale.
I look at his sad face.
He does not know the whereabouts about his evil parents.
One day, I asked him about them.
He laughed out loudly without a care in the world, ignoring the uncomfortable question. He believed Ammi to be his sole parent.
Ammi would go one day, Who would take care of him?
God alone knows.
I cried silently and prayed for him.
I hope, it works.
I ring the call bell and usher in the next patient.

DISTRICT 9.

It was the dark era of the late 70s. The clouds of recession were hovering around the small sleepy town. People had no real big money then.

Gandhi Nagar was a hutment colony which was overlooked by our buildings in childhood. You could see the steel grey rusty aluminium sheets and brown asbestos tiles in uniformity shading the poor population. God had hand picked all the unwanted beings in our town and placed them there. It was a place, shunned by all the higher strata of our small town. Yet, everybody had to encounter them as the main road ran through the colony.

The long queue of unshaven guys standing patiently with plastic tumblers in their hands and a small beedi in their slender fingers dominated the morning scene. The impatient kids used the road freely,often sitting in rows like school children, littering and desanitising our town. It was not a pleasant sight. The poor ladies had timed their bowels for the afternoon sessions when they would chat with black tobacco powder in their mouths.

Brawls were frequent and vociferous. Gandhi Nagar was a loud place. Water queues elicited the most decibels where the ladies would fight tooth and nail to gain vantage in the queue. Hair tearing and choicest abuses never escaped our attention. They used to fight for no reason whatsoever. They had nothing else to do. Evenings used to see the return of the frustrated drunken husbands who would vent their fury out on the hapless wives. Shrieks and Wailing cries dominated our otherwise quiet evenings. One day a drunkard was set alight with kerosene by his rebellious wife. She walked tall in the colony since then.

During marriages and naming ceremonies, The noise levels used to cross our tolerance threshold. Huge loud speakers blared out unheard of songs. We would shut all our windows tight. The revellers were hardly bothered and continued their celebrations. Even the police had given up, on this colony a long time back. They pleaded helplessness. The people were beyond salvage. They did not want to taint their hands or displease the local politician who fed on this vote bank.

Salma was a half mad girl who roamed our streets in tattered clothes collecting rags, paper and plastic bags in our civic town. She stayed in the hutment colony. One day she got pregnant and was beaten black and blue by her livid parents. We did not see her for few months.

The big well was located on the outskirts of our town. It was unused but people used to immerse the used flowers and garlands over there.One day, we saw a small still born baby floating in the well. The identity was never pursued but everyone kept quiet. Salma emerged from her home bound incarceration and merrily began her scavenging work. Such was Gandhi Nagar.

It was a DISTRICT 9 of our times. The socially out casted unwanted people made a haven over there. They lived their own independent anarchic life. The Mother Ship had abandoned them, right since birth. They were stuck in this mess and only ever wished to come out.

Last year, I went to see to my old town and was pleasantly surprised to see the new redeveloped Gandhi Nagar. The hutments were demolished and all the dwellers were accommodated in self contained rooms. The times had changed. Each house boasted of cable TV, fridge and a colour TV set. The entire look of the population had changed, for the better. Each and everyone had a job. The Gandhi Nagar looked so quiet and dignified that day. I had gone to visit my old ailing maid, was warmly greeted by her school going grand children.

I walked down from the building in a happy state.

I saw Salma, she was no longer half mad,

She had become fully insane like us.

She in her grey matted hair and an arching back continued her scavenging work.

The Mother Ship had conveniently left her all alone.

FUNKY TOWN- NOSTALGIA.

We all have music in our blood, it pulsates in every beat of our dull dreary lives.
It was a rainy afternoon in late 70s when we saw my dad come home with a khaki coloured box in his hand, 2 people were accompanying him with even larger boxes on their shoulders. We were eagerly awaiting this day.
Our new Philips LP stereo player had arrived in a grand style. The HiQ wooden speakers were mounted on the shelves in the top corners of our hall. The customary pooja was done and an aarti was played to inaugurate the system. Later, Our dad put on a song 'FunkyTown', which was a big raging disco song in our time. We swayed to the hypnotic beats and our neighbour's kids too joined the frenzy. We were all dancing without any care in our small world. This song would be played whenever we had party guests in our house.
This song became an anthem of our childhood. We never understood the lyrics, but it never mattered to us. The music and the rhythmic beats propelled us to dance, unabashed. We as kids would play at full volume and stand at our balcony proudly to observe the reactions of the neighbours of our small building. Special attention was directed at the cute, same aged girls who would giggle at us. We would blush, then.
Sometimes, Our dad, if in high spirits, used to shake a leg or two in his own inimitable style with striped pyjama shorts. Life was fun then.
My dad was attached to this LP player and used to take good care of it. The LP records were regularly cleaned by him.We never dared to open his records cabinet.
As time passed, Audio tapes and CDs made entry in our lives and LP records started dying a slow painful death. The music also changed and the melody just disappeared from the scene.
The youth embraced this shift but our elders sensibly stayed away from this new music. They labelled it as cacophony of destruction. Our non playing, now defunct LP player was eventually sold off to a scrap dealer. My dad was a sad man, that day.
My brother's family had recently flown in from the States. We had a feast that night and we were in pretty high spirits. My new Wharfedale music system had just arrived from UK, it came in a mid sized van. The speakers were as high as my 4 feet daughter. It was manna for the ears. A 7.1 surround Dolby system. It had all the works. The installation itself, had taken half a day ! There was the CD player,Woofer,Speakers, Amplifier and a big network of wires running around the system. My dad was keenly observing the whole set up. As we played the music,he silently observed us dancing merrily. He was reluctant to join us. Age was catching up on him.
My brother had a small surprise for my dad.
He took out a CD from his bag and played it on the system.
'FunkyTown' started emanating from the speakers in all directions of our house. The song was lapped up by our daughters and my small son, they just loved the beats and rhythm. My dad got up from his chair and joined his grand children to have a blast. The kids were happy to see their grand dad dance.
I stood staring outside my balcony, as I used to do before, in my childhood.
I was fighting hard to suppress my tears.

SANTA CLAUS AND TOOTH FAIRIES.

The Christmas tree was being decorated with bells and shiny silver trinkets by Chaitra last year. She was all excited and overfull with happiness. It was after all a Merry Christmas. She adored the cake brought by us. She planned to decorate it with Gems and Nutties of different colours and shapes. She was eagerly awaiting the stocking filled with goodies, so we thought.
As every year, I went to the mall to buy the stockings and started to fill it with the goodies,one by one. The latest Disney movie DVD, an oft listened carol audio CD, a red Santa cap, soft toys and chocolates usually filled up the stocking. A cartoon t shirt would squeeze in too. I would secure the stocking with a ribbon and keep it in the boot of my car.
In the night time, I would slowly tip toe out of my bed and rush to my car. I used to tie the stockings to my balcony grill and early morning Chaitra would wake up and rush to the balcony to grab hold of the goodies. Her sleepy eyes used to open wide with amazement and she would proudly show us all the goodies. "Mummy! Papa! " I have been a good girl this year, hence Santa has blessed us with the goodies.
I was the usual story teller and used to tell her about sighting the Santa with Rudolph the red nosed rein deer, galloping and flying the sled up in the skies. He could not meet us as he was in a hurry as he had to deliver goodies to all the good children in this world. Chaitra generally used to be content with this version of mine. Her friends used to come in the evening and dance to Christmas carols in the fun filled merry evening.
Last year, she unenthusiastically woke up from her slumber and slowly went to the balcony grill to retrieve the stockings which we had filled so lovingly on the eve. She opened up all the gifts and we were shocked to see the lack of happiness on her face.
Something was wrong this year. We were indeed worried.
We asked her the reason for sad non reactive demeanour. She just shrugged her shoulders and slept off again.
Later in the evening, She told us, " Santa is a myth and does not exist" !! Why you fooled me all these years?
She further justified her reasoning by showing the mall labels and price tags on the goodies.
Realisation dawned on us.
Our daughter had grown up. We could not fool her any longer.
Our spinning fairy tales' session with her listening with attentive ears and amazed eyes would end soon.
We had a relatively quiet dinner that day.
She lost her last milk tooth the next day,
We did not dare to keep it under the pillow in the night as we used to do in the past.
We missed our 'Tooth Fairy' world.
This Christmas, You won't see the goodie filled stocking, hanging at my home.
Next Year, I went with Chaitra to the mall to fill up the stockings with the goodies. My 2 year old son, Prithvy would wake up next morning.
Our fairy tale world had begun again.

IRON MAN.

The breathless patient was wheeled into the ICU under my care in our town's super speciality hospital. He was a portly, semi bald man in his late sixties. He was diagnosed with Fluid Overload syndrome due to Chronic Renal failure and Heart failure. After instituting the necessary treatment, he started improving in a couple of days. However on the fourth day, he acutely became breathless and eventually started gasping for breath only to stop breathing. The Blood Pressure started dropping and alarm bells on the monitors started ringing in a frantic urgent manner.It was a CODE BLUE alarm! The entire ICU staff mobilised around the patient and made efforts to revive him. I intubated the patient and put him on a ventilator. An immediate bed side dialysis was started along with various tubes inserted in the body for monitoring and administering life saving medicines. It looked like a war zone out there with me marshaling all the forces around this critical patient. The nurses and the junior doctors were all running helter skelter under my command. Eventually after an hour of resuscitative efforts, The patient showed some signs of improvement and stability.

The next equally important part was to appraise and counsel the immediate relatives about the grim condition of the patient.

I went to the waiting side room where a group of relatives was silently praying with anxious sallow look in their eyes. As I entered the room, I immediately hugged my mother and burst into tears. The critical patient was my Father and I could not bear to see his suffering. I am a very calm and composed person when I deal with such critical cases and my counsel always allays the fear of the relatives of the patient. But,this time I did not say a single word and just burst out crying. Seeing me in such a state depressed my relatives and they too joined the crying. I understood the pain the relatives go through when their patient is critical, but was not ready to experience the same. Later in the evening, my brother flew in from the states and hugged me and cried. In the night time, however my father had regained consciousness and achieved stability,much to our relief.

My father is called the "Iron Man" by us in view of his disciplinarian approach and military strict demeanour. The advent of grand children in his life has softened him now. He lives for them, so he says.

The grand kids always playfully roam like proud and fearless tiger cubs in front of the tiger, we still behave like meek lambs in front of him.

The Iron Man however fought all his demons in the ICU and walked back home the next week. My daughter Chaitra and son Prithvy were all agog with excitement to see him after a 10 day period. They just leapt over him, hugging,caressing and kissing him. The now softened Iron Man too cried in joy.

All the time, My dad was sure that I would make him alright, his eyes told me that. I was his guardian angel in the ICU and made sure of an early and uneventful recovery.

The "Iron Man" may be rusty now with age and one fine day will eventually crumble. Death is an inevitable part of life. I, as a doctor very well know that and so does he.

Till then, my kids say, Long Live The Iron Man !

TOLERANCE.

A few months back Chaitra came back from her school with swollen eyes, She looked depressed that day. I asked her the reason for her sullen face. She hesitatingly showed me her forearm. I was shocked and tears welled up in my eyes. You could see the whole dental imprints of a rogue child in my daughter's forearm. A classmate had bitten her. The fang marks were angry red and gave her considerable pain, Yet she suppressed it. We immediately took her to a pediatrician and gave her tetanus shot along with an antibiotic dressing.
The bite was unprovoked and my poor child had to face the brunt. She remained stoic and bore the pain. She did not complain to the teacher or the bus attendant. We were amazed at her tolerance. She did not even entertain the thought of retaliation also.
We were Maratha Warriors by caste and her lack of reaction took us by surprise.
I normally retaliate with my venomous tongue if anyone tries to get smart with me or hurts me. My friends and relatives are scared of my verbal lashings. They never dare to cross my paths in view of fear. My wife also reacts accordingly. Nobody can take us for granted.
Why my daughter did not hit back was the question persistently troubling our minds.
I mustered courage to ask her the reason.
She plainly said that she could not hurt anyone.
She also asked me a question,
Papa, Why do people hurt other people this way?
I had no answer to her query.
The entire world is strewn with hurt people, battered wives and children. War torn nations with their daily list of casualties. Terrorist attacks on the innocent civilians.
Collateral Damages.
Do we have answers?
I do not want my daughter to be so tolerant and a meek lamb like person.
Do you?
I want her to hit back. I want the repressed classes to retaliate and lead a revolution.
It's only a wish.

HAPPY DIWALI.

When travelling along the central track by train, you can see the green mountains on one side and the creek on the other side with the salt pans. In the rains, small waterfalls emerge from the crevices of the green mountains. During summers, the mountains appear brown and dusty. But the sight to behold is during the festival of lights-Diwali ! The hutments along the slopes of the mountains are decorated with the colourful lanterns which look so beautiful from a distance.
As if God has planted neon lights on the hills. This sight lasts for a few days. Then, the whole mountain looks dull all over again like the lives of the poor resident people eking out a humble existence. Getting water from the base is a herculean task, leave aside provisions or medical facilities. The old people pant their way to reach their homes. They get fresh air though, free of cost. This air infuses their troubled lives with hope. They come daily to the city, hunting for work with dreams in their misty eyes. Diwali is a festival of hopes after all.
This Diwali, the municipal officials razed the mountains for a sprawling residential commercial complex. They used dynamites to blow up the whole mountain. A booming Diwali for the poor, soon to be homeless folks.

The rich kids were celebrating Diwali as if there was no tommorrow. A long garland of red coloured crackers was bursting and was making the kids jump all around in joy and cackling laughter. Some kids were watching from a distance. As soon as the revelry was over, The watching kids slowly and stealthily advanced to the site of the burst crackers.
A few crackers were unburst with their fuses intact. They were slowly scavenged by the kids. A plastic bag was used to fill it with the unlit crackers.Their Diwali started on the streets, albeit a little late in the night. They were happy with the left overs.
After all, Diwali was a festival of giving and sharing.

It was an institute for the young unfortunate population in our small town. They used to impart vocational skills to them. This Diwali, they made lanterns for the whole town. They were in all shapes and sizes, delicately crafted by the nimble sensitive fingers. Some were fluoroscent in colour, screaming for attention. One by one, all the lanterns were lapped up by our small town folks. The young people who made the lanterns were happy to earn a small side income for the festive season.
They, however could not understand the meaning and significance of these colourful lanterns. These industrious people had never seen light, all their lives. Diwali was a festival of sounds for them. Their sights had been cruelly snatched by the almighty, a long time ago.
Their white canes with a ringing bell slowly led them to their lantern lit homes.

JOHN JOHNY JANARDHAN.

JOHN

John came to me that day, in rigors and covered with a blanket to keep him warm. He was suffering from Malaria and after his treatment told me about his strange job. He was employed by the 5 star hotel in our small town. It was a matter of pride for his family. He had been given a small yellow racket in his hand to electrocute the mosquitoes and flies swarming in the posh lobby. He had to protect the dignified guests against such pesky pests so common in our small town. It was an odd job but met his ends. The crackling sound of a trapped mosquito in the electric mesh of the racket was accompanied by a hint of burning smell. In his small shanty when he was about to sleep, a hovering mosquito, which would soon give him Malaria did not bother him. He had killed many with his racket today , was tired and he dozed off.

JOHNY

Johny was a frail looking man in his early thirties. He used to work as a Mickey Mouse in birthday parties held in the party hall of our small town. All the children used to be happy seeing him but used to pester him through out the party. He used to dread them a lot. They used to playfully punch him, pull his tail and ears. The heavy suffocating mickey suit used to slow his waddling gait as he used to run away from the kids. The parents used to laugh at this sight and used to clap. Near the end, Mickey used to pose with the kids for photographs. One day, he accidentally brushed a lady while walking in view of his huge suit. It was unintentional. The parents in an umbrage beat him up. He hides his sad face beneath the smiling Mickey Mouse.

JANARDHAN.

Janardhan came to me with the complaint of loss of appetite. He was a traffic constable in our small town. On eliciting a detailed history, I realised his sorry state and arrived at the diagnosis. The traffic department had run out of breathalysers and he was employed to sniff the drivers of the cars for alcohol. Along with alcohol, he used to encounter the smells of garlic,onions and decayed teeth of the paan chewing population. No wonder, he looked at his food with revulsion. Pretty soon, a fresh kit of breathalysers arrived and Janardhan started to gain weight.

These people worked for their empty bellies. They never felt humiliated about their jobs.They could not afford to think that way. They had no other option in their lives.

SUNBURN-ROSEWATER.

She lay on the recliner chair at the sun deck with a small stringy piece of cloth to cover her modesty. The cloth left nothing for imagination as it resembled a small fig leaf. She was topless for the entire world to see. A pair of oval shades protected her eyes and probably, her identity.
Her tanned shapely body was drawing crowds to the beach shack. Voyeurs would laze around ordering beers and snacks, the shack owner would happily oblige with a grin on his pock marked face. Some would shoot her with their cameras on the sly and proudly show the images, back home. As the Sun set, the revellers would slowly depart and the owner would start stacking the recliner chairs to head back home.
Business had been good this summer.
He would buy a new home for his family.
I saw the same lady on a couple of occasions at the same beach shack and curiosity got the better of me. I decided to wait till the Sunset. I was eager to know her identity.
As the shack owner left for home, a lady, totally covered from head to toe in a dreary black orthodox dress emerged from the shack and joined him in his sojourn homewards.
The oval shades were still on her eyes.
She was the same mysterious lady. Nobody could otherwise recognise her. I waited, hence could identify her.
The owner rubbed soothing rose water on his wife's sunburnt body that night.
She never took her shades off,
She never wanted to.
She dreamt in the dark shades, The bright Sun gave her nightmares.

THE TERMINAL-THE PADDY FIELDS.

I saw them huddled in a closed semi circle at the terminal.

They looked so confused and lost. They were wearing traditional South Indian clothes, crisply starched white and carrying a small cloth bag with them. Probably, they did not have much weight to carry. They were being marshaled by an over enthusiastic airport security guy who was making the most of the opportunity to show his authority to these poor folks. Normally, he was tired of the snubbing he received at the hands of the high fliers through out the year. He bossed over the motley group and eventually guided them to their boarding gate. The relieved group was seen falling at his feet and profusely thanking him. His deflated chest swelled with pride. The group had never seen an air port leave aside a plane. Their children would run out from their thatched houses if a chance plane hovered over their native town.

All the lights in the air port could not match the sparkle of hope in their sallow eyes.

The hopes of the group,after take-off were soaring in the sky along with the plane. Each one felt on top of the world. They did not want to be awakened from this pleasant state.

Out of fear and anxiety, they did not even ask for water or the directions of the toilet to the accented flight attendants who anyway ignored the entire group snobbishly. The group had got used to such behavior by this time and quietly awaited their destination with parched lips and full bladders in the cold plane. The snobbish flight attendants were people like them who awaited their turns daily at the common toilet of their small decrepit chawls. Once, inside the plane, they forgot their ordinary life and pretended to be the all conquering angels in the sky. It was a make believe cosmetic world after all.

The group got down and were taken to the construction site in the Gulf region. They would work all day in the cruel Sun hardly complaining to their equally tyrant bosses. They felt light headed at times under the Sun but no one ever complained. The lure of the money to be sent back home kept them going.

The monthly cheque would be received by their smiling wives with moist eyes.

The tears of the home sick migrant workers had long,dried up in the hot Sun.

Someday, they would return back to their native towns into the arms of their loved ones with their tanned bodies and sleep in the shady coconut groves.

They would never leave their home town, ever again.

They hated the Sun.

The paddy fields looked green after a long time.

NAIL-POLISH. BLUE EYES.

I work at a cosmetic store at the airport terminal. I cater to the high flying ladies, helping them to buy the stuff to look more beautiful. I recommend the shades of nail colour, lip stick and other materials to enhance the beauty. We stock international designer brands for the elite class of the society. Our prices are double the usual to compensate for the steep rent at the terminal. People in a rush to catch their connecting flights hardly look at the prices and actually smile pleasantly while paying our bills. We also are happy to deal with such non fussy customers.

She looked lost and lonely in the huge terminal, her blue eyes were beautiful and expressive. You could never forget them. Her face was a milky smooth runway where our gazes would just glide away. The lips were juicy red, of course without any added colour. She came to our shop and started to look around. She soon filled her hamper with a host of cosmetic products making us all glad. She flushed out dollar bills and walked off. One thing amazed me, that she did not buy any nail polish. I rushed behind her to offer her complementary nail polish bottles to her but she flatly refused saying she had no use for them. I came back to the shop,disheartened.

I saw her heading towards the changing room.

She came out a different person. I could have missed her, but for her eyes. She was clad in a black burkha from head to toe and all you could see were her blue eyes.

Seeing me, she told her sad story, Her fingers were once slender, shining with gloss and polish. She used to teach in a girls' school in her native country.

The wicked rulers, who were vehemently against female education raided her school and chopped her fingers.

She, now was fighting a lone battle with the oppressive rulers with the help of international aid agencies.

I bade her good bye as she boarded the flight to her dreaded war torn destination.

A few months later, I read about her untimely demise in the papers.

Her cold blue eyes still haunt me.

ROBOT.

2010-The Reality.
I wake up at 7 am and go to play Tennis for 2 hours daily. I consume 3 liters of BMC water and half a liter of Gatorade in the mornings. I come home, tired and have my milk-muesli -dry fruit breakfast.
I shit, shave and shower.
I head for my rounds at around 11am, I do my opd from 1-4pm and come home. I have a non interesting reheated lunch. The food just goes in without me savouring any taste.
I sleep for an hour amidst phone calls, somehow.
I wake up, shower and head for the evening rounds and opd. I reach home late at mid night and have a reheated dinner. My half awake wife gives me company during dinner. She yawns, I chew and swallow the once appetising,morsels.
I see movies in the night or write a blog depending on my mood.
I sleep off at 1am amidst disturbing phone calls, all through out the night.
I wake up again at 7am and head for the Tennis court.
Sundays are stereotypically lighter as there is no opd business.
I take my willing family out, for a dinner on Sundays.
Festivals do not interest me, neither do the weddings of relatives and friends. My presence and attendance in such frivolous activities are dealt with raised eyebrows. My absence has been long taken for granted. I never mind this thought.
I hardly recollect the last time when I saw a movie in a theatre.My family sees them without me.
I am hardly at home so I have never seen my neighbours. My building members know me by name but I do not know them.
I have never attended my child's parent teacher interaction meeting. She has been forced into thinking that it is a maternal job.
I do not get emotionally affected by my patient's woes and cries as I have been experiencing them for the last decade. I do the assigned job of treating them with a stoic non expressive manner.
I never laugh or cry. My face is like a mask.
Nothing moves me.
Nothing excites me.
Everything is pre ordained and mechanical.
I have been robbed of my emotions.
I live my life day in and day out, on the whim of the ticking clock.
Am I becoming a Robot?

2050AD- A Dream.
The Robots had come to rule our lives, The machines had overpowered the human beings. They would just extract the soul of the human and transplant it in the assembly line of Robots. My soul was in a Robot too. He was named 25091972, my birth date obviously.
He was a different Robot though,
He showed emotions.
My suppressed soul during my human existence was finally aware about life and the pleasures it offered.
I woke up smiling, from my slumber.
At least, I would live a life in my after life.

NO ANSWERS.

I heard a soft knock on my car window that fateful day.
We were driving to a swanky new barbecue restaurant, all decked up in our finest attires and were in a good mood. The music was softly playing on our ears when I heard the knock. A young lady with a small cachexic baby in her arms was asking for money, earnestly. The lady was in tattered rags and the baby was just in a small cloth wrapped around his privates. It was a very painful sight to behold. The baby had dried up kohl lined tear marks on his innocent face. The lady had only pain and anguish written on her face. I think tears of despair had long dried up from her sallow eyes. Her hands were slender but the unkempt nails were full of grime.
I gave a tenner note to the poor beggar and drove away from the signal.
I felt less guilty by this action.
We often do this without thinking, It has become a sort of reflex action for us. We feel that some loose change in our inflated economy will solve the problems of the poor.
We headed for the restaurant and as soon as we were about to lavish the sumptuous spread, My daughter Chaitra asked me a question innocently.
She asked me "Papa, Who were the lady and the child at the signal?"
Why they were on the road and we in the car?
She was sad, while asking these uncomfortable questions.
She was a small girl of 7 years but her compassion and concern for the beggar overwhelmed my senses. I tried to distract her from this state and I gave her my cell phone to play games with.
Soon, lunch was served on the table and we started to eat.
She asked me for the answers again. I kept quiet. The lavish spread was suddenly becoming an emotional exercise for me. The food just stuck in my gullet. I lost my appetite too.
We left after some time and on the way back, mercifully, did not encounter any beggar at any junction.
During siesta time, I told Chaitra. I have no answers for your questions.
She, while crying accused me, I had failed in her test exam. She would complain about me to her class teacher about my inability to answer her questions.
I slept,not peacefully though and thought about the plight of the economically deprived people in our democratic country.
A fancy hotel bill could run the entire family household expenditure of these families for a month.
I may have dejected my daughter.
The government had dejected the entire nation.....
My Chaitra would soon grow up and stop asking such questions.
But,One day in the future, her child would ask the same questions.
There would be no answers.

THE TAMARIND TREE.

The sweet chirping of birds used to awaken us daily from our sleep during our childhood days. The Tamarind Tree was a huge structure providing shelter to them all round the year. It was just outside my bedroom window, obstructing my view of the road. A few gaps in the foliage however gave us clear view at times during autumn. The crows used to build their nests with all the available twigs and babies used to be nursed by the happy mothers who used to feed them small morsels of food brought by the father crows. During this time the cawing used to be less shrill and melodious. Soon the baby crow would fly away and the cycle used to continue so on and forth. The sweet sparrows used to flock in groups, but never nestled here in view of the dangerous thieving crows. We used to sprinkle grains for them on the window sill. The squirrels used to play hide and seek untiringly on the large branches of the tree with their usual gay abandon. The meek doves sadly avoided this tree.
The kids would come armed with their sling shots and aim for the mouth watering sweet n sour tamarind. A stray stone would often break window panes of the members, which would be repaired with news paper and adhesive tapes.

The spirits always preferred this tree in the night and we used to shut our windows tight. The fear used to quadruple during stormy rainy nights. A couple of bats used to hang upside down at dark scaring us. We would shiver and sleep in the comforting arms of our brave parents.
The tree used to be a magnetic attraction for all the paper kites which used to entangle and soar in the air but with their anchoring thread firmly rooted with the small branches.
It was a vibrant and a colourful tree, full of life.

One rainy afternoon, I heard sobs of an elderly couple beneath the tree. They were sitting with all their belongings wrapped up in small cloth bundles. A small kerosene stove was getting wet under the steady downpour. Their clothes suggested a lower middle class status and their faces were sullen, with the tears matching the flow of the incessant rain. As the rains held up, a few people inquired about them. The wrinkled father in a slow staccato manner revealed their sad story.
Their son was an unemployed rogue who had promised them a bigger home and made them sell their small one. He had asked them to wait under The Tamarind Tree where he would pick them up. A day had passed and there was no trace of their son. He had duped them of their money and shelter. They had nowhere to go now. Soon, a crowd gathered and a plan was made to shift the aged parents to the old age home in our town. The samaritans in our town got them tea and chapatis which were devoured by the hungry couple in minutes. Slowly, they ambled to the old age home. They accepted their tragic fate, cursing their only wasted son.
A few months later, a new sad spirit joined The Tamarind Tree.
He was destined to stay there for a long time, like the entangled kites.
The devil would never liberate him.
It was the spirit of the rogue son who had died in a strange mishap, unheard of, in our small town.

THE COIN COLLECTORS.

RAJU
The hit movie was playing to full houses all over our small town. The cash registers were jingling with money. The songs were always accompanied with the disco lighting on the side of the faded white screen. Probably, years of cobwebs had gathered on the screen to give the hue. Each song elicited a shower of coins and the whistling jeering crowds would dance in the aisle. Raju was a very happy man. This movie meant a lot to him,especially during the festive time. He would buy his grumbling wife and runny nosed kids some shiny clothes. He felt relieved. Raju's pockets were full with loose change by the end of the show. He had to, unwillingly partake a small share for the usher. He was a sweeper in the theatre and was grinning from ear to ear. When a curious somebody asked him the plot of the movie, he replied casually shuffling the beedi in his mouth, he had hardly seen the movie! He was busy collecting coins.
SANJU
The procession was a long one with everyone dressed in their finest white linen clothes. A great industrialist had expired and along with his dead body rode his entourage of well wishers and family. Sanju lived in a slum along side this posh road full of sky scrapers. A death in this locality meant good news for him. He would wear his only pair of white faded clothes and accompany the funeral procession as a concerned mourner. Nobody had time to stare at him. As the relatives marched, the prodigal son leading the procession was spraying the path with flowers and coins which he had carried in a big plastic bag. Sanju was a busy man, crouching all along the road collecting coins for himself and his poor family.
MANJU
Manju was a small girl outside our town temple who used to sell small flower beads kept in a small wicker basket for our town ladies to adorn their henna coloured hair. The flower beads used to cost 5 rupees each and by the end of the day, her small cloth purse would jingle jangle wih the coins. She worked hard and was tired by the time she reached home. Her mother had passed away after her birth and her father along with her little brother used to stay in her small shanty of a house. The coin purse used to be promptly snatched by her father who would buy booze to fulfill his addiction. Her beatings were inversely proportional to the amount of coins. A new day would see her perched outside the temple ready with her basket and empty, once coin filled purse.

The coin collectors would collect and count coins, all through out their lives.
The jingle in their pockets,music for their ears, propelled their hard lives.

TOMATO-GANPATI. FORTUNE COOKIES.

My paternal granny was a typical Maharashtrian lady, dressed in a nine yard Saree with a big kumkum bindi on her forehead and a long mangalsutra with a cloth bag in her slender hands. An aluminium box with betel nuts-leaves, lime and tobacco used to be her constant companion. She used to walk very slowly and was addicted to her weekly dose of vitamin injection, which used to recharge her for the entire ensuing week. She was non pretentious and a happy go lucky person in life. Her favourite pastime was seeing old black-white Marathi movies while massaging a small copper utensil on her tiny soles of her feet. An evening barefoot stroll in our garden used to be her exercise. She had a pure heart, devoid of any materialistic longings.

It was the summer of 1985, She had come to stay with us for a fortnight or so. She, in a concerned tone mentioned that she had left the tomatoes in the cane basket while leaving her home. We told her to forget about it. Anyway, she left after a fortnight and reached home. A pleasant surprise awaited her.

All the tomatoes had withered, except one. The Tomato had developed a long snout on its body, starting from the top and deviating to the right at the middle portion like an elephant's trunk. She cried a lot in amazement and disbelief. Lord Ganesha had visited her humble abode. It was a miracle. We rushed to her place and found ourselves standing in the back of a long queue of devotees eagerly awaiting the darshan of the 'Tomato Ganpati'. The news had spread like wild fire and my grandparents' home soon resembled a holy shrine where people of all walks of life turned to pay obeisance to the lord with a small hibiscus flower in their hands.. The Tomato had survived intense heat of summer for a fortnight or so. The skin was shiny and turgid as if it was still an un plucked vegetable from a creeper. Of course, the snout was like the Lord Ganesha's trunk. We knelt and become prostate and took the Lord's blessings.

This Tomato survived for 3 months!

Later, with tears in their eyes, they immersed it in a nearby lake. There were no news hungry TV channels to cover the event. My granny did not want any commercial or social mileage for the event. She was a simple lady of humble means and needs.

This miracle bestowed a lot of blessings and good fortune on our middle class family. We got what we wanted. We gradually ascended the social ladder of life. My aunt got married, dad got promoted and we excelled in studies. The goal oriented focus was back in our lives. My granny was all smiles. She was a kind soul and the Lord hence, had graced her humble home. She had an indirect role in our prosperity and well being. Her good deeds and a selfless nature sowed seeds of success in our life.

We used to visit her house every Ganesh Chaturthi when she used to make the most delicious modaks for us. Each modak was like a fortune cookie with a small 50 paise coin inside it. She usually put the coin in every modak, so as to make all her eager grand children happy. We would carefully keep the coin in our study to give us good luck. It always worked for us.

A decade back, my granny passed away.

Every Ganesh Chaturthi, I miss her loving, caring and the fortune cookie modaks.

Her garlanded photo watches over me, in each and every step of life.

PUZZLES.

I was staring at the enigmatic puzzle from all angles, The Rubik's Cube was pleading me to help arrange it's disarrayed structure. The colours were all mismatching and cried for their proper alignment and location. I believed in communal harmony but the colours were adamant, They wanted their sovereignty badly. I tried twisting, rotating and revolving the cube to solve it but after an hour's effort gave up. I just could not concentrate and lacked further patience. I had to admit defeat to this particular small inanimate cube. I kept the cube in my rack gracefully.
I was never a whiz kid in my whole life and now at this greying stages of life, it was an insurmountable challenge.
I reflected on my school days. I was a topper through out my academic life but just could not fathom puzzles. I never taxed my brain to solve them. Chess was my proverbial Waterloo where my opponents would lick me in minutes. Surprisingly, Math problems were dealt by me quickly. I never grumbled and grew up to become a doctor.
I deal with numerous patients daily and treat their ailments, much to their delight. Once I encounter a difficult undiagnosed patient, I never give up chasing the diagnosis,come what may!My entire thought process revolves around their puzzling ailment and through out the day the thought of the elusive diagnosis grips my mind. I sleep on the bed, eyes open, thinking about the patient. Sometimes, I dream about them too. I'm preoccupied, nothing else matters. A clear dedicated approach eventually bears fruit and the healing process begins. I sleep with my eyes closed that night, happily. My indoor patients' reports are all intact in my memory. It doesn't take any extra effort.
God gives ability to every individual on this planet to solve complex puzzles.
In my case, I solve the intricate puzzles of the human body.
The multi-coloured Rubik's Cube sits quietly on my rack in a blissful disarray.
I have understood my limitations and have learnt to live with them .
I think, everybody should.
My 5 month old son gazes at the cube, picks it gently with his little fingers and puts it in his salivating mouth. He bites it hard.
I smile, Maybe, one fine day he will solve it.

ASHEN HAIR-RED EYES...

Ramjibhai was an elderly gentleman who used to hang around our town's crematorium, all round the year. He used to stand as the guardian at the gates, but was not aware of the further transit of the soul of the dead body, hell or heaven, he never bothered or cared.

His only job was to help the kith and kin of the deceased in conducting the cremation ceremony. He was laid back in his life but the sight of the funeral party used to propel his ageing feet to action. As the dead body entered the gates, he would take over. The garlands would be carefully removed, the ghee in the plastic bag smeared over the body and then a careful placement of the body on the pyre. He would comfort the heir before torching the pyre. As the flames leapt up, the relatives would shy away from the pyre but Ramjibhai would stay there arranging the burning body parts with a long bamboo stick to ensure a proper and an even burning of the flesh, leaving only the bones around in the end.

As the heated skull broke open, you could hear a crackling noise of the liquified brain oozing out with a gush. That would be the end point of the funeral for the relatives who would rapidly walk out of the crematorium trying to catch up their lost time. Ramjibhai would stay there till the ashes. He would lovingly wrap the ashes in a red cloth and hand it over to the relatives, the next day to be immersed in the holy waters. A bag of grains and some cash used to be his meagre earnings.

Ramjibhai always had ash in his greyish white hair, it used to gel well with his hair colour and on closer inspection only, be visible. But you could never miss his constantly lacrimating, angry red eyes which bore the brunt of the heat of the pyres. He would await, patiently with a small beedi in his mouth for the arrival of the next funeral, Then, the entire cycle would go on. He would sleep there only, all alone with the souls, in case of any nocturnal death-services.

I met him once and asked him the reason for such a unique service, that too without any substantial wages or comfort, so very much desired, by the people of his age. He told me that he had decided to offer this service voluntarily and in fact, was attuned to it. He could not bear to work for the living population of our town, who may have not been good to him in the past. He preferred working for the dead. He denied having any family of his own.

He stayed there in the scary confines, as he had nowhere else to go.

As he neared his end days, he made a decision to visit the city of holy waters. He bowed to the almighty before taking the plunge to his eventual death. He wanted to die in the watery grave.

His body could not take the heat, any longer.

DAHI-HANDI- SKULLBONES AND COCONUTS.

It was a rainy morning that Janmashtami, we were small kids in our building, chipped in 5 rupees each, to gather the materials for our dahi handi program. We were all excited as it was our first effort to celebrate this festival. I decorated the clay pot with flowers and leaves,crowned it with the customary auspicious coconut, the rope with garlands, fruits and balloons. We requested our 1st floor members to let us tie the rope between their windows. The rope looked resplendent and the pot was inviting us to have a shot at it. I was the tallest and looked strong, (But I am a very meek hearted person) hence was the automatic choice for the base of the pyramid. Despite numerous amateurish attempts, we could not succeed in breaking the pot. The parents were also exasperated and getting impatient.

The rope was lowered by our kind 1st floor members and at the height of 8 feet, the pot was broken with the coconut much to the relief of the gathered parents. The small kid who had climbed on my able shoulders, in all excitement threw the coconut down, bang on my shoulder. I also left him hanging on the rope in retaliation. His poor parents rescued him and he vowed to never attempt this breaking ceremony again. That was our first and last attempt at the dahi-handi ceremony.

We felt victorious like some soldiers and rushed home to grab our meals. We decorated ourselves with the garlands too. It was all unadulterated media unexposed fun. The erstwhile hanging small kid left the crowd, shivering inside.

It was a rainy afternoon, when I got a call from my hospital that a 18 year old boy, named Sanjay was admitted in a comatose condition with a grievous head injury. He had fallen from the top of the human pyramid during the dahi handi celebrations and the crowd could not arrest his fall. He fell from a significant height and the skull bones of his head just split apart on impact on the hard concrete road. He had a hematoma in his contused brain. He was operated by a team of skilled surgeons and after a month, walked away home.

His widowed mother, incidentally was a staff nurse in my college hospital where I had studied. She thanked me profusely with tears in her eyes. I gave her a small memento, a piece of the coconut shell which had accompanied Sanjay during the time of admission to the hospital. The coconut shell protects the soft kernel inside like the skull bones protect the soft brain.

Sanjay still wears a locket with the piece of the coconut shell inside, as his protective amulet.

It was a rainy evening in our KEM hospital, we were posted as interns in the casualty department. It was a busy night with all the dahi handi revellers getting admitted for poly trauma in various states of drunk stupor. They were in a state of euphoria despite the fractures and injuries. They were all ordinary working class people. I thought that, just alcohol alone could not be responsible for their pain free state. Someone from the crowd told me that their team had won the first prize in the dahi handi competition for the tallest human pyramid formation.

Money was their biggest anesthetic and analgesic!

Next day, all of them got discharged, proudly flaunting their hard white plaster casts. There was a swagger in their limp also. They would be feeling rich, albeit for a few days.

Nowadays, dahi handi celebrations begin in rainy nights with pomp and music. They are well covered by the news hungry media. Each street has a dahi handi, affiliated to the local politician. There is a lot of money to be given away by the pot bellied politicians.The flop TV stars and out of work movie side kicks grace this festival. They have glamourised the festival and given it political hues which upsets me. The sanctity and the purpose have been relegated to the back ground.

The innocence of celebration has been snatched away from us.

I still recollect the 5 rupee contribution, from our pocket money, which we had made in our childhood.

I try to sleep, amidst the din of the blaring loud speakers.

THE BUTTERFLY LADY,MR DAVID AND THE MALL.

I encounter her everyday on the roads of our small town. She sits on the roadside dressed in shabby, partially torn clothes. She looks not more than 40 years. Her hair are matted with grime and dust, probably unwashed for a while. Her face, remarkably is clean and spotless. The teeth brown with the yellow nails stare out at us. She thrives on leftovers from nearby udupi hotels which she carries in a transparent polythene bag. Nobody knows her past details. Sometimes she sits alone, with tears in her sallow eyes. Nobody knows her whereabouts after the sunset but she reappears next morning looking haggard as ever. Her life cycle goes on. I call her The Butterfly Lady in view of her nocturnal disappearances, but her life is devoid of wings and colours. One day you would find her in a morgue sleeping peacefully like the pupa in a cocoon.

The road lined by trees is shaded in the hot summers. Under one particular tree, you would encounter Mr David, I named him so in view of his bald pate and a salt-pepper beard which bear a resemblance to the actor from the yesteryears. He is perched on his hand driven tricycle, staring into empty spaces. The tree is his residential address, he has no legs. Probably, lost them in his youth while trying to cross the rail-tracks. I don't know what he does for a living but I see him drying news papers on the adjacent foot-path. Where or what he eats is a mystery to me. His sustained survival on the road day after day baffles me. He is not a beggar, but food given to him is gracefully accepted. During the rains, he covers his tricycle with a black plastic to form a shed where he sleeps peacefully. It was a very cold bitter night when they found him lifeless on the tricycle. He was happy in his death, which he had wished for when he had lost his legs.

They live opposite our town's swanky Mall in the temporary hutments on the footpath. They observe the fashionable, rich people going in and out of the mall. They wonder about the mall and the lighted shops inside. Even if they dared to enter it, would be shooed by the security people in an instant. They bathe on the road openly without any shame or guilt. The kids defecate and urinate at will on the road, play with old cycle tires through out the day. The mothers openly breast feed their babies while blissfully sleeping on the road on dirty rugs. One night, as I was passing them by, I saw a small child gazing at an inverted newspaper which was illuminated by the glare of the Mall lights. I wondered, All the bright lights, put together in the city would never illuminate their lives.

RAKSHA BANDHAN.

Chaitra was all excited to tie the rakhi on her little brother's wrist on the auspicious occasion of Raksha Bandhan. A cute teddy bear rakhi was personally selected by her along with the aarti thaali and the customary sweets. Prithvy is only 5 months old , but was pretty excited to see his sister all decked up for the occasion. He was waving his arms and cycling his legs to show his happiness. The rakhi was tied on his small wrist and kisses were exchanged. Chaitra was keen to feed him the sweet but was restrained by my stern look at her. Prithvy held on to the teddy bear in his palm, tightly and soon slept off with a smile on his face.
It was a happy day for us.
Chaitra loves her little Prithvy a lot.
I remember her tears when our ayah massaged Prithvy with olive oil, she ran to her room and started to sob telling us to instruct the ayah to be gentle with him. Next day onwards, she used to personally supervise over the ayah during massage time. Also, during the bathing time she used to sit on a small stool in the bathroom keeping a strict watch over the ayah.
His care and safety was paramount to her, all the time.
She will tell us bluntly to avoid kissing Prithvy on the cheeks as our lips carry germs and may cause infection. This rule, strangely is not applicable to her! If I'm wearing perfume, she won't let me near him, for the fear of allergy. Sterilium,a hand sanitiser is generously dispensed by her to people who want to hold Prithvy in their arms. She is his official body-guard! The volume on my music system is limited by her so as to not disturb his sleep. She even rocks his cradle, singing sweet lullabies in her loud lilting voice. All his vaccinations were under her supervision and attendance, instructing the doctor to be careful with the needle and real slow. Of course, the driver was also berated once by her for driving over a pot-hole roughly, when Prithvy was in the car.
She is protecting him round the clock and will continue to do so.
Everyday is a Raksha Bandhan for Chaitra and Prithvy.
The rakhi, tied once a year is just a symbol.

GUMMY SMILES- THE ODD COUPLE.

They used to greet us with their gummy smiles all the time any time we went to their place.
You could see their delicate, itchy pinkish gums, waiting to bite you bluntly, without the slightest provocation but they meant no harm.
The day used to begin with the bawling cries for milk and food which was dutifully provided by the family members. The noisy slurps would dominate the feeding schedules. The next activity was the bathing and powdering to make them refreshed. This would be followed by their daily peaceful morning siesta for a couple of hours. The schedules of feeding continued through out the day tiring the family members to no end.
Diapers needed to be changed all the time which was an exercise by itself. The stench was gracefully accepted as a part of the daily routine. Nobody grumbled.
Communication was mainly in the form of monosyllablic utterances and loud cries which used to shatter the delicate bone china crockery around the house. They always required someone to sit with them, talk to them. They were scared in this big world. The care takers were always around to ensure the comfort of the odd couple.
There was a hint of preference and partiality towards the younger member of the couple for obvious reasons. The elder member would still smile at this partiality.
Their smiles and laughter would occur randomly without any reason. Their body clocks functioned according to their own whims and fancy.
The family was always hospitable to the guests who would come in droves to see them.
One would stay.
The other one would slowly go away.
The newborn grandson could not simply comprehend the cries in the house after his grand-dad's demise. He too started crying, the milk bottle promptly put in his mouth quietened him and later, he started smiling once again, oblivious to the surrounding mourning.
He smiled for a reason.
One day, his time to go away from this world would also come............

VISIONS..

The flute player and his wife used to sit on a jute mat by the roadside near the bus depot. He used to play old melodies on his wooden weather beaten flute. The melodies would enthral the people passing by, who would promptly throw some loose change in a aluminium vessel on the mat. The sound of clinking of coins would bring a smile on the player's wrinkled face. The songs would vary according to the season and the festivals occurring round the year in our small town. There was hope written all over the flute player's face. During the rains, a large umbrella used to provide shelter to them. The music went on regardless of the rains. After sunset, the couple used to slowly waddle, hand in hand to their home.

The telephone operator was a very busy man, A queue of people used to throng outside his booth with anxious faces, awaiting their turn to speak to their friends or relatives, far and near, with good or bad news. Sometimes, you could see a lone lady chatting with her long distance husband. Her conversations were long and interspersed with sobs and tears. The operator would never eaves-drop and be lost in his own world humming devotional songs being played on a wall mounted antique radio. His daughter would be his sole companion and escort him home with the onset of the night.

The incense stick seller was a very prominent figure standing on our railway bridge. You could encounter the enticing smell of roses, jasmine and lavender around him. He always used to light up the sample pieces to attract the crowds who were in a perpetual state of hurry. The perfume used to slower their steps and give business to the seller. The money would bring a smile to his pock mark ridden face. His son would pack his business bag and take him home in the last night train. They would count the day's earnings in the empty train.

One thing these struggling people had in common was a white cane and a pair of dark goggles !

Their handicap never prevented the smiles on their faces or the songs on their lips.

The flautist used to imagine about the film stars and the dancers who would be performing in the songs he played on his flute. The incense stick seller used to imagine about the flowers and their vivid colours. The operator would long to see the faces of the people who used to throng his booth and speak on his phone. This imagination alone, would make their faces happy.

At least, they wished to see the scenery and sights around in this big world.

We never bother about these common every day people.

We never bother to see their plight. A kind thought for them, eludes our busy minds.

We just move on, marching ahead with our sad harried long faces.

I wonder about our and their vision.

Are they blind ? or Are we blind?

You decide.

BARBIE DOLL 2. HOLLOW LIFE.

Mrs Pinto was a middle aged, rich hypertensive patient of mine who used to follow up twice a year with me for her treatment as she resided abroad. She arrived in my clinic one day, with a very unusual request.
Rosy was a 14 year old spastic child, who had suffered brain hypoxia during birth and had ceased to develop intellectually since then. The Pinto family spared no effort in treating her but always failed in their attempts. The neurologists had already fore casted an early death for Rosy. However, Rosy pulled on, living her dependent life. She could not talk or react to any stimuli. She was in a locked in state. A vegetative existence. Her parents were dutifully taking care of her without a frown on their face. They had accepted her and their fate.
They had no choice.
They carried her all around in their untiring arms through out her childhood.
Rosy's physical development progressed regardless of her mental state and soon she had to be moved in a wheel chair. Her face was like a mask, oblivious of the surrounding people or their probing stares. The common expressions of smile, fear, happiness or sadness had never been seen on her face.
The parents' sad faces compensated that void.
All the money in the world could never bring a smile on their worried faces.
Rosy would be a mute spectator all the time. The only noise she ever made was of slurping while having her liquid meals. Even that noise would briefly gladden her grief stricken parents. Her bladder and bowels functioned normally and she needed to be cleaned many times, through out the day. Her parents were in a care giver burn out stage.
They, after her birth, had ceased to live as husband and wife, sacrificing all the wordly and physical pleasures for the upbringing of their child. I respected them for the fact that thay never thought about institutionalising her, keeping her with them all the time.
I saw her, she lay still on the examining bed. Her cheeks were indeed rosy. She stared at me like an inanimate doll. The bitter truth was that she was a live person breathing air like all of us.
Her parents wanted to remove her uterus and ovaries to prevent the onset of menses. They were in no state to handle their growing child's puberty. Or maybe, they wanted her to be protected from abuse in our pervert filled world.
I was stunned by their request.
I saw their plight and complied with them. A date was fixed up for her surgery.
As the surgeon made the first cut on her delicate abdominal wall, despite the anesthesia, a few tear drops welled up in Rosy's eyes and trickled down her rosy cheeks. The surgery was over much to the relief of her parents.

The kids had all gathered in my house for a party and an expected ruckus ensued with some fighting, some crying and some pulling the toys apart. Afterwards, when the party got over, we arranged the scattered toys and my eyes fell in the corner on a doll who had somehow withstood the pushing-pulling fight between kids. But her dress was missing and revealed a rubber flesh coloured body with rosy cheeks, hollow from inside. Her face lacked any expression.
I cried, remembering Rosy, her hollow life.

BARBIE DOLL AND CURDLED MILK.

Mrs Das, our chirpy college lecturer was happy to be pregnant after 5 years of marriage. Her face was radiant with the anticipation of motherhood. It seemed as if God had pasted a smile on her round cherry red chloasma filled face. Daily, her doting husband used to drop her on his scooter, which he used to ride real slow. She used to amble with a lordotic gait in our corridor, greeting each and every student. We were glad to see her so contended.
Soon, she went on her maternity leave and we got busy with our semester exams. A few months later, she resumed work with a small wrapped bundle of joy in her arms, her face was very sad and tired, hair unkempt and her sari, crumpled. She was seen muttering to herself all the time. Everyone was shocked to see her sorry state, she hardly took lectures and was seen walking frantically along the stairs and corridor clutching her baby tightly. She was in a delirious state. Any attempt to confront her would lead to hysterical shrieking and crying spells. We were perplexed.
The department chose to keep mum over this issue and allow to let things normalise on their own.
'Please, don't hurt my baby, Please! were the only words uttered by her in despair. She often used to cajole her baby to feed with a dirty grimy unwashed milk bottle and often used to wail with her failed attempts. Her plight was very poignant and palpable in our college atmosphere.
She was probably, in a state of post partum depression.
One day, in a fatigued state of mind and body, she just sat down on the stairs and slept off.
A wrapped mid sized Barbie Doll slept peacefully in her tired arms.
The bottle with the curdled milk rolled down the stairs slowly.

THE MOANS-SOON.

The Guptas' had recently moved into their posh sea facing apartment, paying an unheard of price for their abode. You could see the great Arabian sea with the small boats and steamers from the balcony while sipping hot mugs of tea with a crisp newspaper in your hands. Of course, Danish cookies and muffins would grace the tea table. The rains started and their joys knew no bound. The south western breeze would blow into their faces and spray them with the mist. They enjoyed the foamy sea and thanked their stars for such a lovely view. During evenings, the male members of the family would sit in the balcony with their finest scotch and marvel at the changing patterns and colours of the sea waves with the sunset.Their alcohol consumption would increase in view of the pleasant atmosphere. They felt on top of the world after a few pegs down their gullet.
They loved the rains.
The guptas were distant cousins of this illustrious family and resided in a small shanty slum, not very far from them. However, in view of the class divide, were seldom entertained by the rich cousins. They fought their battles alone. Their slum had a nullah running nearby carrying all the effluents out to the sea. The nullah was a fertile pad for the teeming reptiles and invertebrates. Overfed rats used to roam in and out of their house without any fear. The rains brought out their worst fears every year without fail. The leaky roof would shudder by the onslaught of the thundering rain. The roof was of asbestos and would anytime give away exposing them to the nature's fury. The tar, used to buttress the roof saved them the blushes this year but a new roof would be needed soon. This year, the rains wreaked havoc and pretty soon, their house was deluged with the rain water gushing remorselessly destroying their few belongings. The family huddled on their only creaky bed for two days before the water receded. Next day, they cleaned up all the silt and resumed their not so normal lives. The emaciated kids would fall sick again.
They hated the rains.
God heard their moans-soon.
The bright sun started emerging behind the dark clouds.

THE FLAG REVOLTS.

It was a pleasant windy day. The easterly winds were blowing softly, ruffling hair of people around.

The white khadi clad people were gathered around the flag mast in rows like school children, they had shiny pens in their pockets with gaudy watches on their thick wrists. Their sycophants were constantly at their service with the mineral water bottles and cologne napkins to wipe their brows whenever required. Some were seen talking animatedly on their imported cell phones. Their swagger and demeanour suggested their privileged status in our fickle society. They were getting upset over the delay in this flag hoisting ceremony. They had other more lucrative commitments to attend to.

The missionary hospital was all set for the flag hoisting ceremony, I was working there as a resident physician. The poor maids and helpers were all decked up to sing the anthem and patriotic songs. I had never seen them during my six months of residency over there. They also had never seen the sunshine and probably would never, till the next year. They were like bonded slaves. They started singing the anthem in their harsh native accent.

The plush residential building was agog with the blaring loud speakers, It was an important get together for the glitzy members. Snacks were ordered from the best caterers in the town. All the members were decked up in their finest designer clothes for the flag hoisting ceremony. The ceremony was viewed by the street urchins living in the lane outside the posh building. They were hoping against hope to get the left-overs. Their empty stomachs had already started grumbling in anticipation. The snobby crowd detested their invasion, promptly were shooed away by the obedient baton wielding watchmen. A couple of urchins got blows on their rumps in their attempt to escape. They reacted with the choicest abuses, hurled at the servile watchmen.

The flag was unfurled, the customary flowers wrapped inside fell limply on the ground.

The flag, despite the easterly winds, refused to wave. It just lay there on the mast like a dead lifeless cloth.

It chose not to do so.

The flag was hanging in shame and apathy. It could no longer bear the atrocities committed in this independent country.

The flag revolted.

I tried hard to suppress my tears and came home with drooped shoulders.

TISSUE PAPER

There were huge banyan,tamarind and palm trees lining the walls of the asylum, It was like an oasis in this urban concrete jungle. You could hear the silence all around. It was an unforgettable experience for me. I had gone to see Madhu, a close patient of mine who was confined to these walls of the asylum. He had exhausted all opportunities to lead a normal existence like us by his recurrent suicidal attempts. The asylum was the safest place for him on this entire planet. A team of psychiatrists labelled him as a schizophrenic and treated him with their full vigour and might, but only to burn their fingers on their thoughts of recovery for him. He defied every one and continued his suicidal attempts, much to the chagrin of the treating doctors. A decision was made to confine him to this asylum, much to his displeasure. The asylum segregated patients according to their age, sex and health. I saw some cops outside the ward guarding some criminal patients. They looked bored and tired. Probably, this duty would not yield them any revenue as the criminal patients had nothing to give them except their woes and verbal abuses.
The ward was gloomy and a faint smell of urine pervaded all around.
I went with a packet of assorted sweetmeats and lots of snacks for him. As he saw me, he rushed limping towards me with a smile of recognition like a small child. He pounced on the goodies. Repeatedly, he was asking whether the sweets were for him only and no one else.I reassured him. He grabbed the sweets and did not bother even to unwrap the tissue paper. and gobbled them as if there was no tomorrow. He reminded me of the urchins , permanently settled around temples who swarmed on benevolent devotees for their share of goodies. He was happy to see me as his lone visitor. After sampling the snacks, he carefully kept them in his alloted locker far away from the gaze of the equally hungry ward inmates. He was scratching his body vigorously with his long, helpful unkempt nails. Scabies, probably. He pleaded me to visit every month and rushed to his bed. His bed was occupied by some other patient, he did not bother and slept calmly on the adjoining floor. I saw the patients, some were young and educated and looked out of place in this ward.
The sister and the robust ward boys were highly appreciative of Madhu and predicted an early recovery for him.
One day he would be rehabilitated and cured of this malady, but, where would he go?
His relatives had already given up on him and never even bothered to visit him in this asylum.
I don't think, Madhu will ever escape from the asylum.
He is safe and sound here.
He does not want to swim in the ocean of madness of our material world.
Madhu did not bother to wish me goodbye, he was sleeeping peacefully on thee floor like a child.
I came out of the asylum wiping my tears with the tissue paper.

3 TALES.

SANGITA-
Sangita was a high society girl who mingled a lot with high flying guys who would treat her at fancy restaurants in town. One day she and her motley group went to a pizza joint to fill their half full stomachs, She was wearing a leather mini skirt under an Armani shirt, naturally her oozing sexiness was appreciated all around, by the casual glances at her by each and every one. He was sitting opposite their table and was slowly sipping the freshly brewed coffee while staring at her. It appeared as if he was looking through her. Sangita was very uncomfortable and squirmed in her seat to divert the man's attention. How could an ordinary middle class man have the temerity of staring at her? was the constant thought eroding her empty mind. It was a different matter in the night time, when she used to spread her legs for the Calvin Klein underwear clad friends of the high class. She stared rudely and lashed out the choicest expletives at the man. However, there was no reaction from the man. He was unmoved. She was agitated and rushed to the manager to complain about the still staring man.
When the waiter gave the bill to him, he paid and slowly ambled across the restaurant to the door. He had a smile on his face and a fold able white cane in his hand. He put on his dark glasses on the road.
THE SAD FACED HUNK-
He occupied almost half the dining table at the fancy restaurant, He was of a muscular built and the muscles were ripping out of his body hugging T-shirt. You could see the greenish veins like small sea snakes under his skin in the arms. His appetite matched his looks and the waiters were prompt in attending to him. His stature demanded respect. His arms could strangulate a bull, leave aside ordinary human beings like us. He exuded power and was the centre of attraction in the entire hotel. The girls were secretly dreaming of a date with this hunk. We were naturally jealous of him and constantly compared our frail arms with his and sulked.
I noticed despite all this, his face was sad and hid some bitter memories, a linear scar ran along his face from the ear to the lips, probably a combat scar or so. You could see the sadness in his sallow eyes. As he cleared the bill, he walked slowly across the hotel with two of his never parting friends, who were always by his arms. The crutches were sturdy and never wilted under his heavy body. His glorious days of courage and valour,while fighting for his country were only a small part of his distant faded memory.
THE ODD COUPLE-
They always used to occupy the noisiest table at the restaurant, oblivious of the surrounding cacophony of the road side traffic and the bustling public. The adjoining hotel kitchen with all the clanging of the utensils never detracted from their prized table. They used to sit quietly holding hands, sipping tea and feeding small morsels to each other from their plates. Their silence was a bit of bother for me and I wondered if their love and mutual admiration was so strong so as to survive this acoustic assault. This generation threw a lot of oddities and probably they were one of them.
My curiosity got the better of me and one day, I asked the waiter about the odd couple. He just made a gesture with his hand, first pointing the tongue and later his ear, and waved a signal of nothingness with his hand. I was shocked and moved out of the restaurant, smiling vaguely at the deaf-mute couple.

MOTHER'S DAY GIFT.

She was a frail girl, probably a day old when she was left with a small cloth wrapped around her, at the doorstep of the orphanage. Nobody knew her origin, she had been dumped perhaps, by an unwed reluctant mother. This was common occurrence for the orphanage authorities and they lovingly took the wailing baby under their shelter. They named her Meena, in view of her fish like beautiful eyes.There was no official naming ceremony, nor were any sweets distributed in the neighbourhood. The orphanage was always devoid of funds, the entire city wasted money on bars and other luxuries but always avoided donating for a noble cause like this.
Each and every one shirked this responsibility.
God gives birth and is bound to provide till death, somehow the orphanage used to survive and take care of its unfortunate inhabitants.
Soon, Meena grew up and became a good student,who could stitch clothes for a living and started dreaming of a future. Amol, who had grown up with her became the centre of her attraction. The marriage was conducted in the orphanage with restricted pomp. There was a rare sweet dish in the meals which followed the ceremony. Everyone lapped up their meals heartily.
They branched out, rented a small room and began their blissful married life. He too, was an expert tailor. The lady luck smiled on their lives for the very first time and soon their business flourished. They shifted to a 2 bhk apartment with their chubby son. Their son got the best education and became an engineer. He got a decent job, married and life went on so on and forth.
Many years later, Amol passed away after a protracted battle with cancer, Meena became a sad widow who would frequently cry, remembering her past struggles to conquer life with him. She went into a depressive shell and shut herself from her son's family. Her son could never understand her turmoil as he had been provided, all through his life. He was never deprived. His wife was perpetually annoyed at the sulking mother in law and frequently used to berate her. Meena used to silently endure the harsh words.
Mother's Day was around the corner and Meena's son asked her about the gift for that day, He always used to spend on her this day, Meena with tears in her eyes, asked for her gift.
She was shifted to the old age home as per as her wishes.
She had come alone in this world.
She wanted to leave this world alone.
She always waits at the window on Mother's Day, She cries, looks heavenwards, wondering when would she embrace her unknown unseen mother.

THE RELUCTANT ATTENDANT.

Sanjay had bribed the municipal officials to land a job in this hell hole, it was a much despised job but his graduation degree failed to secure a job for him, any where in this small town. He wanted to provide for his needy family and happily grabbed this job. He had a small broken but mended wooden chair and a granite platform as his office desk. A small locked chained aluminium tiffin box with a slot to collect coins was provided to him by the authorities.This would be his piggy bank. He used to sit on the chair from morning till night, busily counting his coins in the heavy box. The foot falls would never cease, such was the demand of his facility. All classes of people, young and old alike would use this place to empty their putrid bladders and foetid bowels. It was after all, a common public toilet. He would sit there, dreaming about a job in an air-conditioned office, in a cleaner hygienic surrounding.
People in this city, spent half of their lives dreaming.
I once went to this public toilet and came out in an unpleasant state of mind. The entire filth of this city used to gather over here. Beggars, Tramps used to patronise this place like swarming ants on sugar. It was like their second home after the foot-path, used to provide shelter during the rains. Cockroaches and Flies loitered here, The entire place was reeking of stench which immediately could trigger nausea in a sane individual. The state of urinals was very sorry, I think they must have been cleaned only during the inauguration.Years and years of the yellow rain had left precipitates on them which were beyond cleaning now, the only hope was changing them. The corrupt government had other things on their agenda, though.
The toilet used to be a hang out for the closet homosexuals in this city, they used to silently wait for their partners near this place. The rich and the poor gays mingled freely over here. The toilets were used on the sly for their illegal activities. Of course, a handsome 5 rupee tip used to be given to the attendant for his wilful over sight of such activities. Sometimes, prostitutes used to ply their sad trade over here in the night time.
The nether world inhabitants, who were shunned by the society found solace and comfort in this haven.
Life had to go on in this mean city.
Sanjay started losing his appetite. He is still continuing the same job as of now,but looks dull and emaciated. He would carry out his job, life reluctantly.
He is the reluctant attendant.

DARK CIRCLES.

My patients often call me late at odd hours of the night and they are surprised when I pick up the phone after a couple of rings, I answer the call coherently with day time like alertness. Of course, if there is an emergency, I rush to the hospital in a jiffy. It's not a big effort for me as I have trained myself to sleep like a dog in the night with my sensor ears, awaiting distress signals all through out the night. This parasomnia has a long history.

My brother suffered from Bronchitis during his childhood, It was really a testing time for us when he used to get his wheezing spells at around mid night hours or early dawn when the smog used to envelop our small town. I used to sit and massage his chest with balms and pray to God for an early relief from this attacks. Sometimes, I used to rush to call our family physician for giving him medicine shots. I was alert and always at his service during these nocturnal distressing spells. At the age of 12 years, my brother got fully cured of his ailment and my sleeping pattern improved, temporarily though.

Then, I entered HSC board and my studies assumed a nocturnal pattern, I simply could not concentrate during the day hours with the noise and distractions around. I decided to study from mid night till 6 am daily, I used to enjoy it under my faithful night lamp, the world was so different and quiet at this time. I then, used to rush to college at 7 am and rest during the boring lectures till 2 pm. A strong Nescafe with cardamom seeds used to keep me awake like an owl in the night. I topped my college in HSC board, way back in 1990.

My residency programme in Medicine was cut out for my night life, We used to be on call through out the night and frequently used to be woken up during night times when the patients would realise their pains and complaints. Sometimes, we used to sleep in the ward side room to avoid frequent excursions from the hostel to the ward. It was all fun though, we used to sip coffee from the nocturnal bicycle man and smoke cigarettes outside the campus. Of course, during emergency on call days,we hardly used to sleep a wink at all. Patients used to come from far away places at this odd times. We used to be fresh as daisies.

Now, My new born has to be looked after in the night, he also chooses to be a nocturnal person like me, bawling all through out the night. He has inherited this from his father! I help my wife all through the night happily.

My evolution as a doctor, had the recurring underlying theme of being awake and alert at night times.It will continue to be so in the future also.

I enjoy a good siesta though, in the afternoon for an hour or so.

So, when you see the dark circles around my eyes, You know the reasons.

The dark circles have illuminated a lot of lives around!

SWEET LIES-BITTER TRUTH.

Children never lie.
They slowly acquire this ability, when they grow up in this make believe world.
They are never bothered about the consequences of telling the truth. We as grown ups always try to hide it under the mat, We are and will be scared of the skeletons in the closet.
My neighbour had lovingly made a dish for us and it turned out to be sour, we promptly washed it in our kitchen sink and forgot about it. After a week, she casually asked Mansi about the taste and Mansi told her that it was delicious and everybody enjoyed the dish. Chaitra who was eaves dropping blurted out blatantly that the dish was never consumed by us and was washed down the drain, much to our shock. Our neighbour was crest fallen and she did not warm up to us ever again, at least for a month or so. I did not scold Chaitra. I did not want her, to lie ever. She continues her truth telling habit all the time, embarrassing us at times.
Children remind us of our lost innocence, every day of our life.
I sometimes lie to my wife, over praising dishes cooked by her painstakingly, as I realise the effort she takes to do so in her busy professional life. A word of encouragement goes a long way in nurturing a relationship.
She is a good cook though.
She reads my blogs and will read this one too!
Lies pervade our lives. The lovers lie about their clean past, The office people lie about their illnesses to bunk work. The rich people lie about their losses to evade taxes. The shop keepers lie about the prices of their shelf expired products. The husband lies to spend some time with his paramour. The in laws lie about the defects and diseases in the overaged ripe bride, ready to marry an equally matched alcoholic, out of work bride groom.
We as doctors also lie to our patients at times, A young girl asked me, How long would she live with her terminal illness? I was faced with a dilemma, I chose to tell her the lie that she would live to be a sweet woman with children and would live for many decades. She passed away the next week, as expected. My guilt knew no bounds. I had given her momentary happiness, but she would be watching me from heaven and wondering about my false hopes and dreams.
Many cancer patients' relatives never allow the patient to become aware of the dreaded disease, Such patients are always in the dark about their illness and often change doctors to effect a cure. I am of the opinion that the adult patient has every right to know about the disease and its prognosis, It helps them plan the rest of their short life better.
Lies buy us peace of mind.
That effect is however temporary, though.
The ugly and the bitter truth always surfaces.
Let's face the truth.
Let the light shine through.

THE BUS CONDUCTOR.

It was around late evening that fateful day, when I waited at the bus stop to go to a friend's house for a party, The cabs were on strike in view of the hike in diesel rates. Surprisingly, there was only a sparse crowd at the bus stop. May be the people of the city had retired early, that hot summer day.
A cosy couple caught my eye, they were very intimate with each other and probably would continue their public display of affection, in the same vein in the rear seats of the bus. They looked the type of couple who stayed in a small flat with their joint nosy family and were making the most of the privacy available to them. Such was the plight of most married couples in this cruel city. I wondered about their silent sex life in the night with their family members sleeping next to them, they would have to be indeed, quiet and very careful.
How they procreated was beyond my comprehension.
A sweet girl in her early 20s was waiting patiently, as she did daily for her evening livelihood. She had a garish lip-stick on her thin lips. Her dress sense was also very loud and inviting. The sweat in her underarms was staining her silk blouse profusely on this hot day. She was frantically speaking to someone on her weather beaten cell phone with a heart shaped pendant attached to it. Soon, a car came and a corpulent elderly man took her for the night. Some money exchanged hands before she reluctantly sat in the car. Her sustenance for the next day was insured. May be she would be seen at the same bus stop again, waiting for other people's cars to ride her night away.
An elderly man was smoking a cigarette rapidly as if it would be his last one, Later, he was seen violently coughing blood stained phlegm, caring a damn about the hygiene of this newly constructed bus stop. We had already ceased to exist for that coughing old man. Strangely, the other people standing there hardly noticed his plight. All the eyes were patiently waiting for their bus which would transport them to their dreary destinations.
Lastly, I noticed a blind man with his white cane, asking everyone about the arrival of his bus, he was worriedly seeing the time repeatedly in his braille watch. He carried a big box of incense sticks which gave fragrance to this bus stop's humid atmosphere. The blind man used to sell these incense sticks at the nearby foot over bridge, was worried about losing his clientele. He had a job to do and agitatedly, was cursing the drunk delayed bus drivers who were depriving him of his daily bread.
I boarded the bus along with the crowd and sat on the front seat, The conductor was hurriedly giving tickets and collecting the coins and small notes for them silently. I was stretching my arm to get his attention, surprisingly he was ignoring me. I did not want to travel ticket less, just because of his oversight. I got up and confronted him with a 5 rupee note in my hand, As he saw me, he smiled at me and denied the note.He told me that the ride was on him. I was surprised and sat down on my seat, soon he came and called my name. I was shocked.
How could he know my name? He sat next to me and reminded me of our school days, when he used to sit behind us in the back row. I slowly, but surely recollected his name. He was a bright student, who never saw the face of college because of his adversity.He had to start earning at an early age to support his family. I could not bear to see him, in this conductor's attire. We had the comfort and the support of our parents, hence we could study medicine up to post graduation level, without ever bothering about the finances.
I got down at the next traffic signal.
I returned home.
I hugged my parents and my eyes poured tears like the oncoming monsoon rain.