BOOK OF LIFE.

Back in school, I had to share the last bench with equally tall and hefty people like me.This was an opportunity to study the psyche of the academically under privileged for me and I enjoyed my school days with them. The only difference being, I always topped the class right from the beginning to the end, much to the surprise of the short people-nerds adorning the front benches,who were the recipients of all the love and attention of the class teacher. We were always looked down upon by the nerds. I cared a damn and the results used to lower their heads in respect for me. I had nothing personal against them but hated their book worm tendency and a sycophant attitude towards teachers, just to impress them. The teachers always used to thrash us for any mischief in the class, as they all, usually were long sighted. My hard knuckles still bear the wooden scale marks, maybe, they were toughening us for facing harder battles ahead in life.
Gulu and Manu were my bench occupants and both taught me life out side the books. Gulu had lost his father recently and had to handle his fruit business after school hours while Manu had to look after a stationary store in view of his paralysed father. At the raw ages of 14 years, both were handling the finances of their families and winning bread for them. Both were bright in Maths but other subjects were like Greek-Latin to them. They used to handle much complicated accounts in their businesses and our school maths curriculum was easily lapped up by them. Grace marks used to promote them to higher classes in other subjects. Sundays were the only free days available for them to study when the other students used to catch up on movies and outings. A premature responsibility was thrust on their delicate supple shoulders. However they passed the board exams and were separated from me by different fields of higher education. I went to science and they obviously chose commerce in view of their business.
Last month I had the pleasure of meeting Gulu and Manu in a hotel in our town. Both were running a flourishing business of export-import as partners and they were doing mighty well, judging by the glittering diamond studded watches and immaculately hand stitched crisp linen clothing. They immediately hugged me,were happy to learn my academic progress in life. As I was walking down with them, a swanky big car came to pick them up. They were flying the next day to Dubai for buying office space.The Sun was shining for them. I learnt, after class 12,they had left education. Their life's eclipse was long over.
We spent our entire lives reading heavy jargon filled books.
They were lucky.They did not cram their brains with pages of useless information.
They just read the 'Book of Life', right from the back benches, as children.
I wish well for them.
They have changed their place in the society now,
They occupy the reserved front seats !

WAR ZONE!

My head was tied with a tight band to secure me on the cold table. There was the background rhythmic hum, attempting to relax the helpless victim who was like a vegetable. I was slowly being pushed inside the white tunnel to worsen my claustrophobia. Then the noise started to emanate from the coils surrounding my fragile body.
The first sound was like a heavy metal bass guitar, being plucked incessantly by a mad junkie guitarist who was in cold turkey.He was probably a sadistic person, as he was all out to blast my ear drums and fry my cold brain.He was venting all his fury on my helpless soul. This ordeal was followed by a trash metal chord,which was shrill and totally lacked rhythm.It used to come and go like a noisy goods train. US army used to play trash metal music to drive out the militants from the caves.
Noise can torture you, especially loud one.
A few minutes of silence punctuated my agony.
Next was the light machine gun artillery fire which really reminded me of a war zone in Iraq. I could imagine the terrorists running for cover.But that was not the end. This was followed by the heavy machine gun fire which jolted me, but I could not move my fear paralysed body in the narrow tunnel.My captors just ordered me to be still in a stern voice. They said that in a few minutes, my protracted ordeal would be over.
I was not a militant or terrorist. Yet, I was being punished by them. My family outside the room was mute and willing witness to this method of madness.
I was set free after half an hour, I rushed out like a bird from a cage would and immediately hugged my worried daughter. I expected a bouquet, pretending to be a war hero.
My MRI scan was over.
Thank God!
I experienced what my patients usually go through, day in and out.
It was like a War Zone !

WELL PLAYED AJAY!

It was an unforgettable match. The inter club tennis finals were being played on my home court and I was pretty excited to be a finalist, my opponent was a junior level coach-Rafiq, who had a mean game, as he was playing since a decade. He lived in a slum, nearby our town. Tennis was his only source of income and he wanted to win this title badly. I am no bunny rabbit, when it comes to Tennis as I put in all my strength and wisdom into the game. My head coach remarks that I play Tennis like Chess! Rafiq was aware of my game, prayed to Allah before the match.

The match began on an even keel but soon I started dominating the game and Rafiq started wilting under crowd pressure. A few right shots would finish the match in my favour, much to the delight of my ego and pride. I was a dark horse and played without a care, Winning or Losing was not my concern in this particular match. At the drinks break, I saw an old lady sitting in the stands, wearing a passed on sari praying fervently to Allah for her son's victory. A win would mean a promotion for her son and recognition , which meant more money to run her over sized under fed family. Her plight and anxiety were palpable.

I would get only, an applause from the stands after the victory and a small trophy which would lie in some corner of my home. Tennis was not my profession and my livelihood was independent of it.Besides, I had just won the all state medico singles title which had given me good media coverage and fame.

At the victory podium, Rafiq was proudly standing with his cherished trophy, which would bring a change in his status and salary. His mother too joined the celebrations with tears in her kohl lined eyes and praying, paan stained lips. Allah had listened to her prayers.

I lost the match. I had to.

Mansi, who was watching the match closely, came to me with moist eyes.

She understands me very well, she understood my sacrifice for Rafiq.

She said 'Well Played' Ajay!

THE KATTA.

It was the most favoured hang out in the entire college- The Katta ! It was a platform opposite our main canteen and the library where we used to sit idly and gossip about all the little things of our life. The Katta was located so strategically, that no girl escaped our hawk like eyes in entire span of college life.

A sparingly used tennis court with a fence embraced our katta from behind along with tall trees. The place was like a right angle and the intersection was our vantage point, the right far side was dominated by the senior faculty members who would relax with a cup of tea after their rounds. The left side was for the near by chronic hostelites who would sit for long hours ruminating about their passing grades and failed attempts.

Class divide permeated our holy katta too.

The smoke rings, changing shapes were like a kaleidoscope of our future dreams.The katta saw many events of our lives silently, It was our seat of inspiration and provided courage to us for tackling various issues of our troubled lives. You could just sit there and hours would lapse like minutes. Maybe the shady trees towering around the katta instilled peace and harmony into our troubled lives.

The rich kids would park their dad's car near the katta to gain maximim visibility and a sense of awe from us, jealous folks. The chicks would be seen being dropped home by these good for nothing kids much to our dismay. We would only ogle, but that was enough for our soul satisfaction. We never imagined about having a girl friend in our college life, we were happy alone- with our sour grapes' status.

Priya was an exchange student from London who was impressed by my knowledge and looks and she immediately confessed her liking to me. She was a rich Punjabi girl, closely related to a Bollywood family and was a 'to be shattered' dream come true for me. We used to sip hot cups of tea on this very katta. My hours of effort in warming this place had yielded some fruit for me! I was on cloud 9. But it was time for Priya's departure and a day earlier, she casually asked me out for a movie and a dinner date.I was overjoyed, but it was the last day of the month and my pockets were empty. The katta curse was working against me, It could not bear my happiness and was out to shatter my dreams. I complained to her about a non existent headache and declined her rosy invitation much to her surprise.She thought of it as my rejection to her advances and after a formal hand shake, returned to London the next day. She could never understand my plight. I was destined to be alone.

Priya never came back, who comes anyway?

Life moved on and my place on the katta was still secure as a single eligible bachelor.God had some other plans for me, A sweet dentist was studying, would enter my life and change it for the better. She would colour my monochromatic existence! Everything happens for a reason in life.

I am very sad today, as it is the last day of our college.

The Katta looks so lovely now. I will miss the Katta, everyday of my life.

NEGATIVITY.

The vada pav seller in our locality does brisk business round the year, come rain or shine! All the classes of people are seen munching the delicious item with dollops of sour chutney and a juicy chilly. Cars, scooters and cycles are seen hovering around this stall, all the time. People envied the rich vada pav seller, wondered about his penchant for using the finest spices and the farm fresh potatoes. I am a very keen observer and noticed that the entire stall was resting on the tiles of the covered municipality gutter where the netherworld creatures and the repelling insects lurked around, multiplying their creed numbers in all their glory. Rats as huge as cats were rumoured to hang around the sewer. Cockroaches of all sizes and shapes lived with the teeming bugs. This stall had the best take home statistics in the whole town. The seller used to wear a thick gold chain around his neck to match his golden coloured swanky car.He used to feed his left overs to the poor sewage workers and they in turn would feed their leftovers to the omnivorous inhabitants of the sewer.

A celebration was going on in the house of our neighbours,a baby boy had arrived in their world and their joy knew no bounds. The dholaks were being played along with the cymbals to make the crowd dance. The eunuchs were just letting their hair down and joined the melee, Their outrageous lipsticks and the heavily made up faces were a sight to behold. It was a custom to call these unfortunate ones to bless their new child. No ceremonial proceedings were complete without the participation of the eunuch gang. Their blessings were of paramount importance in every household in our town. Eunuchs would never have children of their own in their entire sad lives.The dancing eunuchs earned their livelihood, but most of them now,were resorting to flesh trade to make their ends meet and to satisfy the perverted people in our town.

A major residential township was emerging in our town, it would include a mall, school and a theatre too. On the inauguration day, When the first stone was being laid, a fistful of soil was mixed with the cement. It was carried in a small plastic bag by the builder. It was from a brothel where the diseased soiled women used to ply their trade, much to their discomfiture, each one wishing a new lease of life.This soil was very auspicious and was the essential ingredient in all foundations of our town. No builder risked missing this vital act.

The sewer, eunuchs and the brothel all signify negativism. These deprived creatures and people are all suffering through out their lives. Yet, they impart immunity from all disasters to the blessed people.

Their negativity protects us.

They absorb all the negative energies upon themselves to keep us safe and sound. Their acts make us prosper. Their negativity balances our positivity. I wonder, why their blessings do not work on themselves and extricate them from their misery.

It is indeed a strange contrasting world.

MY FIRST CAR.

Back then, I had just started my practice, used to commute to my work place by train and our city's favourite 3 wheeler, the auto rickshaw. I used to enjoy the shrill 'dhin-chak' music played in their music players and used to hum the latest songs on the way.
I was uncertain of my future in medical practice. I had given up a decent job to venture out in this field.
One night, I got a call from my hospital about an admission and I rushed to catch the train to my station.While coming back, it was well past 2am and the first train would only arrive at 4am. I found an empty bench and slept off, after hastily puffing my cigarette away. I was dead tired and I never thought about the homeless tramps and beggars who would sleep on this same bench.
I can sleep standing also! Once, I had slept peacefully in a bed adjacent to a dead body in my ICU. I can sleep anywhere when tired.
I got up to catch the first train and rushed home to be welcomed by my mother to a cup of tea. I told her about my sleep venture on the platform bench. My dad also came to know about this.
Next week, I was surprised to see a gleaming new Marti car in my building compound.It was my dad's gift for me. A night on the platform had compelled him to buy it for me, I had never asked for it. There was a problem though, nobody knew driving in our house!
After a few days, I started driving to work in presence of my brother who picked up driving skills pretty soon, in my new Marti car. It was a heavenly car! It was small, but our heavy family could sit comfortably in it to be driven around.We used to spit polish to keep it shining, all year round. After all, it was our first car.We were proud of it and covered it with a plastic cover to prevent the bird droppings from spoiling the car.We even went to holy places in that car.It was a memorable car!
As my bank balance increased,the car started to look small and a decision was reached to buy a bigger car.My dad was against the idea of selling this car but there was no use for a second car as my brother had left abroad for higher studies.
Many cars later, I now drive a luxury car with a music system as costly as the price of my first car. How times change! There are car cleaners and chauffeurs to pamper the car.It elicits stares from the chicks in our small town. I am married now, so the stares are never reciprocated and do not excite me. Some bigger car will soon catch my eyes and this car too, will change hands.
I still miss my first Marti car.
I miss it very badly,
It bears my blood and sweat marks of my early struggling years.
Have you seen it zipping anywhere?

PLACE OF ORIGIN.

Ramu was a poor migrant daily wages worker, he had come from the scorched hinterlands of Bihar to try his luck in the melting, ever assimilating pot of Mumbai. The city offered hope for everyone in the country and thousands of people, like Ramu flooded the rail terminals in all their glory. He landed a job as a peon in a diamond export centre, After managing to rent a room in a slum, so small that he could touch the adjacent walls by stretching his small arms.
A lonely deity, in a wooden frame decorated his wall.

He and his wife barely, eked out a living.

He used to work as a watchman in the neighbouring building during nights to boost his paltry income. His sleep was compensated in a hour long train journey to the office.
He was burning the candle at both ends.

A responsibility was entrusted to him by his boss one day, he had to carry the unpolished diamonds to the polishing centre and get them back the next day. A small incentive was on the cards for him, Ramu lapped the opportunity with both hands. He was an ordinary man who aroused the least suspicions and hence would never be robbed, was the thinking of his boss.

His modus operandi was simple, he bought a new 3 storeyed tiffin to carry his food along with the unpolished diamonds. He used to keep the tiffin in a cloth bag under the seat of the train and sleep in a state of bliss.

It was a turbulent time for Mumbai,that year. A series of bomb blasts had rocked the city and awakened the citizens from their complacent slumber. A state of paranoia gripped the to and fro commuters, travelling daily for their livelihood.

That day, a snoopy commuter was checking under the seats for suspicious parcels and he found this huge tiffin under Ramu's seat. He immediately went berserk and started alerting his fellow commuters who rushed to see the supposed explosive, lurking inside the tiffin.

Ramu was in his dream world, happily thinking about his extra bonus by working as a diamond courier. He would buy a new sari for his wife and maybe, a movie in a mall which his wife wished about, all the time. He also thought of buying a tri-cycle for his son.
Tears of joy would follow soon.

The wheels of fortune were finally turning for him.

Meanwhile,the worked up crowd became highly agitated and not able to locate the owner of this huge tiffin, came up with a brilliant idea. The train was going fast over the creek, they just took it and flung it out of the train with all their might. The deep waters in the creek would defuse the bomb! Smiles and Backslaps passed on, through the entire compartment.

A major disaster was averted!

Ramu was oblivious to this whole commotion, as his destination neared, he woke up yawning, rubbing his tired sleep deprived eyes and was surprised to see his tiffin gone.His neighbour thanked the almighty for saving their lives.

He was the only sad person in the overjoyed compartment.

As realisation of events dawned, he cried his heart out. His diamonds were gone forever.His employees would brand him as a thief and put him behind bars. He cursed his sleep.
The tiffin was gone forever.
The precious rough diamonds, back to their place of origin-Mother Earth at the bottom of the Sea, via the creek.
Ramu hurriedly packed his bags, he boarded the train to his place of origin-Bihar!
He tilled the arid lands, achingly in despair.

THE HAUNTED KITCHEN!

We had gone to a posh hotel in our town, It was the costliest one and boasted of the best food in the town with the liveried butlers, the big Italian chandelier and the razzle dazzle of the lights. You could hear the muted gossips of the elite class of people, it was not for the hoi polloi class like me. I was in a splurging mood and hence dared to treat my family there.
I felt like a tenner in a hundred note bundle!
The staff was really nice, courteous and immediately treated us well, Maybe, they recognised our ordinary status and found a similarity between us and them. I thought so.
The food was so attractive that you did not feel like eating at all, I was scared to disturb the delicately arranged toppings. Any case,we finished our meals and savouring the taste, left the hotel.
Of course, I paid the atrocious bill. I realised that they were on a mission to fleece us and yet do it without any semblance of guilt. The dishes were so miniscule in sizes that small babies could have barely filled their stomachs! The pegs were so small in the tall glasses that any delay in consuming them would have led to the evaporation of the costly evanescent spirits.
The next day, I could see all the colors used by them when I flushed my toilet bowl. The stale sub standard food was being beautified and cosmetically enhanced to make it look palatable.But what could be done? It was required in their business, otherwise, the neighbouring hotel would dent their business.
Man wants everything made up, he cannot face the bare simple truth.
A friend of mine told me that they used to recycle the left overs by washing them in hot water and use them unflinchingly on unsuspecting hungry, drunk customers the next day, He was a chef in a 5 star hotel!
I don't like eating out and damaging my delicate bowels.
I need to give respite to my wife and mother who treat the kitchen like a scary haunted room on week-ends and public holidays!
I don't blame them.
Everybody needs a change.
The added colours rule the day.
Paint your guts away!

THE DANCING LADY.

She entered my clinic with an amazing grace. Miss Hemaben was a 40 year old lady, with a rare condition. All her movements occurred with peculiar synchronicity, the bobbing head, swaying trunk and sweeping movements of her hands. Her facial muscles were also constantly moving in agitation, sometimes to reveal a smile or a frown or sometimes a stiff inexpressive mask.

I lovingly called her 'The Dancing Lady'.

She walked with such a gait, falls were always around the bends and corners. Her bruised knees were the usual victims of such falls. However, she was a very charming lady. She was still happy to live her life without any assistance, a fiercely independent lady! The tremors in her hands prevented fine movements and she would frequently spill the tea or water on her gown, which she favoured wearing, as it was a zipped one. Buttons were her biggest enemies.

She suffered from Huntington's Chorea, a rapidly progressing disease of the brain centres which controlled motor movements and fine co-ordination. From onset, the disease would worsen in around 5 years' time. Her deceased father had the same disease and had left her early in life. Back then, there was hardly any awareness of this disease and the primitive treatment usually consisted of exorcising the so thought of demons which had possessed him.

She wisely remained a spinster as this condition would be transferred to her off spring and did not want them to suffer. She suffered alone though. Genetic diseases are being widely diagnosed now and many a counsellor is responsible for preventing births of known diseases. But, there is no treatment. Prevention is the only way. At least, adoption seems a favourable and a noble option for such distressed couples.

The Dancing Lady told me one day, Maybe, she was a unfulfilled dancer in her previous life and God was just making her dance to his tunes. She could not express her sadness due to her ever changing facial tone but the tears in her eyes were slowly trickling down like dew drops from a dead yellow senescent leaf. She was single and now required a full time maid to carry out her basic activities also. Her movements increased to such an extent that she had to be restrained to a bed. Soon the dreaded infections attacked her with all their might, she slowly succumbed to the eventual dance of death. She had died at a young age and had a lot of inherited wealth, along with her disease. There were no heirs or dependents to stake a claim.

She bequeathed her entire property and wealth to a small school.

The school teaches dance to rich and poor alike and they do not charge a single penny from anyone.

The teachers expect only a small garland and a silent prayer for the giant coloured photo frame, greeting everyone at the entrance, of the donor, Miss Hemaben !

LION-LAMB HANGOVER.

The ambience was heavenly, the stars in the dark sky were winking at us. The cool mid winter breeze was provoking us too. Above all, the Russian belly dancers, with their groovy moves were encouraging us to drink without inhibitions. My friend's bachelor party was in full swing! He was a ripe 36 year old man,the only unmarried lucky guy in our group! and finally had met a girl of his dreams, we were happy to join him in this occasion of happiness and the ritualistic compulsory celebration of pre-nuptial no holds barred party.We seldom get an opportunity to let our hair down.
I was on leave, hence started drinking like a desert-weary traveller. The whisky flowed like tap water,was well lapped by us, thirsty folks.I had decided to get drunk that day.Many a peg flowed in through my lips that day, After dancing the night away with the Russian dancers, we decided to leave for home.That was the last recollection of mine, that night.
I woke up surprised next day, in my bedroom! It was a scene from a movie, Where am I ?How did I reach here? were the questions torturing my now amnesiac mind. A faint headache was trying to grow in intensity, threatening to explode my skull. I went to the break fast table to have my morning cup of tea. Mansi and my dad were sharpening the knives in their minds, my mom never scolds me generally, she believes in a soft caring approach.
What followed later was a decibel shower of harshest berating for me, the worst kind ever experienced by me. Each word was like a nuclear missile and was laser targeted to pierce my heart and soul. When the mighty lion falls down, his entire army of subordinate generals attacks him! The lion becomes meek like a lamb.That was my sad plight. I had no defence, my friends had literally carried me home.What was left to say? Luckily, it was late night and no one saw my state.I was in my lost dream world of the exotic dancers.They expected a responsible behaviour from a grown up kid like me! My wife always thinks of me as a child's soul trapped in a man's body.

I had committed no crime.I had only tried to drive my blues away, have a blast, by celebrating with my close friends. I wished that my family would understand the significance of a bachelor party, A bachelor is going to a prison of a wed-lock, will never ever mingle with us like before, It is a sad sad situation for us. For him, the mirage of marriage looks appealing, but what does he know about the shackled life of married people.

A free bird, eagerly walks in to the cage!

I am happily married, folks! this was just a general feeling.
I pleaded guilty on all counts.I told them that this was the first and the last episode for them.I would never over indulge in spirits again.
I Hang my head in shame, my boogie nights are Over!
Is that the reason,they call it the Hang-Over?

NEWSPAPER & HANKIES.

As students,we used to travel by the train to reach our college. As the train left Sion station, a strange familiar nauseating, acrid smell used to waft in to our compartment from the open tracks between Sion and Matunga stations.We used to remove perfumed hankies from our pockets and hold them pressed against our noses during this part of our journey, but the smell overpowered our perfumes very easily and we would pray for the motorman to drive the train faster to end our olfactory misery. Dharavi,the popular slum flanked these unfortunate tracks.
If you peeked out of the window, hundreds of squatters would be seen on the tracks carrying out their morning act of purging their bowels, unmindful of the passing public staring in disbelief and sympathy. It was a ghastly sight for every citizen of this city.
There were the young squatters, hiding their faces in the morning newspaper and the old ones with their hydroceled balls resting on the ground, blissful in their sad state of want of medical attention. Some used to smoke during this act, but most of them used the black tobacco powder to facilitate their motion.Nicotine acts as a whip for the bowels.
The late evenings used to be even more shameful, when the ladies used to stand up with every passing train and resume their act, when the stares passed away. It was a sad state for them as they had to time their bowels according to the visibility on the tracks. This one act of probably, a couple of minutes, required privacy, which was denied to them by the corrupt government.
I once saw a blind old man being helped by his son to cross the tracks to carry out his morning act, I felt really sorry for him, but what could I do? At least, he did not feel ashamed of our probing stares at him and his plight.
The basic right to sanitation was being denied by the great government, the politicians used to promise before elections,only to conveniently forget later after their loss or victory.
Dharavi, the largest slum in Mumbai , was a big vote bank.
The buildings on the left side of the tracks were the lowest priced ones in Mumbai, I never saw an open window in those buildings.Still, people inhabited these unfortunate buildings.
After some time, you develop a tolerance and resistance to the bitter facts of life.
After few months,we also ignored the perfumed hankies in our pockets and moved on, enduring these five minutes of discomfort in our daily sojourn.
People spent their entire lives in this repulsive part of this city, their sad, often tragic life cycle of unplanned birth, marriage,old age and an early death would be in this smelly slum.
A few would move ahead in life, buying a self contained flat in remote suburbs of the big city.
Their shame would unfortunately stay forever though , hiding their faces in the newspaper, every morning !

BLACK MONDAY!

Monday was always dreaded by my unit of residents, it was our emergency on call day and we were responsible for any patient who walked in the emergency ward in our hospital for a full non stop day-night cycle of 24 hours. We would walk in like fresh daisies in the morning and walk out the next day, like battle scarred veterans-wilted roses.

The emergency ward was a chaotic place where patients flocked in great numbers, each one of them describing their agonies in a symphonic cacophony.You needed a cool head to survive their onslaught.I had 3 residents and 2 cute interns in my army and would work like a clock work unit to insure rapid disposal of the never ending hordes of patients.It was a municipal hospital and courtesy was never expected from us or our staff by the sick patients.Yet, we treated them with dignity to alleviate their suffering.Our lunch,tea or dinner was in a side room, visible to the whole ward, we never used to bother though, we used to be so hungry and tired.The influx of patients used to continue till the next morning, exhausting our physical-mental capabilities. This was followed by the grand rounds,which lasted till afternoon, pushing us to the brink of madness.We used to sleep like small babies in our wards and after a brief siesta, used to go to our rooms for shower and a late evening lunch!

A variety of patients used to enter the emergency ward.

Poly-Trauma during the Govinda festival, Suicides during Exam results,Burns during Diwali, Intoxication during Holi, Fractures during the slippery Monsoon season and Asthma during Winter. Infectious diseases showered their presence, all year round in our urban clean? city. Our centre was a tertiary referral centre and many patients used to come from the remote areas of our state, hoping for recovery.They were dazzled by the size of our hospital and were frequently seen, asking for directions. They looked perpetually lost.

One such day, we had the worst emergency of our lives, when we had to tackle the Mumbai blast victims.They came in droves,each one more grievously hurt than the other and soon, Code Blue was flashed, the entire department with their heads got ready to tackle the crisis.I was shocked to see the ward floor, being bathed in blood and spilled guts. It was a sad calamity. Most of the victims were brought dead on arrival and the ones who survived, wished they would be better off dead! Many lives were lost that day.

The bodies were kept in our side room, piled one upon each other like a stack of gunny bags. The severed limbs were kept in one corner,where we used to have our meals. Really, you could not determine the species of these mangled sad bodies, leave aside the religion! Our side room looked like an abattoir.We skipped meals for the next 2 days. A few fortunate survivors were hounded by the media to add to their misery.We stayed away from the glare.It was a heart wrenching experience for our on call unit that day and will stay with us for the rest of our lives to the grave.

I called that particular emergency day- Black Monday !

THE HURT LOCKER!

A few years back, We had gone to the fabled, desired USA to be with my brother's family and we really enjoyed our Diwali vacations together, had a nice time in Miami, shopped till we dropped and saw the dazzling sights. Soon, We left for Mumbai with heavy hearts and tears in our eyes. This was my family's best Diwali vacation ever!

I was carrying few hand-gifts back, which I had brought from Mumbai to give away to my near and dear cousins, settled in the fabled land since years and decades.

We went for the first time in our lives, crossed many oceans, travelled thousand miles to be in the USA. Yet, for two weeks, no one bothered to make a courtesy call also.It was an unpleasant experience for me and hurt me badly. All these years,I thought myself worthy of atleast one courtesy call. That was not to be and my hopes dashed.

I heard that, local calls in this country were free.

Still, the reason preventing them from calling me, escaped my naive native intelligence. These NRI cousins were always royally treated by our family, in their visits back home in our desi Mumbai. We extended our humble hospitality, taking care to arrange boiled mineral water and reclean our cutlery so as to protect them from third world germs.We went all out to appease them and bragged about their visits to our class students, the next day.

May be, they had become too big for us, they were now first world classy people and we, mere simple massy mortals from the third world. We were reminding them of their roots and long suppressed past memories, which may have evoked such behaviour on their part.Who knows?People change with time and place,that bitter fact dawned on me.

I carried my humble hand-gifts back home disappointingly.

I have kept them in a locker in my wardrobe.

I call it The Hurt Locker!

BORE-UNWELL!

The first thing, he encountered in the bottomless pit was the darkness and the suffocating moist fumes of the mother earth.He felt helpless and scared, his cries would never reach the surface which was as high as the heavens for him. He wondered about his pending homework and his teacher's cane which would be used tomorrow on his thin skin. He was a fragile kid and his body easily slithered down the bore well, which was like a bottomless pit. The injuries were negligible but the fear, significant, which silenced his vocal cords.All he wished, was to head back home and hug his parents.Who would rescue him? That was uppermost in his mind.
His parents searched high and low for him in this small town,eventually saw the school bag outside the bore well and frantically gathered the whole town around it.
He had to be saved.
He started feeling the effects of severe hypoxia and soon enough, was delirious due to the added dreaded effects of dehydration and hypoglycemia. He started communicating with his imaginary grandparents in that dark hole, who had long embraced heaven. He did not even touch the food packets and water thrown in by the rescue team. He thought, he would soon meet them and join their divine existence. His ambitions, were all slowly being put to rest.He was a small kid who imagined that one day, after growing up,he would leave his town and land a job in the city.
He was found in a fetal position after 48 hours of digging a parallel bore well along side the first one, his parents' eyes had run out of tears on the first day itself. They tried to revive him but it was too late to hope for any miracles.
One more victim for the official statistics!
The government gave a paltry sum, as compensation to his bereaved parents.
They refused it.
Thay felt no need of money.
All they wanted was their son back..........
I have a brilliant idea for the government, while constructing bore wells, can they make small handles on the sides, so that unfortunate kids falling into them could easily climb out, using their nimble hands, gripping and ascending to a new life.
I cry for the victims and want to avoid further deaths.
Is it asking for too much ?
You tell me !

A SAD DOG.

Tommy was a strong street dog in our town. He had a long mane of silky hair and was the pet of the town.The bitches would love to have litter of puppies with Tommy, such was his demand! His bark was very powerful, his bite worse, many thieves with their torn trousers and wounded buttocks would vouch and be scared of Tommy, so much that, our town was not favoured for thefts, in view of Tommy and his pack of dogs.They were our protectors, less corrupt than the paunchy cops. Tommy was always followed by a coterie of lesser pedigreed dogs, somewhat like a political leader.He was a proud dog and he got the juiciest bones to chew from our neighbourhood meat butcher.He had even managed to get a shiny collar around his neck to prevent trouble from the dog catching squad,who would gather stray dogs and sterilise them. He was proud of his virility and always eluded the squad.He wanted to fill our town with his progeny.
Last month, Tommy was run over by a rogue biker, who had earlier been bitten by him. The heavy bike rolled over his left hind leg and crushed it.Tommy writhed in agony and emptied his bowels out of shock.He whimpered and dragged his leg slowly to his resting place. A kind old homeless man like him, took sympathy and bandaged a splint on his leg and gave him water but Tommy was destroyed from within, his pride dented and his soul deflated.Slowly,the injured leg fell off and Tommy started walking with three legs.It was such a pitiable sight.The pain was gone but deep inside,he was crying his heart out.
He imagined the plight of fellow handicapped human beings, who lost their limbs despite the best medical treatment offered.He must have wondered hopefully about an artificial limb or prosthesis for dogs. He was soon, an out caste in his pack and on his own.He used to sit under the shady banyan tree and wait for kind people to give him food and water.
Mating season came and went, he had no mate this time, how could he? which aggravated his sadness further.He whimpered like a small puppy.Occasionally,tears would flow out of his brown sallow eyes.
He made a decision that fateful day, he became a rabid dog, attempting to bite the passing people, started frothing at the mouth. He looked vicious. But he never bit anyone,was just pretending.People get scared of rabies,they came and attacked him with sticks and stones to reduce him to pulp and bones.Tommy was happy,relieved at last, of his suffering.
The crows had a feast that day.
No one saw Tommy in our small town again.

JUDO-KARATE!

Raj was the most popular judo-karate trainer in our locality and I was mightily surprised, the day, he was admitted in my hospital for blunt abdominal trauma.The strong guy, admitted for an injury was beyond my wildest imagination.He would make mince meat of his opponents in the matches and had a collection of trophies under his black belt. He had a loving wife and a cute daughter, who was learning martial arts at at a tender age.He told me the events, that fateful night, which left me in tears.

There was a small gang of underworld extortionists who ruled our locality and spared no one, They used to collect small amounts of money under a political banner and blow it away on wine and women.The cops also, were afraid of them in view of their high reaching connections.That night, they asked money from him, as he was earning quite well in the vacations, he resisted initially, but succumbed to their knives and daggers.He could have beaten them black and blue with his kicks and punches,but remained silent. He even endured their rapidly raining blows on his abdomen quietly.I asked him the reason for his non retaliatory behaviour.

He told me that even if he would have overcome them, their bosses would return with their full might and would have injured him more grievously.Also, his family would live under constant threats from them.It was a no win situation for him and he did his best, to survive them by meekly surrendering and throwing the towel in this ring of life in the big mean city.He told me that skills don't matter in actual combats but guts matter.

The ability to wilfully inflict trauma on people, without realising the consequences was not in his blood and never taught in martial arts. He was a judo-karate teacher and not a savage like them.

I admire him for his discretion and valour, he truly won my heart over.

He taught judo-karate to kids for self defence.

He had defended himself and his family, the other way round....

MASALA CHAI.

Suman is a poor vegetable seller patient of mine,was admitted last year with me for Gastritis. At the time of discharge, she could only manage to pay half amount of the bill. She just smiled and told me to understand her sad plight.She was a widow since last decade and her sons had stopped caring for her under the influence of their evil wives-'witches'-according to her. Her daily survival was based on the sale of her green vegetables, which depended on the fluctuating diesel prices and the moody corrupt officials, who would harass for their share, in her illegal hawking business on the road.The entire market was scared of these officials who were like some land lords. Business was tough on the road nowadays.

I am a Robinhood doctor, the plight of my poor patients always softens me and I accepted the half payment given by her gracefully. She blessed me in return. The poor are indeed,always grateful and she proved me right.Every time she follows up in my clinic, she gets me green tea leaves and ginger as her fees! I am happy and I don't mind it.

A sort of 'kind' payment.

The first thing that wakes me up in the morning is the invigorating aroma of the 'masala chai' which my mother lovingly makes for me.It is sipped, with the newspaper in my hand and wakes me up from my groggy state.It also works up my bowels for their morning call of duty. The tea has Suman's gifted crushed ginger and green tea along with cardamom-pepper powder.It has to be boiled perfectly and mixed with an equal portion of milk and stirred lovingly for some time.It is an intoxicating experience.Also,the aromatic fumes from the cup reach the brain cells to tease and tingle them.

It is not an ordinary Instant Tea with some dip-dip bags and dehydrated milk powder.

I have roamed many places on this mother earth, but the 'Instant Tea' has always disappointed me, it can never think of comparing with the sublime 'masala chai' made by my mother.The first thing I do, when I reach India, is to call home and ask for my favourite cup of 'masala chai'.

Of course, I do remember Suman every morning!

A SERIOUS MAN.

My friends wonder about my whereabouts on the auspicious Holi festival, I stay home,perched on my balcony watching the colourful proceedings. I wave to my totally drenched daughter,who is frolicking at the pool with her unrecognisable coloured friends. She pleads for my company at the pool where everyone is having a blast time.She is a care free child and will take time to understand my predicament.The DJ music is making people, young and old dance and letting their hair down.The ladies too, with their wet dresses are enjoying a brief respite from their busy kitchen bound lives.They gyrate, oblivious of the probing stares, at their wet dresses. I choose to miss all the action. Well, you see that I am a doctor and hence, cannot celebrate in public gaze in my small town. People know me. What will they say when the revelry is over?That thought bothers me, as a pebble in my shoe would.
I lead a non flashy existence in front of my judgmental patients, lie low and avoid all unwanted attention.
I do not want to face the sad relatives of an ailing patient,who may be battling for his life,with a painted face.They would never understand me with their prejudiced vision. A fun loving doctor is regarded as a non committed one in our society.
I wear formal clothes, even on Sundays to my hospital. A casual dress and an approach elicits a lot of uncomfortable questions.I maintain a serious look all the time.I always share their worries and anxieties to sooth them. I have left many dinners and movies, halfway, just to be with my patients and offer them my comforting support. I never see the half seen movies again. Also, the hosts of abruptly left dinners see me with blood in their eyes. Later, they forgive me.
On vacations,far away from my town,I am a changed man altogether. I roam around in shorts and fancy t-shirts without a care in the world. I laugh and dance around my darling daughter, much to her surprise and amazement. My wife is glad, for the disappearing act of my forehead wrinkles. My life becomes colourful! My mask of seriousness peels off my face much to my delight. I feel sad on the flight, taking me back home.
I have to put on my sad serious mask again.
The Joker puts a mask on, to hide his Sorrow.
I do it to hide my Happiness.
It goes well with my dead white apron, dark tan shoes and the gloomy hospital.