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.

GOD ALONE KNOWS.

We played a lot of Cricket in our childhood days, Our society had a big ground which used to serve the purpose of a cricket stadium for us naughty children. The pitch was prepared with the finest soil from the garden and a roller used to press it to a beauty. No children or dogs were allowed to trample on our holy pitch. We got the Cricket kit after small, yet generous donations from our parents. We used to play bet matches of one rupee per player with the neighbouring buildings, After victory, we would buy small ice cream cones to celebrate. Losses meant having to do, with plain lime juice at a near by vendor. The bats would be polished with oil to keep them shining and the balls dipped in a detergent to clean the dirt.
We would still have fun.
Our building had spoil-sport people, Mr Bedekar was one of them, he was our anathema! He stayed on the ground floor and was totally against Cricket as he was scared about the safety of his window panes. He was a typical guy with a short armed vest and a striped pyjama being his uniform.He used to seize the balls heading his home's direction and had collected a vast amount of balls. We never dared, to even look at them and would, with a heavy heart,buy new balls. He was a frustrated and a much despised person amongst us children. One day I threw a ball, which accidentally hit his buttock, the response was quick and his palm went smack onto my face. A palmist could predict his future by looking at my cheek! We decided to rebel and I secretly broke his pane with a stone, later in the night. He never came to know the culprit. I had taken my revenge.
Mr Bedekar went to the extreme and after connivance with the committee, built a big fountain in the middle of our pitch. He had the last laugh. Our cricket hungry, little hearts were broken by a heartless man. Fortunately, the coming exams distracted us from this sad event. Our vacations were spent on the nearby creek playing sunny cricket. It was hot, yet we played from morning till noon. We slowly grew up and stopped playing Cricket altogether.
Meanwhile, Mr Bedekar started reaping his own seeds of hatred, his sons usurped all his money and the flat also, was sold by them and he was shifted to a makeshift room in a far away place. He could not bear this trauma and slowly started losing his marbles. He used to arrive at our building sometimes, in a haggard state, only to be driven away by our watchmen. One day I saw him with torn clothes and a big jute bag on his back, like a rag picker.
We as children had always despised him and cursed him all the time as we used to spontaneously react to such unpleasant situations, but now as a grown up, I could not bear to see his plight. Tears welled up in my eyes. I gave him a tenner note for tea and biscuits, I could see a faint recognition glimmer in his sorry eyes but the shame of the earlier slap aborted the smile and he just walked away.
A few weeks later, he retired hurt to the heavenly pavilion. No one came to claim his emaciated body. We felt bad about the whole situation and some what guilty too.
Whether our hatred and ill feelings, as children towards him had resulted in his sad demise?
We could not answer this uncomfortable question.
Do you have an answer?
God alone knows.

SMILE- A LIFE CYCLE.

The newborn emerged, after hours of labour from the womb, He smiled for a moment and started bawling. His smile was instinctive, devoid of any expectation or expression. The mother smiled in relief after enduring hours of pain, with the oozing milk drops being sucked gently by her son. The father and his parents smiled in pride and amazement.

As the boy grew up,he used to feel happy when his dad came home, or when his mom used to serve him hot food lovingly,running after him. Also,when he used to show his merit grades of his school exams.This was his smile of acknowledgement, being cared for.

He used to smile blushingly when he used to see the cute girls in his school and his pink fluffy cheeks used to turn rosy red.

He got a college degree, a decent well paying job. Everyone in his family were smiling in a sense of achievement.

He married and his wife smiled coyly on the first night, the morning after when she woke up, had a smile of fulfillment of every woman's desire on her face. A few months later, they had a baby and the cycle of life continued there after.

As he neared his old age, his reluctant smile was of acceptance of his frail medical condition, he embraced death gracefully with the smile of a satiated life on his wrinkled face.

His wife, deserted by her very own children was eking out a modest existence of her own. She smiled wryly, looking at her deceased husband's photo-frame, with tears in her eyes.

5 STAR DAYS!

Back then, In the 70s, the first of every month used to be the most awaited day in the calendar of our childhood life. We used to wait on the balcony window, craning our necks to catch sight of our home bound dad. His arrival used to gladden our hearts and we would rush down to embrace him with expectant gaze. He was a salaried person and the first day of the month was more important than any other festival in his view, a thought which was shared by millions of salaried class of the country. The salary used to propel them to work harder for the next month and so on, the cycle continued amidst promotions and pay hikes.

My dad usually got hot samosas and jalebis on the pay day and 5 star cadburys' for me and my brother. We used to sit at the dining table and wipe the plates clean in no time. We were growing children and such oily, high calorie food, (there were no burgers or pizzas those days), used to be relished by us little devils. The cadbury would be stored in our individual secret places, to be savoured at leisure, independently and away from the public stares.

Dinner would be generally at the nearby Udipi restaurant with our finest clothes and polished shoes. The adjoining theater's night show would be enjoyed by the entire family, munching popcorn and licking raspberry candies. We would crash on the bed as soon as we reached home. On the pay day, the mood and the ambience of our house used to be pleasant and bright.

We would eagerly await the next payday, more than our dad !

Time gradually passed and my dad retired, we grew up and started earning.

The first of the month is no longer fun for me like my childhood days, I dread it's arrival as it blows big holes in my small pockets. The steep hospital rent, car and home loans, salaries to my driver, house-maids, nursing staff and junior doctors, building maintenance and grocery bills all combine to depress me and my cheque book. A lot of money goes to places I have never known and will never understand.

Its too complicated!

It's really amazing, that once, I eagerly awaited this very first day of every month.

They have a song "Khush hain zamaana, aaj paheli taareekh hain!" Really, to translate this song, ' The entire world is happy on the first date of the month ' ..

But on this day, I am unhappy.

I wish for my childhood 5 star days!

EGO-DAVID V/S GOLIATH.

He was a strange patient of mine, a politician who made it a point to visit me every month for his non existent diseases and highly imaginary ailments. His sycophants and body guards made it a point to proudly announce his arrival at my clinic, oblivious to the rush of the existing, patiently waiting real sufferers. He demanded priority and used to barge into my clinic with his coterie who were very much concerned about their provider's health. Their lives depended on this man's well being, such was the parasitism.Of course, he never paid me to add salt to my wounds. Also, he used to waste a lot of time with his carefully prepared questionnaire. But I used to endure him as it generated my good will amongst his followers, my future patients.
One day he came into my clinic with a wedding invitation card in his hand, his daughter was getting married and the venue was a nearby five star hotel. It was a vulgar display of his ill acquired wealth and power.He requested my attendance as I was an important cog in his big ferris wheel. He asked me to come with my whole family.
I went alone, there was the usual crowd of the boot licking cops mingling with the white clothed, gold laden people of the dark underworld. It was a dazzling affair. VIPs were welcomed with a bugle, beating drums and a speaker announcement, they were personally escorted to the stage by the gleaming politician. I was fading into oblivion in this pomp, nobody acknowledged my existence. Despite seeing me, he ignored me, May be I was not wearing enough gold on me to attract his attention. Also, my dark clothes suggested my less glorified and dignified existence.
I am imperturbable normally, but this turn of events really upset me.
I walked out of the venue and headed to my clinic, my own kingdom. I was a king and my courtiers were eagerly waiting for me, suffering in silence. My arrival brought smiles on their tired faces.
Few weeks passed, the politician and his cronies arrived at my clinic.
It was my turn to extract revenge.
I made him wait for an hour, as he entered inside, he was seething with anger and demanded an immediate explanation from me for the delay in letting him inside. He missed the lack of priority, normally given to him in the past.
A small fish cannot fight with the crocodile, if he has to survive in the murky waters.
I told him that he was spoiling his reputation amongst his voters by barging in and walking out without paying me. I told him that the waiting patients were his voters and he could not risk antagonising them, with the elections just around the corner.He was a dumb, hare brained person who immediately got convinced, thanked me profusely and while walking out, reluctantly paid all my pending fees in full view of the waiting crowd.
I felt victorious.
David had slain the Goliath!
My shattered ego heaved a sigh of relief.

RED.SHIRT..

He was a broad shouldered man, his only possession in this world was his cart with two wheels in which he used to carry 2 passengers to their destination in the humid city of Calcutta. It was a humiliating job, but ends had to be met. He earned more than others in view of his athletic body which used to pain in the night. There was no one to soothingly massage his aching bones or give a hot water bottle.He longed for a companion, She was a maid who lived in the neighbouring slum, was squint eyed but had caught his fancy. The only communication used to happen when they stood in the morning queue, awaiting their turns patiently, near the common overcrowded toilet.She loved him, as he looked the earnest and sincere kind.
The passengers sitting in this human rickshaw had no shame of being pulled by a fellow human being, such was the callous attitude in this heartless city. It was a blatant violation of basic human rights. The fat lazy people in this city used to be a burden for these human mules.
A day was fixed for the girl's parents to see the guy.
He was all excited, but did not have decent clothes to impress his would be in laws. A red shirt, hanging in the window of a clothes store had been selected by him to wear on that day, was running short by some rupees, hence postponed the meeting by a week. On the day before, he arranged the money in his dirtily stained, once white shirt pocket, carried the day's last load of passengers speedily, unmindful of the red light. All he saw was the colour of his red shirt in those lights. Nothing could stop his racing heart and the tired feet today.
The speeding car with a red light on it's roof collided with this unfortunate man and just sped away, as expected. It was on official government duty!
People stared at this injured, gasping man with their unconcerned eyes. He breathed his last shortly. The stains on the street would dry down and be erased by tread marks tomorrow.
The shirt was all red in colour, as he had wished for, all this week.
She mourned him for a week and later, married a tea stall owner in the vicinity.
Life had to go on in this cold hearted humid city.

FAVRE LEUBA...

It is a very old watch, Favre Leuba, an imported one belonging to the 60's era but still running like a steady horse with the seconds' arm ticking accurately in this 21st century. It is a steel grey automatic watch which is regularly worn by my proud dad. The dial has luminous hands which glow during the nocturnal power cuts.So far, it has never failed us and makes us complete all our tasks punctually. This watch is treasured by our family as it has its own story to tell. It was bought by my dad with his first salary.

It was the summer of 1984, we kids were playing monopoly in our sunny terrace enjoying our vacations, my dad was the chairman of our building and was supervising the pre monsoon cleaning of the water tank. The contractor was petrified of him as he was a hard balled task master. Even,we kids used to be afraid and in awe of our dad. There was some problem with the valves in the tank and my dad climbed the ladder to look for a possible solution. The tank was about 6 meters high and an imposing structure. While trying to descend, he lost his footing and fell down with a crashing sickening thud like sound. I thought as if someone had thrown a massive gunny bag on the ground, such was the intensity of the sound. But as we came to know that our dad had sustained this fall,we rushed towards him. Seeing him with a big bleeding gash on his forehead brought tears to our eyes and we rushed him to the hospital. He had sustained multiple fractures in his knee, thigh bone and the wrist of his right hand. He never cried and was surprisingly in a relaxed state of mind. He did not wince with such poly trauma also, may be he did not want to express his grief in front of his small sons. But I never saw him cry. He was discharged after a month and a couple of surgeries, slowly he made complete recovery and was again busy with his life. A walking stick accompanied him for a couple of months which was discarded later, sorta like Forrest Gump by him.

He walked and ran like a normal man.

When he sustained the fall, the wrist watch in his left hand sustained the impact and protected that wrist from trauma. The entire watch broke with the springs and levers running hay wire on our terrace floor, my friend had collected the parts and gave them to me when my dad came home. The watch was repaired by a glass eyed man in Mumbai and was restored to its original pride and shining glory. The watch recovered, with my dad and became symbolic of our dad's survival. He wore it the day, he resumed, going to the office.

It was a protective amulet for my dad. Till date, that watch has been revered by us.

I have a collection of Swiss watches, including a Rolex also. They reside in my special velvet lined drawer. They are arranged in a neat row by me and regularly polished with a moist muslin cloth with some tooth paste.

But, my dad's Favre Leuba ousthines them all.

It is not a mere time telling watch,

It tells us the story of hope and survival.

REST IN PEACE.

I was returning from a late night show, was pretty dark as it was a moonless night. I stayed on the third floor and climbing the flight of stairs was the biggest nightmare for me as I surely believed in ghosts and demons lurking , in our staircase. To worsen my panicked state, the lights also had gone out. It was pitch dark. The pack of dogs in our building were also nowhere to be seen, their recognising bark followed by a whimper used to reassure me on such dark nights. The ascent to my home was the toughest hurdle in my life at that moment, I was shivering inside and with a prayer on my lips, slowly began my 'upward' journey.
There was a reason for my paranoid behaviour.
A few days earlier, a young bride had just poured kerosene on her body and had burnt to death in our ground floor flat, probably it was a dowry death or so , but we were too small to understand such moral implications.I had seen the charred body lying lifeless on their kitchen floor, believe me folks, it was a very ghastly sight for a young school boy like me. Her black shrivelled body used to constantly appear in my nightmares during my childhood. I used to wake up sweating and hug my mother, who would protect and shelter me. It was a trying time for me at such a tender age. Her husband had sustained the customary burns on his hands while trying to save her. I never came to know the legal course of this incident, soon he was out of the lock up and roamed freely in our society.
Back then, Dowry laws were not very stringent and the brides or their grieving families never used to get justice from this oppressive system.
I had other reasons also to justify my fears, A funeral centre was just adjoining our building where the fires used to burn daily and constantly. Also, my bedroom window was flanked by a tamarind tree, which used to harbour spirits in the night, along with the blind bats who used to frighten me and my brother to our bones.
Fortunately, nothing happened to me as my prayers overpowered the dark spirits and I safely reached home. I decided to buy a small torch, the very next day with my pocket money.
A few months later, I came to know the sad plight of the widower in our ground floor flat. He had turned into a schizoid person who was jittery through out the day and never slept a wink in the night.His life had become a never ending nightmare. His thoughts were constantly about his deceased wife and drove him mad. Soon, he was shifted to a mental institution for better care and treatment. I heard that he never recovered and still can be seen chained to the steel bed, screaming for mercy. The spirit had possessed him and taken over his soul. So, the elders said. His wife had suffered in death and he was suffering in life, if you could call it a life. He never publicly admitted his role in his wife's demise.
But, you could see the guilt in his red sleep deprived eyes.
The wife's spirit never allowed him to do so.
She was extracting her revenge.
I was happy for her soul.
It would rest in peace.

CHOCOLATE KUMAR.

It was our summer vacation in the early eighties, We kids were mightily excited to read the banners proclaiming Chocolate Kumar's arrival in our home town. He was a cyclist, who pedalled for a stretch of 3 days continuously in a marked circle, round and round, much to the cheer of the gazing crowds.He was accompanied by a team of helpers to take care of him in these endeavours. An accompanying cute clown dwarf was the source of giggles all around. The children used to adore him. His main job was to collect the money showered on the cyclist, in an over sized hat.
Soon, Chocolate Kumar arrived in our town and the loudspeakers sprang to life to add to the carnival atmosphere in our small town.
Chocolate kumar was an acrobatic cyclist who could ride blind folded, on a single wheel, stand on the seat and even ride while facing behind in the opposite direction. He was really talented. The cycle was his symbiotic host, he feeded off it, but also pampered it with a garland and all season shine on the black metallic body.The hot Sun never deterred him from this back breaking activity. He was allowed an half hour grace period for his daily toilet break. The evenings drew a lot of crowds, the music, real loud, used to propel him to pedal faster. We used to clap heartily to support him.The adults used to whistle and cheer him up.Of course,the clown used to regale us with his somersaults and jumps and a comically small tri cycle, which used to tumble on his riding attempts.
It was all innocent, unadulterated fun.
On the third evening, as the event was coming to an end, Chocolate Kumar was in intense pain and agony and it looked as if he would not complete the event. But, somehow he survived to finish his task, much to the relief of the gathered cheering crowd. He had managed 3 days on the cycle, that too, non stop. The fatigued Chocolate Kumar was garlanded by our local obese, corrupt corporator and given the prize amount.
Everyone clapped till their hands hurt.
As he was getting down from the dais, I could see the dark red blood, staining his trousers near the calf region. A varicose vein had ruptured and hence the oozing of blood. It was an expected occupational hazard for the cyclist. His team immediately bandaged his leg with a roller gauze and stopped the ooze.The thick legs bore the brunt of his continuous cycling and the fragile veins were giving way. He still smiled, despite the pain.
He kissed his dear cycle and with tears in his eyes, bade us all goodbye.
We never heard of him again.
But, he is, still entrenched in our beating hearts.
The eighties were our wonder years.
I wonder about the plight of such cyclists in this 21st century.

LISTEN TO UR HEART.

A long time ago, Chaitra was thrilled when the dove couple decided to make a home in our kitchen window sill. She was very fond of birds as she was small and common things which we ignore in our busy lives were treasured by her. Children derive pleasure from insignificant trivial things in life. The doves used to sit on the window sill and mutter incomprehensible sweet nothings. Chaitra used to listen in awe. The kitchen was a new play pen for her as she slyly shifted her toys, much to the consternation of my family but we had always pampered her and could not say a word to her. Her daily activities used to revolve around the couple. She used to keep a pail of water and few grains for them to feed.

Soon, the couple fructified their love and an off white coloured small egg was laid in the nest. Chaitra's joy knew no bounds as she celebrated the event like a foster mother to the egg. Now her focus shifted to the incubation of the egg and the daily progress was constantly updated to us by her like a chirpy news reader. A small baby dove emerged from the hatched egg and again, this event too was enjoyed by her like some birthday. She gave chocolates to us and was gleeful that whole day.She was the unofficial guardian angel of the dove family!

The baby dove had started to grow and the flapping wings started to give him mobility. Small jumps on the window sill were applauded by my innocent daughter.Little did she know, that the baby dove would soon fly away. The day came and brought tears to her eyes. She asked me about the whereabouts of the baby dove and its well being. She was worried about the safety of the baby dove from the ever threatening crows. I allayed her fears and told her that the entire dove family was safe and sound.She sulked for about a week and slowly shifted her toys outside the kitchen, back to her room.

I was also affected by this chain of events, seeing her love for the doves, I left eating eggs for a period of about six months.

I just did that out of love for my daughter and her sentiments.

I felt better that way and could share her pain. There was no motive behind my act, Chaitra was unaware and incapable of understanding my decision also.

Life need not be based on practical and logical decisions.

Sometimes, you have to,

Listen to your heart!

A LOVE STORY.

Rani never used to sit on a window sill waiting for her prince charming to take her to the promised lands of bounty and beauty. She was aware of her limitations in life.God had been unkind to her since birth.She had Polio. Both the legs were flaccid and limp, Life had been cruelly drained out from them. She had, only her crutches, for support in the walk of life. Her family of rich parents were supportive but used to get exhausted with her ambitions and dreams of leading an independent life. God had clipped her wings, a long time ago. She had passed her matriculation exams and called it a day as she was not able to face the constant unconcerned sympathetic stares offered to her by the normal crowd. Much parental persuasion compelled her to take a correspondence course. Studies was never her primary concern in life, she was too busy, fighting her inner battles of struggled existence.

She met Raja on the net and an instant liking developed between them. They could connect to each other on various topics in life. He could understand her curiosity and excitement. He even came to know of her crippled status but never waivered from his decision of marrying her much against his parents' wishes. She was overjoyed and thanked her lucky stars. God had decided to paint a smile on her sad face. Raja truly loved her regardless of her condition.
Such true love is indeed hard to find nowadays in this age of arranged marriages of convenience.

Raja married her with a great pomp and celebrations, they even had a honeymoon in a nearby hill station. He treated her like a normal lady without any pretence or sympathy. She was his true love and his source of pride. He looked after her, well. He never cried when the doctor told them that they could not have a baby. Rani cried for months, suffered in silence. Raja was made of much sterner stuff, though. They decided to go for an adoption and soon their house was filled with smiles and laughter. The little angel brought back the charm in Rani's life. They lived happily ever after.
A couple of years later, Rani left them, off to her heavenly abode after a brief illness.
The adopted little angel felt lost in the big house and required a mother for his upbringing.
Raja could not think of remarriage as he still remembered Rani fondly. He decided an easy way out, he left all his work and concentrated on the upbringing of his child. He was a rich person who could feed the next seven generations. The child grew up to be a handsome man.
On the day of his son's marriage, a crippled beggar came hunting for left overs of the marriage feast, she was shooed by the workers but Raja saw her and offered her food and also packed a box of sweets for her.
As he retired to bed, he saw the box of sweets on his bed! His dead wife Rani's spirit had eventually come, to bless his child. He could not control his tears.
Next day, they found Raja on the bed, lying peacefully with a smile on his contented face.
He would be reunited with his wife soon.

PATERNITY LEAVE!

I'm really busy nowadays. My life has changed for good after the arrival of my baby boy last week. I feel happy, more so from within, nowadays. Tranquillity exists despite the noisy footfalls of the wishing guests in our house. I have completed my family cycle of progeny genesis.

Hum do hamaare do.

Chaitra is really very happy and her ever smiling face is the symbolic barometer of the exuding joy in our family. However, she craves for her mother's company who is very busy and occupied, blissfully with our baby son. I have an added responsibility of handling Chaitra, which I gleefully comply with. I take her for Tennis class in the morning, drop her to the school bus and pick her up in the evening. Soon, I will have to take care of her homework too! Also, I have to keep a watch on my baby boy when Mansi is eating or in the shower, I burp him after a milk feed. I have stopped blogging nowadays as I hardly get time. At night times, I have to get up to give warm water for cleaning the baby.

I love helping my wife. I have a great backup team in form of my eager to help and guide-parents!

Most importantly, I have to focus on my hospital and my patients to ensure a steady monetary inflow. Fortunately, I am able to juggle all my tasks and get rewarded by an admired and appreciative glance from my dear wife.

Who says parenting is 'one man show', I am ready to disprove that fact. It is a team effort.

I too, need a 'Paternity Leave'!

.MR SHARMA.

It was a serpentine queue, people in all colour faded clothes were standing in the sweltering sun, waiting for the water like the drought struck farmers waiting for the rain.Mr Sharma was first in the water line as he had arrived very early, in the morning. He had to fill the 2 buckets for his home, his wife ailed from a stroke and was bed ridden from a decade. He was a punctual man and was getting late for his work, thanks to the municipal corporation. All his life, he had toiled as an ordinary clerk in a garment firm with paltry wages. He was over 65 now, he had to daily, look after the basic needs of his wife right from feeding to cleaning her.

Age was taking a toll on him.

The tap hissed and spluttered to life after a long delay, however the flow was very slow to fill his buckets. He was reminded of his bladder condition, he used to sit and strain for long hours in the bathroom where each drop released brought relief from the pain in his over sized prostate gland. He was advised surgery but could not gather enough money for it. Somehow, the buckets filled up and he started ascending the flight of stairs, home. The slippery stairs claimed one more victim that day, Mr Sharma fell down and all his buckets' water trickled down the stairs like some water fall cleaning them. His hours' effort had all gone to waste.His arched back was hurt again, He had to take a decision that day.

His wife was bed ridden since last decade and in a semi comatose state. She was totally dependent on her husband for every breath of her sensory deprived life. Her eyes begged for mercy, Mr Sharma had ignored them so far, Today, he sadly, eventually decided to oblige her.

He calmly suffocated her with a soft pillow, she succumbed without a semblance of a struggle which was any way, never expected from her nor desired by her. He went to a doctor to get a death certificate for cremating his dear wife.

At the funeral pyre, The only companion was a lonely resident dog, who howled at every passing corpse as if he was grieving their loss.

Mr Sharma came home, a much relieved man.

He had eased his wife's suffering at last. His urine flow improved and he could no longer feel the pain like before.

Next day morning, Mr Sharma was seen, first in the queue at the municipal water line.

The tap was heavily over flowing, like never before. So were, Mr Sharma's eyes!