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.