BARBIE DOLL 2. HOLLOW LIFE.

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

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

BARBIE DOLL AND CURDLED MILK.

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

THE MOANS-SOON.

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

THE FLAG REVOLTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It chose not to do so.

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

The flag revolted.

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

TISSUE PAPER

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

3 TALES.

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

MOTHER'S DAY GIFT.

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