PUZZLES.

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

ASHEN HAIR-RED EYES...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His body could not take the heat, any longer.

DAHI-HANDI- SKULLBONES AND COCONUTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Money was their biggest anesthetic and analgesic!

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

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

The innocence of celebration has been snatched away from us.

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

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

THE BUTTERFLY LADY,MR DAVID AND THE MALL.

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

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

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

RAKSHA BANDHAN.

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

GUMMY SMILES- THE ODD COUPLE.

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

VISIONS..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We never bother about these common every day people.

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

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

I wonder about our and their vision.

Are they blind ? or Are we blind?

You decide.