A SAD PATIENT.

Doctor !! Doctor !! "Please don't give me an injection".
It was a loud wail which resonated and reverberated in my consulting room every month when the young boy named Nimesh used to come for his monthly androgen shots. My able bodied ward boys along with myself used to hold him and the nurse would jab him on his plump buttocks. The cries would shatter our window panes. After the jab, he would still cry for a couple of minutes outside the room. The crowd of outdoor patients would sympathise with the poor boy, some offering him chocolates.
Nimesh weighed over a ton despite only being 17 years old. His ears were shaped like a wrestler and slightly deformed since birth but not too evident. His acoustic acuity was hampered since birth, hence his conversations were very loud. His cries too, were amplified. He was a mentally retarded child as a result of hypoxic birth injury. He went to a special school and did pretty well out there. although his body was like that of an adult, his mind was like the one of a small baby. He had a huge head with crew cut hair with big bead like eyes. But, He was a cute boy. Consistently he had removed various hearing aids from his ears, pleading ear ache and tinnitus. He was a fidgety kid who played around with whatever object he could lay hands on. My torch and the stethoscope were also not spared by him.
He used to be accompanied all the time by an ageing frail lady whom he used to call Ammi. I was perplexed by the tremendous age gap between the two and one day I asked Ammi about it all.
Ammi told me that she was the maternal granny of Nimesh. His parents had left him with her when he was just a year old. They had simply given up on him and deserted him as they did not want an abnormal baby. They moved out of town, had a healthy child, a couple of years later. Soon, his mother too stopped enquiring about Nimesh. Such depravity was unbelievable and shocking. I silently muttered the choicest abuses for such parents. Their act was shameful and unpardonable. The poor Ammi had no choice but to rear Nimesh as her own son. Life moved on monthly pension.
It was a sad tale.
I look at his sad face.
He does not know the whereabouts about his evil parents.
One day, I asked him about them.
He laughed out loudly without a care in the world, ignoring the uncomfortable question. He believed Ammi to be his sole parent.
Ammi would go one day, Who would take care of him?
God alone knows.
I cried silently and prayed for him.
I hope, it works.
I ring the call bell and usher in the next patient.

DISTRICT 9.

It was the dark era of the late 70s. The clouds of recession were hovering around the small sleepy town. People had no real big money then.

Gandhi Nagar was a hutment colony which was overlooked by our buildings in childhood. You could see the steel grey rusty aluminium sheets and brown asbestos tiles in uniformity shading the poor population. God had hand picked all the unwanted beings in our town and placed them there. It was a place, shunned by all the higher strata of our small town. Yet, everybody had to encounter them as the main road ran through the colony.

The long queue of unshaven guys standing patiently with plastic tumblers in their hands and a small beedi in their slender fingers dominated the morning scene. The impatient kids used the road freely,often sitting in rows like school children, littering and desanitising our town. It was not a pleasant sight. The poor ladies had timed their bowels for the afternoon sessions when they would chat with black tobacco powder in their mouths.

Brawls were frequent and vociferous. Gandhi Nagar was a loud place. Water queues elicited the most decibels where the ladies would fight tooth and nail to gain vantage in the queue. Hair tearing and choicest abuses never escaped our attention. They used to fight for no reason whatsoever. They had nothing else to do. Evenings used to see the return of the frustrated drunken husbands who would vent their fury out on the hapless wives. Shrieks and Wailing cries dominated our otherwise quiet evenings. One day a drunkard was set alight with kerosene by his rebellious wife. She walked tall in the colony since then.

During marriages and naming ceremonies, The noise levels used to cross our tolerance threshold. Huge loud speakers blared out unheard of songs. We would shut all our windows tight. The revellers were hardly bothered and continued their celebrations. Even the police had given up, on this colony a long time back. They pleaded helplessness. The people were beyond salvage. They did not want to taint their hands or displease the local politician who fed on this vote bank.

Salma was a half mad girl who roamed our streets in tattered clothes collecting rags, paper and plastic bags in our civic town. She stayed in the hutment colony. One day she got pregnant and was beaten black and blue by her livid parents. We did not see her for few months.

The big well was located on the outskirts of our town. It was unused but people used to immerse the used flowers and garlands over there.One day, we saw a small still born baby floating in the well. The identity was never pursued but everyone kept quiet. Salma emerged from her home bound incarceration and merrily began her scavenging work. Such was Gandhi Nagar.

It was a DISTRICT 9 of our times. The socially out casted unwanted people made a haven over there. They lived their own independent anarchic life. The Mother Ship had abandoned them, right since birth. They were stuck in this mess and only ever wished to come out.

Last year, I went to see to my old town and was pleasantly surprised to see the new redeveloped Gandhi Nagar. The hutments were demolished and all the dwellers were accommodated in self contained rooms. The times had changed. Each house boasted of cable TV, fridge and a colour TV set. The entire look of the population had changed, for the better. Each and everyone had a job. The Gandhi Nagar looked so quiet and dignified that day. I had gone to visit my old ailing maid, was warmly greeted by her school going grand children.

I walked down from the building in a happy state.

I saw Salma, she was no longer half mad,

She had become fully insane like us.

She in her grey matted hair and an arching back continued her scavenging work.

The Mother Ship had conveniently left her all alone.

FUNKY TOWN- NOSTALGIA.

We all have music in our blood, it pulsates in every beat of our dull dreary lives.
It was a rainy afternoon in late 70s when we saw my dad come home with a khaki coloured box in his hand, 2 people were accompanying him with even larger boxes on their shoulders. We were eagerly awaiting this day.
Our new Philips LP stereo player had arrived in a grand style. The HiQ wooden speakers were mounted on the shelves in the top corners of our hall. The customary pooja was done and an aarti was played to inaugurate the system. Later, Our dad put on a song 'FunkyTown', which was a big raging disco song in our time. We swayed to the hypnotic beats and our neighbour's kids too joined the frenzy. We were all dancing without any care in our small world. This song would be played whenever we had party guests in our house.
This song became an anthem of our childhood. We never understood the lyrics, but it never mattered to us. The music and the rhythmic beats propelled us to dance, unabashed. We as kids would play at full volume and stand at our balcony proudly to observe the reactions of the neighbours of our small building. Special attention was directed at the cute, same aged girls who would giggle at us. We would blush, then.
Sometimes, Our dad, if in high spirits, used to shake a leg or two in his own inimitable style with striped pyjama shorts. Life was fun then.
My dad was attached to this LP player and used to take good care of it. The LP records were regularly cleaned by him.We never dared to open his records cabinet.
As time passed, Audio tapes and CDs made entry in our lives and LP records started dying a slow painful death. The music also changed and the melody just disappeared from the scene.
The youth embraced this shift but our elders sensibly stayed away from this new music. They labelled it as cacophony of destruction. Our non playing, now defunct LP player was eventually sold off to a scrap dealer. My dad was a sad man, that day.
My brother's family had recently flown in from the States. We had a feast that night and we were in pretty high spirits. My new Wharfedale music system had just arrived from UK, it came in a mid sized van. The speakers were as high as my 4 feet daughter. It was manna for the ears. A 7.1 surround Dolby system. It had all the works. The installation itself, had taken half a day ! There was the CD player,Woofer,Speakers, Amplifier and a big network of wires running around the system. My dad was keenly observing the whole set up. As we played the music,he silently observed us dancing merrily. He was reluctant to join us. Age was catching up on him.
My brother had a small surprise for my dad.
He took out a CD from his bag and played it on the system.
'FunkyTown' started emanating from the speakers in all directions of our house. The song was lapped up by our daughters and my small son, they just loved the beats and rhythm. My dad got up from his chair and joined his grand children to have a blast. The kids were happy to see their grand dad dance.
I stood staring outside my balcony, as I used to do before, in my childhood.
I was fighting hard to suppress my tears.

SANTA CLAUS AND TOOTH FAIRIES.

The Christmas tree was being decorated with bells and shiny silver trinkets by Chaitra last year. She was all excited and overfull with happiness. It was after all a Merry Christmas. She adored the cake brought by us. She planned to decorate it with Gems and Nutties of different colours and shapes. She was eagerly awaiting the stocking filled with goodies, so we thought.
As every year, I went to the mall to buy the stockings and started to fill it with the goodies,one by one. The latest Disney movie DVD, an oft listened carol audio CD, a red Santa cap, soft toys and chocolates usually filled up the stocking. A cartoon t shirt would squeeze in too. I would secure the stocking with a ribbon and keep it in the boot of my car.
In the night time, I would slowly tip toe out of my bed and rush to my car. I used to tie the stockings to my balcony grill and early morning Chaitra would wake up and rush to the balcony to grab hold of the goodies. Her sleepy eyes used to open wide with amazement and she would proudly show us all the goodies. "Mummy! Papa! " I have been a good girl this year, hence Santa has blessed us with the goodies.
I was the usual story teller and used to tell her about sighting the Santa with Rudolph the red nosed rein deer, galloping and flying the sled up in the skies. He could not meet us as he was in a hurry as he had to deliver goodies to all the good children in this world. Chaitra generally used to be content with this version of mine. Her friends used to come in the evening and dance to Christmas carols in the fun filled merry evening.
Last year, she unenthusiastically woke up from her slumber and slowly went to the balcony grill to retrieve the stockings which we had filled so lovingly on the eve. She opened up all the gifts and we were shocked to see the lack of happiness on her face.
Something was wrong this year. We were indeed worried.
We asked her the reason for sad non reactive demeanour. She just shrugged her shoulders and slept off again.
Later in the evening, She told us, " Santa is a myth and does not exist" !! Why you fooled me all these years?
She further justified her reasoning by showing the mall labels and price tags on the goodies.
Realisation dawned on us.
Our daughter had grown up. We could not fool her any longer.
Our spinning fairy tales' session with her listening with attentive ears and amazed eyes would end soon.
We had a relatively quiet dinner that day.
She lost her last milk tooth the next day,
We did not dare to keep it under the pillow in the night as we used to do in the past.
We missed our 'Tooth Fairy' world.
This Christmas, You won't see the goodie filled stocking, hanging at my home.
Next Year, I went with Chaitra to the mall to fill up the stockings with the goodies. My 2 year old son, Prithvy would wake up next morning.
Our fairy tale world had begun again.

IRON MAN.

The breathless patient was wheeled into the ICU under my care in our town's super speciality hospital. He was a portly, semi bald man in his late sixties. He was diagnosed with Fluid Overload syndrome due to Chronic Renal failure and Heart failure. After instituting the necessary treatment, he started improving in a couple of days. However on the fourth day, he acutely became breathless and eventually started gasping for breath only to stop breathing. The Blood Pressure started dropping and alarm bells on the monitors started ringing in a frantic urgent manner.It was a CODE BLUE alarm! The entire ICU staff mobilised around the patient and made efforts to revive him. I intubated the patient and put him on a ventilator. An immediate bed side dialysis was started along with various tubes inserted in the body for monitoring and administering life saving medicines. It looked like a war zone out there with me marshaling all the forces around this critical patient. The nurses and the junior doctors were all running helter skelter under my command. Eventually after an hour of resuscitative efforts, The patient showed some signs of improvement and stability.

The next equally important part was to appraise and counsel the immediate relatives about the grim condition of the patient.

I went to the waiting side room where a group of relatives was silently praying with anxious sallow look in their eyes. As I entered the room, I immediately hugged my mother and burst into tears. The critical patient was my Father and I could not bear to see his suffering. I am a very calm and composed person when I deal with such critical cases and my counsel always allays the fear of the relatives of the patient. But,this time I did not say a single word and just burst out crying. Seeing me in such a state depressed my relatives and they too joined the crying. I understood the pain the relatives go through when their patient is critical, but was not ready to experience the same. Later in the evening, my brother flew in from the states and hugged me and cried. In the night time, however my father had regained consciousness and achieved stability,much to our relief.

My father is called the "Iron Man" by us in view of his disciplinarian approach and military strict demeanour. The advent of grand children in his life has softened him now. He lives for them, so he says.

The grand kids always playfully roam like proud and fearless tiger cubs in front of the tiger, we still behave like meek lambs in front of him.

The Iron Man however fought all his demons in the ICU and walked back home the next week. My daughter Chaitra and son Prithvy were all agog with excitement to see him after a 10 day period. They just leapt over him, hugging,caressing and kissing him. The now softened Iron Man too cried in joy.

All the time, My dad was sure that I would make him alright, his eyes told me that. I was his guardian angel in the ICU and made sure of an early and uneventful recovery.

The "Iron Man" may be rusty now with age and one fine day will eventually crumble. Death is an inevitable part of life. I, as a doctor very well know that and so does he.

Till then, my kids say, Long Live The Iron Man !

TOLERANCE.

A few months back Chaitra came back from her school with swollen eyes, She looked depressed that day. I asked her the reason for her sullen face. She hesitatingly showed me her forearm. I was shocked and tears welled up in my eyes. You could see the whole dental imprints of a rogue child in my daughter's forearm. A classmate had bitten her. The fang marks were angry red and gave her considerable pain, Yet she suppressed it. We immediately took her to a pediatrician and gave her tetanus shot along with an antibiotic dressing.
The bite was unprovoked and my poor child had to face the brunt. She remained stoic and bore the pain. She did not complain to the teacher or the bus attendant. We were amazed at her tolerance. She did not even entertain the thought of retaliation also.
We were Maratha Warriors by caste and her lack of reaction took us by surprise.
I normally retaliate with my venomous tongue if anyone tries to get smart with me or hurts me. My friends and relatives are scared of my verbal lashings. They never dare to cross my paths in view of fear. My wife also reacts accordingly. Nobody can take us for granted.
Why my daughter did not hit back was the question persistently troubling our minds.
I mustered courage to ask her the reason.
She plainly said that she could not hurt anyone.
She also asked me a question,
Papa, Why do people hurt other people this way?
I had no answer to her query.
The entire world is strewn with hurt people, battered wives and children. War torn nations with their daily list of casualties. Terrorist attacks on the innocent civilians.
Collateral Damages.
Do we have answers?
I do not want my daughter to be so tolerant and a meek lamb like person.
Do you?
I want her to hit back. I want the repressed classes to retaliate and lead a revolution.
It's only a wish.

HAPPY DIWALI.

When travelling along the central track by train, you can see the green mountains on one side and the creek on the other side with the salt pans. In the rains, small waterfalls emerge from the crevices of the green mountains. During summers, the mountains appear brown and dusty. But the sight to behold is during the festival of lights-Diwali ! The hutments along the slopes of the mountains are decorated with the colourful lanterns which look so beautiful from a distance.
As if God has planted neon lights on the hills. This sight lasts for a few days. Then, the whole mountain looks dull all over again like the lives of the poor resident people eking out a humble existence. Getting water from the base is a herculean task, leave aside provisions or medical facilities. The old people pant their way to reach their homes. They get fresh air though, free of cost. This air infuses their troubled lives with hope. They come daily to the city, hunting for work with dreams in their misty eyes. Diwali is a festival of hopes after all.
This Diwali, the municipal officials razed the mountains for a sprawling residential commercial complex. They used dynamites to blow up the whole mountain. A booming Diwali for the poor, soon to be homeless folks.

The rich kids were celebrating Diwali as if there was no tommorrow. A long garland of red coloured crackers was bursting and was making the kids jump all around in joy and cackling laughter. Some kids were watching from a distance. As soon as the revelry was over, The watching kids slowly and stealthily advanced to the site of the burst crackers.
A few crackers were unburst with their fuses intact. They were slowly scavenged by the kids. A plastic bag was used to fill it with the unlit crackers.Their Diwali started on the streets, albeit a little late in the night. They were happy with the left overs.
After all, Diwali was a festival of giving and sharing.

It was an institute for the young unfortunate population in our small town. They used to impart vocational skills to them. This Diwali, they made lanterns for the whole town. They were in all shapes and sizes, delicately crafted by the nimble sensitive fingers. Some were fluoroscent in colour, screaming for attention. One by one, all the lanterns were lapped up by our small town folks. The young people who made the lanterns were happy to earn a small side income for the festive season.
They, however could not understand the meaning and significance of these colourful lanterns. These industrious people had never seen light, all their lives. Diwali was a festival of sounds for them. Their sights had been cruelly snatched by the almighty, a long time ago.
Their white canes with a ringing bell slowly led them to their lantern lit homes.