TREADMILL OF LIFE.

It was a very uncomfortable day for me yesterday.

The day began with excruciating chest pain which radiated to my left arm and shell shocked me into believing that something was wrong with my heart. I am 40 years old and not growing younger everyday. The stresses of life and genetic factors would catch me up one day.
The echo and the blood markers mercifully came up normal. A treadmill test was planned during the latter half of the day. My family got worried and began crying. I too became a bit worried with their behavior. My thready pulse started soaring to new highs but my spirits were on a all time low.

The morbid fear of heart disease and the resultant disability gripped me lke a python.

My life had just begun and I needed atleast another decade to settle my kids who were still young. They also loved me and started crying.

I began running on the treadmill like there was no tomorrow with a prayer on my lips and a steely resolve to put all the doubts to rest.

The attending cardiologist, after 12 minutes begged me to stop running on the treadmill. He told me that I had run enough to pass the test. I refused and told him to max out the test. My pulse reached a dizzying 170 beats per minute yet I had neither chest pain nor any fatigue. After the test, he congratulated me on my stamina and heaved a sigh of relief. The graphs of the test were normal.

I was overjoyed and my family was mightily relieved. They started breathing again.God existed for me yesterday. When I got down from the treadmill, I sat down quietly in one corner and started crying. The cardiologist was surprised and rightly so.I should have been happy with the results of the test and my tears had a different reason for their origin.

It was a hot summer in 1997 when I was a MD resident in KEM hospital when my dad was seen in the opd for similar chest pain episodes. He was 55 years old, diabetic and a hypertensive smoker with a strict temperament to boot,thus fulfilling all the risk factors for germination of a heart disease.

As he walked on the treadmill, after 3 minutes he had chest pain and breathlessness. His rhythm became awry and his ST segments started rising indicating an evolving heart attack. The test was immediately aborted and the entire cardiac team rushed to the treadmill to check on my dad. He was pretty cool after the termination of the test and was unaware of anything going wrong with him. The HOD implored him to get admitted on the ICU and undergo an urgent angiography.I too pleaded with tears in my eyes.

He was made up of sterner stuff. He asked the HOD to prescribe some meds for him and calmly walked up to Parel station,climbed the overbridges and came home by train. I was a helpless mute spectator. I could never convince my dad or go against his wishes.

He was our Iron Man.
After a week, we could manage to convince him and he underwent successful stenting to his coronary vessels.He later underwent CABG after 5 years in 2003 which gave him further extension of life till september 2011.

He lived like a tiger, enjoying his life fully, smoking and weekend drinking, seeing movies, playing with his grandkids.

His entire life flashed in front of my eyes when I began walking on the treadmill yesterday.

I went home, hugged my kids and cried even more. The tears just never stopped flowing yesterday.

EK DUJE KE LIYE.

It was a bright sunny day when my parents dropped me at the school at 12 noon. The campus looked empty to me as the secondary classes were going on. I was, a big one hour early to school. My primary mates were yet to arrive. My parents had to go see the movie, EK DUJE KE LIYE. It was a big hit those days and drove hordes of young cupid struck couples to fling themselves off cliffs.

I sat alone on the school steps vowing vengeance on my parents who hurriedly went to catch up the show. They looked so happy. I felt left out of the whole picture. I failed to understand the reason for leaving me all alone. I skipped my dinner in protest that day. I was a kid and behaved like one. After much cajoling and an ice cream candy bribe, I had a late dinner much to their relief.

I never understood what an adult movie meant and why we innocent kids were never supposed to even talk about, leave aside viewing them. I simply understood that my parents had left me all alone, even if for a small period of time. During that hour which I spent on the school steps, I plotted a future revenge plan when I would leave my parents all alone and see an adult movie.

When they came back to pick me up, I just hugged them and cried. I wanted them to never leave me alone.

Time passed by and I grew up to be a tall teenager and finally an adult. The past memories of the revenge had faded away. The movie was screened umpteen times on the tv screen and our country had liberalised from the pallus to the micro minis. The titillation threshold had progressed beyond imagination.

What was covert once had blatantly become overt now.

It was a black day for the city when in 1990 many commuters lost their lives in the train blasts. My train to my coaching classes ran during that ill fated schedule and I narrowly missed that train as I had left early that day. I was in the preceding train. We were unaware of the situation.

My parents had no clue of my whereabouts and as soon as they heard the news on their tv screens, they panicked helter skelter. Landlines got jammed and there was chaos.I blissfully was coming home and was surprised to see them on my building steps sobbing profusely. They just rushed at my sight and hugged me with all their might.

I saw tears in my dad's eyes for the very first time in my life.

The whole scene was like a flashback from the past. Me, hugging my parents on the steps. The only difference being that now I was consoling them about things being alright.I reminded them about the past incident of my revenge plot and we all laughed it off.
The common factor being fearful anxiety.

Last year, my dad took the greatest revenge of all and went far away into the arms of God.

As long as we are together,Let us all live for each other, i:e EK DUJE KE LIYE.

THE MALINGA WIG.

After much persuasion by Chaitra, I procured the pricey pavilion IPL tickets in black. This was our first time visit to see a live match in a stadium. Normally, I prefer seeing matches in the cool confines of my home with a refilling glass of scotch. This time, I had to go for my daughter. My wife came along with us leaving my son behind as the din would be too overwhelming for him.

The experience was like a festival of sights and sounds. It seemed that the entire city was trailing towards the stadium. The flood lights lit up the evening sky. We bought blue fluoroscent wigs and tees to support our home team. Vuvuzelas resounded in their glory. The entire crowd was in a state of intoxication. Film stars and Industrialists were seated in and around us to add to the excitement.

We were floating on fluffy clouds of unabashed man made entertainment. An ethereal luminous state.

The dirt laden lanes surrounding the stadium painted a different grim picture.A swarm of homeless had made the city roads their only abode with kids in tow.

As soon as the match got over and we were walking out, a group of feisty kids started to pester us to let go of the 'malinga wigs' and the vuvuzelas.They would sell them to the vendors who would recycle them back to the unsuspecting spectators.
The dishevelled kids knew little about 'malinga'. He was in a way,their sole wage provider during matches held in the stadium.

It was such a stark let downing contrast.

My eyes failed to adapt from such bright lights to the sad deplorable darkness.The eyes let down a stream of held back tears.

A normal expected reaction.

The blue fluoroscent wig covering the bare naked core of the city was torn apart. It revealed the apathetic tragic pate, fate of the cruel city.

The pretence was broken apart with a noise even more shattering than all the merry sounds of the packed bursting stadium.

I walked on with a heavy heart.

CITY OF DREAMS.

My kids wished to go SoBo yesterday.They wanted to sniff the sea breeze and explore the fabled Gateway of India,enjoy a motor boat ride and soak the sights of the city.

Nausea struck me as I alighted from the car.A strange rancid smell of diesel,dry fishes and horse manure wafted through the stagnant air assaulting my senses. The gateway is flocked by out of town desi tourists and a scattered group of foreigners.

Everywhere, you could see squatted hawkers selling cheap plastic toys and nuts. A guy sat with a weighing machine too. He was quite busy.Photographers with tattered albums in hand tried in vain to solicit us for backdrop photographs.

The motor boat ride was a scary one for my kids as the boat swayed wildly from side to side.A desi drunk tourist puked, showering some people onboard with his spittle. After a turbulent bawling ride, we returned ashore.The drunk desi slowly crept out of the boat, hiding his face.

The ill lit promenade was littered with plastic bottles, cola cans and peanut shells They crunched under our shoes..It was an ugly sight.A few couples tried to get cosy on the parapet adjoining the sea in excitement.Heavily made up desi folks scuttled for souvenir group photos.They wanted this slice of history, hung on their native walls.

As we were walking back to the car, my son got attracted to an illuminated spinning top being sold by a hawker. The wares were mounted on one sheet of a raggedy cloth and a naked infant slept on the adjoining equally dirty rag. He was oblivious to the onslaught of the buzzing flies and biting mosquitoes. I bought the top and walked away.

I took a snap of my family against the backdrop for the sake of posterity. The look on my kids' faces indicated that this was the last trip over here.

across the street lay one of the swankiest hotel of our entire city.A world of bright lights and liveried butlers. The lavish spread failed to activate my appetite. My kids ran about the place, amnesiac about the dismal time spent earlier.

A small dust filled road separated two different worlds like day and night.

Welcome to the city of dreams.

FORGIVENESS.

A painted lady was sitting next to me with a girl child aged 7-8 years or so. She began her loud sob interspersed story to the uninterested yawning lady constable.She complained about a strange lady calling her daughter in the middle of the night on her cell phone. On further enquiry, the strange lady was the mother of the girl who had accompanied her. She was her husband's ex wife.The lady constable told her to switch off the phone in the night and berated her for wasting her time.

A bawling dishevelled lady strode inside the room with her equally tattered husband in tow. It was a case of domestic violence. The poor lady melodramatically cried and the inebriated husband just stood picking some precious stuff from his bulbous nose trying hard to suppress his laughter. He was taken to another room and bashed up by the itchy cops.His cries sounded like the laughter of a trapped hyena. The couple went home soon promising to mend their ways.

The on duty cops were busy greasing tobacco and lime on their dirty palms to be alert for the nocturnal onslaught. It was a busy police station and nights would always be heavy in view of the nearby slum locality. The insides were bustling like a public hospital.

A group of huddled boys were rounded up for creating nuisance in their locality and looked worried as they sighted the gleaming belt buckles on the paunches of cops which would be used on them. I could see local fly by night self proclaimed white clothed politicians trying to use their non existent clout and influence the cops. I saw a couple of reporters sniffing around for any print worthy scoop or scandal.

Some people had come to report losses of cell phones and other trivia. A solitary sad dog guarded the entrance of this police station.

Under the most bizarre circumstances, I had to enter this police station. An addict had color zeroxed my prescription sheets and was merrily forging addictive'ketamine' injections for his consumption. I had already made an official complaint to the cops regarding the same a few months back. The chemist association had also been informed and they were on his trail. Last week, I got a call from a chemist about this forged prescription and he had managed to nab the offender who incidentally was a maid working for the accused. Soon, she was joined by her lady 'memsaab' to rescue her. I rushed with a team of cops to catch them.

I was shocked to see that the 'memsaab' was one of my old patients who was abusing my prescription to fuel her ailing son's addiction.

She begged for forgiveness under the garb of crocodile tears.

I wanted to punish her but at the same time sympathised with her. She had an old mother to look after and an equally ill addict son. A defamation suit and a charge of forgery would land her a couple of years' time in the grind.

After the submission of official apology letters, I decided not to pursue the case further.

The doctor in me always wanted to help the helpless.

I could not over ride my 'samaritan' conscience. I even suggested local deaddiction centres for her son's treatment. Besides, my head was reeling, just sitting in the police station listening to the tales of debauchery and other assorted evils.

I walked out of the police station, head held high.

'Forgiveness is the sweetest revenge'.

CHEAP LABOUR.

My cook is a 30 year old lady with an alcoholic husband and a 7 year old kid named Prem. She comes twice a day to cook meals for us, working folks. She liberally opens the fridge and offers pricey swiss chocolates and biscuits to her son followed by a glass of milk. Prem plays around with my son and lazes like a tiger cub on the upholstered sofa. He runs around the house, playing with Prithvy's toys. We gave him a brand new bicycle this year on his birthday.

My maid is a middle aged tiny lady who scampers around the house like a mouse as she is busier than me. She hurriedly goes about her work. She moistens my ebony wooden flooring despite repeated warnings to use a dry cloth. My hankies often go missing and require replacements round the year. A good number of divorced socks have accumulated in my drawer. They are single, desperately searching for their matching partner. Sometimes, she destroys my shirts by soaking them with multi coloured petti coats and other colour running items. The shirts become designer stained then. They are carefully hidden by my wife then till I lose memory of them. The fruit tray is showered with special attention by her. She likes exotic fruits. They disappear within no time.

Prithvy had a lot of maids in the past. They were young not so innocent girls who chatted on the phone with their boy friends rather than pay attention to him in the garden. Some had special affection for cheese cubes and slices while others only ate dry fruits. Some used to steal Mansi's designer dupattas and still have the audacity of wearing them with their faded non matching dresses.Little do they know that we know everything. We are like fools for them.

Monetary needs are just around the corner.

Festivals and feigned illnesses of their relatives rule the roost. Last year, our maid asked for a flat screen TV.I refused flatly. I do not know how she got it but she worked with a renewed vigour in our house after the acquisition. My wife and my mother keep me in the dark when it comes to such things.

My driver had a baby girl this year who was premature at birth. We footed the entire private NICU bill, no questions asked and no answers given. We gave her a chunky gold pendant and silver trinkets for her feet when she came home.

A few days back, my driver started cribbing about his pay. I obliged, quietly.

Everbody in our house acts in a hushed manner when it comes to the maids.

They are indispensable.

Whenever we travel abroad, we see everyone working with their own hands and feet. They are happy doing their house hold work. Labour costs are prohibitive.

In our country, Its a different story.

Hey! Hey! Where's my pudding??

A burrp from my maid says it all.

HOT SUMMER NIGHTS.

The scorching sun used to heat up our top floor flat in the summer of 70s. The concrete and steel retained the radiated benevolent warmth late until the night to stifle our souls. ACs were an unheard of luxury, those days.The poor fans ran in a tired circular motion, relentlessly to offer respite. All they could do was to throw the warm air back at us. I did not blame them. At times we all would take our mattresses and rush to the terrace to sleep, hoping to inhale some cool breezy air. The small insects would buzz around our ears threatening to enter them. Some friends would tell ghost stories to amuse us.The pepsi colas in their thick encased plastic sheaths would be sucked furiously by us to keep cool. The ice gola wallah would do brisk business till the wee hours of the night.The early light would awaken us and we would go back to our houses to escape the glare of the sun and catch some more lazening sleep. Tempers used to run foul in the summer months amongst our parents as they had to endure more of us because of vacations.The heat used to induce some chemical changes in the brain lowering its resistance threshold. Our young bodies were flexible and adapted to the change in the weather. Our vacations meant playing all the time regardless of the heat. Our mothers used to make lime water in water bags and forcibly make us consume it. The water bag was an essential accessory of the playing kids. A few slum dwellers resided near our building,who incidentally were our hard working sweaty maids and their huge families.The brick colored mangalore tiles and asbestos over their heads would heat up like an oven and compound their misery. A certain knock in the afternoon would be from them with a dull huge utensil in their hands asking for cold refrigerated water. We happily used to comply. Humanity existed, many decades back. My dad one day had a brain wave and he rushed to the nearby grocer to get jute bags. The jute bags were stitched by our maid to make a big sheet. The sheet was placed on the terrace above our sleeping hall and in the night time we used to pour 2 buckets of water on it. The fibrous jute used to trap the moisture and cool down our ceiling. The AC like effect used to amaze us and keep us calm. The sleep was more peaceful and we used to dream of the cold breezy snow clad mountains pictured in our text books. Also, a wet brick kept in one corner of the room brought down the ambient temperature of our room. The 80s brought about a lot of changes in the middle class household. An AC was installed in our bedroom and we marvelled at the frosty air generated by it. When the AC was on, all measures would be taken to leak proof the room.Not a single waft of cold air would escape our room. All of us would sleep in the AC room and snore away to sweet glory. An AC was a luxury those days and a status symbol too. Our electricity bills started to ascend as the temperature descended in our room but hot summers were pardonable for the same. I have sweet memories of hot summers during my childhood. 2012AD- All the rooms except bathrooms have ACs and kids sometimes even ask for an AC to be on in winters and cold monsoon rains.They belong to a different era.They have never been on our terrace. The ACs now silently run, round the clock oblivious of our early struggle filled times. They will never understand our jute bag times.