COLOURSCAPE !

The clean white tiles greet me whenever, I enter my hospital, the nurses in their sparkling uniforms say hello to me. The khaki clad ward boys respect and fear me a lot as I am a task master.I dress usually, in shades of blue as it is my favourite colour.The steel grey floor is resistant to the stains and much favoured by our folks.My maroon stethoscope, gifted by my brother is perpetually hanging on my neck to diagnose the ailments of my patients.The silver needles shine, when patients tremble, to take the injections.The black bag contains a lot of life saving drugs. My rosy receptionist is always smiling to reveal her crooked teeth, salvaged by huge pink lips and has auburn brown hair.

The cirrhotic lady came to my emergency room with vomiting of blood, the bleeding was since a last few hours, hence coffee ground in appearance, mixed with the earlier consumed yellow lentils and the green bile.The red cells were used to transfuse her with the cream plasma to save her from the crisis. She had purple ecchymotic patches on her fragile pale skin to suggest a bleeding tendency. She was critical and she succumbed eventually, Nothing could save her!

The deathly white ambulance came with a flashing red light and took her body home.

I attended her funeral in a dark black shirt,carrying violet lilies to offer my condolences and saw her turning into powdery ashes.

I live such a colourful life daily.

Need I be excited about Holi ?

BILLU BARBER & ZEENAT AMAN.

Back in the good old days, Our family, barring my mom used to head to the saloon for a haircut, which was a monthly routine for us.The saloon was a small structure with an asbestos roof which used to heat up during summers and make a lot of rattling noise in the rains.The place was filled with old tattered film magazines and yesterday's newsapers. It was so dry and dull, the saving grace was a bikini clad Zeenat Aman poster in one corner. We used to stare at it on the sly when our dad was busy with his hair-cut.She was truly amazing and evoked muted giggles from us, we were very small and innocent but Zeenat, somehow enchanted us. The main barber was a dangerous looking Billu, who cut hair humming the old sad songs, being played on the antique radio which required a few taps to get started and played at an annoying volume. The hair cut was a uniform crew cut for all of us, followed by a head massage which included fragrant coconut oil to sooth our small homework worrying minds. Our heads looked similar, when viewed from any possible angle.The crew cut was a long lasting economical cut. It was the signature cut of Billu Barber, who had no other style to offer us. The cut hair was swept and put in a gunny bag for export to foreign countries for making wigs, so they used to say.
Last week, I went to a newly opened swanky hair saloon in a nearby mall. It was a posh parlour where the flooring was shiny white and mirrors all around. A leggy receptionist welcomed me and offered me juice,the sexy hair stylist came and caressed my hair superficially to know the texture and volume of my hair. As I sat on the leather remote controlled chair, soft music started emanating from the hidden speakers on the walls.The plasma screen also sprang to life with music videos of skinny white girls dancing in their skimpy clothes. My hair was treated delicately by the stylist and she cut it with a pair of small scissors slowly. As she finished her work,her colleagues came, saw my hair and appreciated her cut like some work of art.They charged me a whopping sum! I was scanning the floor and I hardly saw any hair on it. I was shocked, as there was no difference in my post cut look.I looked the same old guy who had entered the saloon with a lot of expectations.It was a day light robbery! I returned home with dejection and dissatisfaction.
I was missing my old Billu Barber!
I wanted to see the poster of Zeenat Aman!

TEARS FROM HEAVEN.

The blissfully-suckling baby,watching with one eye, left her mother's breast and started wailing and became cranky.The confused mother tried to comfort him in vain. She could not understand the sudden change in her child's behaviour.
The deserted market was filled with shoppers and hagglers once again, the dull-dried vegetables were being watered to make them look fresh again. The fisherwomen too, started to swat the flies feeding on their catch again.
The roads were noisy again with the resumption of traffic, the drivers venting their fury on the horns, over and over again.The groggy city was coming out of the slumber.
The children, nestled in their cosy homes started to trickle down in their building garden one by one.They reluctantly sat on the creaky see-saw and the slides. They looked depressed.
The truant students would probably do their home work today as they had nothing else left to do.They grudgingly picked up their books and started scribbling with an aching heart and sore fingers.There was no escaping today.
The factory machines resumed their slow grind, much to the dismay of the blue collar workers who would drown their sorrow tonight with glasses of country liquor. They would probably fight with their emaciated wives tonight, over trivial issues. The on-leave executives promptly called their surprised secretaries to schedule the cancelled appointments for the latter half of the day, they dressed in crisp clothes with a crumpled tie and unpolished shoes.
The theater and the hotel owners breathed a sigh of relief.
The bars would be full with sad people today.
The senile,bed ridden demented man in his early nineties breathed his last today. His time had come and it was a relief for him and his 'care giving burnt-out' family.
The coloured television screen looked so dull grey today.
Sachin Tendulkar was adjudged 'out' by the sky pointing finger of the satanic umpire, as he was walking slowly, agonisingly to the pavilion-The entire roaring stadium became quiet, like some ghost town. The air had been sucked out of their once screaming lungs.
Some stray rain drops accompanied the batting maestro, in his long walk to the dressing room.
They were Tears from Heaven!
Gods were crying today.

FIRE-EATER!

The procession was noisily ambling along the streets of the city, hundreds of marching people were dancing gleefully to the loud music being played by the huge speakers mounted on the trucks.There were jugglers,clowns and the stilt walkers but the star of the parade was Raja-a fire eater who could blow mile long fires out of his mouth,much to the delight of the crowd.They literally used to halt their march when he used to perform,crave for more acts and he lovingly used to oblige them.He used to collect the single digit notes as his tip gracefully.He had to take care of his family in this big mean city.

Last month, Raja came to me in a breathless and febrile delirious state.He had aspirated a large amount of kerosene in his lungs and suffered a chemical pneumonia. The kerosene was his constant companion in his fire breathing acts,used to be stored in amber colored beer bottles usually carried by his small son.He used to take big swigs and blow on burning torches to enthral the crowds.That day was very unlucky for him. He was put on a ventilator in an ICU and treated aggressively with antibiotics to make a slow recovery.I strongly advised him to refrain from such acts in the future and told him to change his hazardous profession.

He confessed that he knew no other skill to survive in this city and crime was not his favoured choice either as he was a conscientious god fearing person.He had a sense of dignity in his way of life which made me feel proud. He considered this pneumonia as an occupational hazard and called his friend to set an appointment for the next fire eating act.He had to offset his loss during hospitalisation and immediately took a discharge.

While leaving, I asked him whether he was afraid of fire,

He said yes, much to my surprise.

He confessed that the 'raging fire in his belly' was the worst fear in his life and not the real one. I stood there, stunned!

I saw him the other day, during a procession with his child- breathing fire again!

QAWAALI-APPLAUSE.

Last week, I went to the airport to receive my parents and it was a busy night out there. There was the renovated arrival lounge with hundreds of people waiting for their near-dear ones to come to Mumbai. Some were carrying bouquets of flowers. Anxious parents were waiting with a searching gaze towards the terminal. The drivers were waiting for their frequently flying bosses to come and spoil their brief vacation. A few burkha clad women were awaiting their gulf settled husbands, who would come for a week and return next year.
They were waiting like a prowling army, as soon as the fresh batch of passengers emerged from the terminal, they attacked in full fury! I could hear the cries of 'fresh meat' in the air. The white people wore skimpy clothes, hence a larger surface area was available for the attack. They were hungry since a long time and their bellies were grumbling. They kept on biting and sucking plane cooled- sweet blood of the foreigners with impunity.There were noise of incessant clapping all around the airport.Everybody was trying hard to swat the probing mosquitoes away! The plump mosquitoes were having a feast at the arrival lounge.
After the initial bites, we realised that constant motion by moving your limbs up-down and sideways like an aerobic instructor was the only way to dodge them but they just left us all alone when the foreigners arrived, who were well bred and lived in non polluted lands and a richer blood flowed in their veins! The white skin attraction was not limited to human beings alone, even mosquitoes were influenced by the skin color and readily rushed towards them.Our blood was of a less palatable appeal to them! The whites were unused to this persistent attention and painful adulation, began smashing them with their bare hands clapping away to glory, high and low like some Qawaali singers. This provoked the mosquitoes further and fresh reinforcements were called in by them to bolster their attack.
The government has spent crores of rupees on the airport renovation but sadly, has not been able to tackle this mosquito menace. A few blower fans could shoo them away, but who cares? This is the recurrent theme of all government related projects where basic facilities like hygiene and sanitation are overlooked. I could see paan stained gutters all teeming with mosquitoes at the arrival lounge.It was a sad sight for me and an object of ridicule for the whites who wanted this all dirt, portrayed in their tabloids.
Seeing them clapping fevently, I thought maybe they were practising to be famous Qawaali singers, rehearsing their part to get a feel of India and the mosquitoes were government secret agents who had the onus of acquainting Qawaali to the white tourists.
Maybe, the claps were the sound of applause from the whites who were given a great welcome by the mosquito army along with the stench and the heat.
The whites were applauding-- Wow India Wow ! Keep It Up.
My parents came after a full 24 hours flight across three continents all the way from USA, they were looking less tired than me.
I was clapping the mosquitoes, headed their way!

MADIRA- NECTAR!

Madira-the sweet nectar of the heavens! was a bar opposite our medical college in Mumbai, a favourite hangout for unabashed fun-frolic, worshipped by the students as an evening temple.It was an average unpretentious stuffy smoke filled bar with middle class of boozers nursing their grief away.We could not afford any other costly bar with our pocket money.
The crisp naans,cut into small triangles were like biscuits,the green boiled chana with a dash of lime,topped with chillies and freshly cut onion rings were relished by us like horses.The butter chicken used to slide away in our eager throats and the dry fruit special biryani was licked off the plates. Of course,the madira-whisky was served in tall fingerprint smeared glasses with opaque ice cubes which matched the dim dull atmosphere.We would smoke, non smokers used to always cough in this stuffy place.A juicy paan completed the feast and we would head to our hostel.
A slow walk would be halted by our full bladders, we would liberally piss on the roadside whistling, with our hands in our pockets looking at the starry sky so as to fool the other people walking on the road.Sometimes, they would also stare up at the sky eagerly, blissfully unaware of our bladder emptying on the road! Some drops used to fall on our shoes as this 'hands free' act could not control the direction of our rapidly running stream.We then used to literally 'fall' asleep in our rooms snoring away to glory. A sound contented sleep!
One day, it rained very heavily to waterlog our college road upto the knees.Such a bountiful rain demanded a celebration and we rushed in our shorts,clutching our money in a small water proof plastic bag. Money is paper, not flesh and bones like us and cannot survive in water but our economy is monsoon dependent! We could not understand this paradox, but drenchingly rushed to the bar.The bar was crowded and bursting at the seams.Our favored waiter served us whisky outside the bar, the raindrops falling in our glasses further cheered us. Heavens were pouring a few drops of nectar in our glasses, signalling divine participation! Food was served inside though.
We left our hostels in 1999 with a very heavy heart, all this years of friendship would soon fall apart with our marriages and careers. Life goes on, we had to move on ahead in life.
We would miss our Madira bar very badly.
Last year,a few of my old college friends came to my town and we spontaneously decided to head to Madira bar to relive our college memories. We drove all the way to reach the place and caught our favourite table. A decade had passed by,the place looked so different and aged. The chairs were creaky and the leather on them antiquated. All the staff looked unfamiliar, it was being run by a new management now. We were very disappointed and in unison, walked out of the place without having anything.
We never wanted to shatter our old, precious-cherished memories.
The old Madira was firmly etched in our hearts and could not be erased.
Some old memories are better left alone, they may not resurface in a favourable desired way!
Time changes everything.
It is better to carry pleasant memories of yesteryears.
I do not want to change them in this coming years of life.

THE SUNSET POINT...

I have a home with a decent East-West view, it offers splendid panoramic views of the sunrise as well as the sunset when the sky is splashed with colors. God paints the sky using the clouds as sponges to spread the lovely hue! The West side balcony is lovingly called as The Sunset Point by my family and friends.The East side balcony is my mother's nursery garden and we don't dare disturb her delicate plants.
It has a maple wood flooring and a big platform for Chaitra to play with her friends noisily. The blue swimming pool with the splashing kids and the lush green lawns with the elderly grannies, gossiping about their family and house maids can be seen from my balcony.We can see the small kids playing in the garden sandlot attempting to build castles with their tools. As we see straight ahead,the Yeoor hills stand like a green spectacle. Sometimes, small waterfalls are visualised during the rains.The phenomenal view keeps our eyes pleasingly busy! As the sun dips down the Yeoor hills,the horizon becomes a luminous hazy border of purple-pink and scarlet red. I fail to understand why people pay exorbitant money,travel to faraway lands to see this sight when they can enjoy it without spending a penny from the cool confines of my home.
You could just sit there with hot cups of tea or coffee for hours together without getting bored for a moment.The guys could enjoy a beer or whisky with soft sad ghazals playing in the background on my stereo.The night time arrives with cool hill side breeze ruffling your hair. The sad unused neglected fan has become lethargic and pleads for some exercise but stays calm all the time.
This is the best spot of our home-The Sunset Point!
Mercifully, no building tower has dared to come up and obstruct our magnificent view.
I pray to god that this view prevails for a long time to come.
I believe that this divine place could solve any tussles between lovers without any words being spoken. The view alone, would compel them to forgive each other!
Hold On ! Please Hold On.
I sincerely do not recollect the last time when I saw this view in my wife's company or alone. I must have sat once or twice in the last three years since I bought this place. We are so busy that we never get time to sit and lovingly talk to our own family. Our evenings are busy with the never ending agony of our patients who demand our unfailing attendance and attention. We also need them equally to fill our big hungry bottomless stomachs. Money, a lot of money could only buy such scenic apartments with a view.
Our careers are still in the morning rising phase, yet to attain the noon peak and after many hard years will set down in the evening of our lives!
When we retire, our sunset phase of life will begin.
You will see me and my wife, holding our wrinkled hands together, sipping hot cups of tea at The Sunset Point of my humble scenic home.