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.

JOHN JOHNY JANARDHAN.

JOHN

John came to me that day, in rigors and covered with a blanket to keep him warm. He was suffering from Malaria and after his treatment told me about his strange job. He was employed by the 5 star hotel in our small town. It was a matter of pride for his family. He had been given a small yellow racket in his hand to electrocute the mosquitoes and flies swarming in the posh lobby. He had to protect the dignified guests against such pesky pests so common in our small town. It was an odd job but met his ends. The crackling sound of a trapped mosquito in the electric mesh of the racket was accompanied by a hint of burning smell. In his small shanty when he was about to sleep, a hovering mosquito, which would soon give him Malaria did not bother him. He had killed many with his racket today , was tired and he dozed off.

JOHNY

Johny was a frail looking man in his early thirties. He used to work as a Mickey Mouse in birthday parties held in the party hall of our small town. All the children used to be happy seeing him but used to pester him through out the party. He used to dread them a lot. They used to playfully punch him, pull his tail and ears. The heavy suffocating mickey suit used to slow his waddling gait as he used to run away from the kids. The parents used to laugh at this sight and used to clap. Near the end, Mickey used to pose with the kids for photographs. One day, he accidentally brushed a lady while walking in view of his huge suit. It was unintentional. The parents in an umbrage beat him up. He hides his sad face beneath the smiling Mickey Mouse.

JANARDHAN.

Janardhan came to me with the complaint of loss of appetite. He was a traffic constable in our small town. On eliciting a detailed history, I realised his sorry state and arrived at the diagnosis. The traffic department had run out of breathalysers and he was employed to sniff the drivers of the cars for alcohol. Along with alcohol, he used to encounter the smells of garlic,onions and decayed teeth of the paan chewing population. No wonder, he looked at his food with revulsion. Pretty soon, a fresh kit of breathalysers arrived and Janardhan started to gain weight.

These people worked for their empty bellies. They never felt humiliated about their jobs.They could not afford to think that way. They had no other option in their lives.

SUNBURN-ROSEWATER.

She lay on the recliner chair at the sun deck with a small stringy piece of cloth to cover her modesty. The cloth left nothing for imagination as it resembled a small fig leaf. She was topless for the entire world to see. A pair of oval shades protected her eyes and probably, her identity.
Her tanned shapely body was drawing crowds to the beach shack. Voyeurs would laze around ordering beers and snacks, the shack owner would happily oblige with a grin on his pock marked face. Some would shoot her with their cameras on the sly and proudly show the images, back home. As the Sun set, the revellers would slowly depart and the owner would start stacking the recliner chairs to head back home.
Business had been good this summer.
He would buy a new home for his family.
I saw the same lady on a couple of occasions at the same beach shack and curiosity got the better of me. I decided to wait till the Sunset. I was eager to know her identity.
As the shack owner left for home, a lady, totally covered from head to toe in a dreary black orthodox dress emerged from the shack and joined him in his sojourn homewards.
The oval shades were still on her eyes.
She was the same mysterious lady. Nobody could otherwise recognise her. I waited, hence could identify her.
The owner rubbed soothing rose water on his wife's sunburnt body that night.
She never took her shades off,
She never wanted to.
She dreamt in the dark shades, The bright Sun gave her nightmares.

THE TERMINAL-THE PADDY FIELDS.

I saw them huddled in a closed semi circle at the terminal.

They looked so confused and lost. They were wearing traditional South Indian clothes, crisply starched white and carrying a small cloth bag with them. Probably, they did not have much weight to carry. They were being marshaled by an over enthusiastic airport security guy who was making the most of the opportunity to show his authority to these poor folks. Normally, he was tired of the snubbing he received at the hands of the high fliers through out the year. He bossed over the motley group and eventually guided them to their boarding gate. The relieved group was seen falling at his feet and profusely thanking him. His deflated chest swelled with pride. The group had never seen an air port leave aside a plane. Their children would run out from their thatched houses if a chance plane hovered over their native town.

All the lights in the air port could not match the sparkle of hope in their sallow eyes.

The hopes of the group,after take-off were soaring in the sky along with the plane. Each one felt on top of the world. They did not want to be awakened from this pleasant state.

Out of fear and anxiety, they did not even ask for water or the directions of the toilet to the accented flight attendants who anyway ignored the entire group snobbishly. The group had got used to such behavior by this time and quietly awaited their destination with parched lips and full bladders in the cold plane. The snobbish flight attendants were people like them who awaited their turns daily at the common toilet of their small decrepit chawls. Once, inside the plane, they forgot their ordinary life and pretended to be the all conquering angels in the sky. It was a make believe cosmetic world after all.

The group got down and were taken to the construction site in the Gulf region. They would work all day in the cruel Sun hardly complaining to their equally tyrant bosses. They felt light headed at times under the Sun but no one ever complained. The lure of the money to be sent back home kept them going.

The monthly cheque would be received by their smiling wives with moist eyes.

The tears of the home sick migrant workers had long,dried up in the hot Sun.

Someday, they would return back to their native towns into the arms of their loved ones with their tanned bodies and sleep in the shady coconut groves.

They would never leave their home town, ever again.

They hated the Sun.

The paddy fields looked green after a long time.

NAIL-POLISH. BLUE EYES.

I work at a cosmetic store at the airport terminal. I cater to the high flying ladies, helping them to buy the stuff to look more beautiful. I recommend the shades of nail colour, lip stick and other materials to enhance the beauty. We stock international designer brands for the elite class of the society. Our prices are double the usual to compensate for the steep rent at the terminal. People in a rush to catch their connecting flights hardly look at the prices and actually smile pleasantly while paying our bills. We also are happy to deal with such non fussy customers.

She looked lost and lonely in the huge terminal, her blue eyes were beautiful and expressive. You could never forget them. Her face was a milky smooth runway where our gazes would just glide away. The lips were juicy red, of course without any added colour. She came to our shop and started to look around. She soon filled her hamper with a host of cosmetic products making us all glad. She flushed out dollar bills and walked off. One thing amazed me, that she did not buy any nail polish. I rushed behind her to offer her complementary nail polish bottles to her but she flatly refused saying she had no use for them. I came back to the shop,disheartened.

I saw her heading towards the changing room.

She came out a different person. I could have missed her, but for her eyes. She was clad in a black burkha from head to toe and all you could see were her blue eyes.

Seeing me, she told her sad story, Her fingers were once slender, shining with gloss and polish. She used to teach in a girls' school in her native country.

The wicked rulers, who were vehemently against female education raided her school and chopped her fingers.

She, now was fighting a lone battle with the oppressive rulers with the help of international aid agencies.

I bade her good bye as she boarded the flight to her dreaded war torn destination.

A few months later, I read about her untimely demise in the papers.

Her cold blue eyes still haunt me.