MR TERMINATOR.

The sports complex where we play tennis belongs to the municipal corporation. The employed fortunate staff are seen loitering around in the complex. Their working hours are miniscule and are frequently seen sipping hot tea, whiling away time which they obviously have in plenty. A job in the corporation assures them flexible hours and a chance of a second parallel job too. Such jobs are coveted by the masses and premiums are paid to procure such employments.
Mr Kambli was a ripe 60 year old mama, who walked using an old long umbrella for support. He used to wear khaki coloured uniform on duty. His face was very wrinkled for his age. He was an insecticide sprayer. He was armoured with a copper yellow tank with a nozzle pipe. The appearance was like some army soldier ready to gun down the enemy soldiers, I used to always him 'Mr. Terminator' which he always failed to understand. He used to grin innocently like a small kid.
Mr Kambli was an illiterate person but keenly used to watch our tennis matches, be it rain or shine. Slowly he started to follow the game and used to be our unofficial third umpire. He used to sit on the side lines like an avid fan. After our morning session of tennis, he used to doze off till lunch time. After a cursory spraying of some gutters, he used to return for his siesta. The tennis court complex had a lot of shady areas which offered comfort from the heat. By 5 pm he was seen trudging home. We always offered him a round of 'cutting chai' in the morning as a mark of respect.
He normally kept to himself. His son too was an employee in our complex but we never got a chance to know him. Maybe, he avoided his father or so. You could never tell nowadays.
Last week, Mr. Terminator walked inside our tennis court with a brand new safari and a gleaming new umbrella.
His face looked sad that day.
He called the ball boy and ordered a round of soft drinks for the players and the markers.
We were mightily surprised.
I went to ask him the reason for the soft drinks.
He said that it was the last working day for him.
He was relieved at last.
He would go back to his native land and live peacefully on his paddy farms.
Our third umpire would be no more with us.
We had actually got used to his presence.
Our old grandparents may not be functional or socially interactive in our homes but their presence unfailingly reassures us that their blessings are with us.
Mr Terminator evoked similar feelings in us. In his presence, the brawls and swear words had diminished substantially. We played like true sportsmen.
I usually have a couple of glares in my car, luckily one pair was unused and I immediately offered it to Mr. Terminator. He was overjoyed.
He put them on and walked away from all of us with a sense of pride.
The glares could not hide his tears.

PERFUMES OF LIFE.

I love perfumes.
I always wear them as they keep me in high spirits and give me a spring in my stride. They impart a subtle confidence in me. My staff come to know my arrival with the waft of my perfume just as I alight from the car. They start running helter skelter preparing for the rounds. They are not strong but make a statement and are an indelible part of my personality. The Mumbai heat and stench necessitates their unabashed use. A perfume is a part and parcel of my vanity kit.

I love women who wear mild floral perfumes. I am instantly attracted to them like butterflies to the flowers. They get an instant respect and my strict unwavering attention.

I detested our dissection class of Anatomy and hardly ever attended it. The putrid smell of the cadavers and the formalin just used to percolate my olfactory organs and hit my brain. An instant headache with nausea used to be the resultant reaction. I used to play carrom for a lengthy period of 4 hours during that class. The smell of the boric powder and the woody coins alongwith the ivory striker were certainly a decent proposition. A couple of smokers used to add their acrid smoke rings to uplift the dull air. I gave my Anatomy exams wearing a eucalyptus oil coated handkerchief mask. The examiner who basked in such a stinky room failed to notice my discomfort, but anyway mercifully passed me.

Hamida walked into my OPD that day with her husband in tow. A strange revulsive smell accompanied her to my consulting room. Her husband complained to me about her strange anti social behaviour and refusal to eat her meals. He also stated that it had been a month since her last shower. The smell was nauseous and unbearable for me. I grabbed a small clove from my drawer and started examining Hamida. Seeing my kind and concerned demeanour, she immediately broke down into tears. She pleaded helplessness at her sad state. Her husband was legally allowed to be polygamous and he had brought a small 16 yr old girl to be his new wife. The nocturnal screams of the new bride drove her mad. She despised her sadistic husband and made a decision of being unkempt so that he would not approach her. The stench would repel him. It indeed did. I could not help the situation.

A few months back I lost my uncle and went to the funeral. I was supposed to do the final rites and light the pyre. The smell of this place was mixed with sandalwood, flowers and wood. A sour ghee fragrance also dominated this environ. As the body caught fire, I could smell the burning flesh. The body burnt and then the bones, to convert to ashes.

The ashes have no smell or any fragrance. One day, we would also turn to ashes.

I realised the futility of our cosmetic indulgent life and walked back home with a heavy heart.

FOREIGN RETURN....

The fuss begins at the airport itself when they start their loud animated conversations about the contents of their food tiffins. The brash talk leaves no scope for imagination. I, as an innocent bystander, waiting for the plane have to endure their jargon. As I board the flight, I know the contents of most of the tiffins. Maybe their palates cannot savour the international food or maybe they are trying to save up some money. I never ventured to find out so far.

The heaviest luggage is often carried by them in the cabin of the aircraft much to the consternation of the poor air hostesses. They somehow squeeze them and silently mutter curses at them. The motley crowd, then start a mini stroll along the aisle smiling at foreigners who squirm in their seats. They are always attracted to white skin. A seat next to a foreigner is often sought after by them.

As soon as the flight begins, The pandemonium starts with the group chattering loudly about their business woes and sundries.They order free booze from the hostesses like water. They never bother about the discomfort or disturbance caused to the fellow passengers. After sloshing themselves they retire to their seats and snore. Their plane trip has fructified into a success. Sometimes they collect empty miniature whisky bottles as souvenirs.

As soon as the flight is about to land, they start running and rushing to the overhead cabin to secure their luggage and stand near the door. Some people flash their cheap phones and immediately call their near and dear ones stating that they have landed on foreign soil. The decibels are as always sadly loud.

The landing on the foreign shores instantly brings about change in their accent. They imitate accents with their broken English. I fail to understand that despite their accents they gesticulate a lot while conversing with the foreigners.

The shopping ends with a war of words over haggling of the price. Almost everything is converted to their local currency and comparisons made. Such an exercise makes them feel cheated in the end. The retailers frown on seeing them and immediately raise their existing prices to avoid any interaction with them.

It's a sad situation for the image of their country. A small measure of dignity, respect, politeness and courtesy always evades their senses.

The white skin is ogled upon quiet unabashedly by them. A camera keeps on clicking whatever skin is available at sight. These photos are their perversions. The beach is a hot bed for their prolific amateur photography skills. Not a single sun bather is spared by them. They often miss the sights of sunset or sunrise pursuing their weird perversions. Such is the state. The video cameras are constantly on, capturing the sights and sounds of the foreign city. They want to soak in the pleasure. They do not want to miss a thing. They will later invite their neighbours and bore them to death with extended DVD versions of their sojourn.

On the return flight home, They get sloshed and boast about their adventures in the foreign land. The decibels even increase further. They are boisterous and happy.

They have the tag of 'Foreign Return' on their heads.

US AND THEM.

Rocky is a labrador dog who is owned by Mr Sharma in our residential building. He is well mannered, I meant the dog.
A few mongrel dogs scour our building for the leftovers. They are weak and look like famine struck canines. A small stray pup took a liking to Rocky and wagging his tail would follow Rocky who would like his company. They used to play around in our park chasing each other playfully. One day, Mr Sharma saw this and was livid with anger. He was a discriminatory person.
A few nights back, I was returning from my hospital and I saw Mr Sharma using a big stick to scare the small pup away from the building. As he was about to unleash a blow on the puppy, I stopped my car and stared at him in the most disdainful manner. My stare froze him and worked wonders for the small pup.
I did not say a word. I do not communicate with such low grade mentally deranged people.
Next day, I got a small baby sized belt and tied around the pup's neck. The collar would give him dignity and respect. That was the least I could do.

We play Tennis in a sports complex of our small town. A lot of stray dogs reside in the campus. Sometimes, they playfully chew our tennis nets much to the dismay of our coaches. Otherwise, they hardly bother us.
Mr Varma is greeted by them every morning, His whistles work as a signal for the dogs who just run around happily to him. He carries a small plastic bag with him full of broken as well as unbroken biscuits. He feeds them daily. I respect him a lot. He does not have a family, all he has is the company of dogs in our sports complex. After feeding them, he rushes to his office.
Needless to say, his day goes well blessed by the mute animals.

Where do I figure in this blog?
Incidentally, both of them are patients of mine.
Do I ever discriminate between them?
My upbringing and compassion never allow me to.
The penniless poor patient is given as much as respect and attention by me as much a filthy stinking rich patient would get.
I thrive on wishes and blessings.

TATTOO

In a state of excitement and misplaced enthusiasm, I entered the tattoo parlour. It belonged to a friend of mine who had repeatedly requested me to visit his place. I saw a couple of girls boldly tattooing a design on their lower neck and ankles. These girls would yell if a mosquito bit them but now were somehow tolerant to pain. Fashion makes for a bearable suffering. The parlour was covered with photographs of my friend with famous tattooists from LA Ink and Miami Ink. He had indeed made a name for himself within a short span of time. His doodling skills had paid him off now. His appointments were most sought after by the teens in our small town. I had secretly thought of getting a small tattoo on my forearm and surprising my folks at home. It would be a small one and be hidden under my formal long shirt sleeves. I did not want to make a statement but I just felt like getting a tattoo done. I selected the names of my wife and kids with graphics and set up a session the next day.

Mrs Joshi was a sad patient of mine who had suffered from Diabetes and Hypertension as a result of stress and depression. Her face was wrinkled with worries despite her relative young age. Otherwise she came from a loving family and a caring polite middle aged husband. One day I probed her and tried to reach her sorrow. She said that I would come to know the reason on next follow up. She was accompanied by her son who immediately giggled on entering my consulting room. He was well built for his age. His eyes did all the talking. He was retarded since birth and could not articulate words properly. He was gazing at me with kind eyes. He looked like an innocent baby. I told her to accept her fate and move on in life. She cried and told me that she had no problem in raising the now grown up child as she had before. Her plane of dreams of a career, social and personal life never left the runway.
She was exceedingly worried about the frequent disappearing spells of her son from the house over the last few months. The child in him had grown up and tired of a bonded existence, he used to just run away from the house, escaping reality.Trains and Buses were plenty in our town. Sometimes, he would disappear for days much to the consternation and anguish of parents. Somehow, he would be escorted home and his parents would heave a sigh of relief.

I was curious to know the reason as to how her kid would return home despite having no communication skills. I was really perplexed.

She took her son's hand and showed me his forearm.
A 8 digit phone number was tattooed over there. This tattoo had somehow always saved him from getting lost in our cruel world.
The tattoo on his forearm etched my heart.
I had a very difficult night that day.
I tried hard to fight my tears.
I cancelled my tattoo appointment the next day.

BUNDLE OF JOY-

He yanks at our blankets early morning with a million dollar smile on his cute but naughty face. If we do not respond then he pats our cheeks with his small but effective palms and throws all his weight on our body with a big giggle. Its wake up time for us. We see the clock face showing 6am. We rise reluctantly otherwise a sharp cheek bite would follow as per as Dooglu's protocol of waking up his parents. The lull of the early morning is just about to shatter as my son Dooglu is on the prowl. I think, his body clock follows some another country. He is smart enough to gently nudge Chaitra, he never wakes her up as she is his favourite. All the time, he runs behind her yelling 'Chaitaaaa' 'Chaitaaaaa'!


As soon as he wakes up, he wants to listen to the latest Bollywood item numbers which set him tapping his feet and with arms swaying, he goes into a trance like mode. He shrieks with joy and claps his hands. Suddenly his demeanour changes into a serious mode with his eyes becoming glassy and all the dancing stopped midway. He becomes like a statue under a strain. This is his potty time. As he is being cleaned up, he makes it a point to roll all over the bed making it difficult to put new diapers for him. After milk and cerelac, he is all ready for his morning sojourn.


He has a fleet of vehicles to choose from. A red Ferrari, a yellow Tri-cycle, a Mobike or a simple Pram. He decides according to his mood. As he is being ferried around, he waves to his admirers like some big star. The morning walkers group dote on him.Everyone stops by to pull his cheeks. A customary slide and swing ride is a must before taking him home. I think, he secretly communicates with the doggies as they gather around his pram wagging their happy tails. He heads back home merrily banging his small fists on the elevator door.

At home, after a tub bath he begins his routine of mayhem and destruction. Any item lying on the floor is perceived as an edible delicacy by him and it promptly enters his mouth by dexterous maneuvering of fingers. We have to be on guard at all times. The fan regulator is pulled out by him and he frequently plays with the switches like toys. The remotes are dessert for him as he chews the juicy rubber knobs off them. Mummy's hair and dupatta are his staple chewing pastimes. The tonic and oil bottles are deftly opened by his sharp teeth. The water bottles too meet a similar fate and the water spills on the floor with Dooglu playing around the puddle. The CDs are used by him to scratch the floor. The books regularly fall from their shelf. He takes a book, pretends to read the last page and slyly bites off a corner for chewing. The fruits in our tray bear tiny teeth marks. He does not spare anyone. The balcony is solely used by him to fling toys outside our house. The watchman scolded him the other day but he just smiled like an assassin.

At meal times, we lock him and the maid in his room with a virtual "do not disturb" board outside. They watch TV and finish the meals. Any distraction and he starts running away from the meal. He takes a post meal walk in our house like an old grandparent checking on everyone. He has started saying a few basic words now at full volume. His noisy chatter sounds like music to our ears. In the evening he again goes for his rounds in a pram and seeing his parents off to work. We have to give him a round in our car before waving him good bye. He is contended then.

He is fast asleep in his cradle by the time I reach home.
As I see him peacefully sleeping, he smiles at me coyly.
He knows, his daddy's home!
I look at him and hug my wife.
He may be a naughty kid but he is our bundle of joy.

CONCRETE JUNGLE.

The morning begins with the sight of the walkers proudly ambling in my balcony porch. They walk in pairs like lovers muttering sweet nothings in their ear. They are the Doves who visit my home daily as a thumb rule. After a customary stroll, they start flapping their wings scattering loose feathers all over my hall. Then they get busy making love and after a week or so an egg is laid at a chosen corner in my empty carton of tennis balls. The mother viciously guards it till a small Dove hatches out much to the joy of my daughter and son who clap to celebrate the arrival of the newborn. Soon, the newborn flies away. The Doves are peaceful but they lack civic manners shitting all over my floor and silk carpet. I wonder whether they can be trained.

There is a big Bee-hive on my terrace tank. Occasionally, the killer Bees wander to our house and set a flurry of activity. The newspapers and Chaitra's badminton racket are the chosen weapons to swat them. A pillow also is used to thrash them. One day, I got stung by a Bee and trust me folks, it hurt. We are indeed scared of them.

The Lizards multiply in fury, hidden in the crevices of our false ceilings. A Lizard evokes revulsion and elicits the loudest shrieks from my family members. We have a bamboo stick to tackle them and scare them away from our house. It normally takes about 11 minutes to scare one away. When I was young, a Lizard in the loo just came from behind the bucket and leapt on me sticking to my shin. It was the scariest moment of my life. I washed my shin for 2 hours with dettol and a soap bar. Then onwards, I always check the wash room and then proceed ahead. they say an egg shell kept outside the balcony scares them but we have not yet tried that remedy.

The Rats are our rare nocturnal kitchen visitors but usually they do not trouble us as they just take their stuff and scoot outside. They have relative hypoxia at high altitudes and hence shun my 12th floor as an option for abode. They are happy in the basement of the car park. A Rat once chew some cable of my car and set my wallet aback by a hefty amount. I call them 'Hit and Run' rats as they hardly stick around.

The Mosquitoes and the Ants with the Roaches have been successfully tackled so far by my friendly pest control guys. They come dressed up as terminators with a steel bag on their backs and a spray nozzle like some machine gun heroes. They are effective though. Their swagger is awe inspiring. They behave like some members of anti terrorist squads.

A solitary Cat is my wife's friend and comes daily on my 12th floor climbing stairs to have her saucer of milk. The lapping tongue finishes the milk in minutes and she vanishes. That is the depth of friendship in today's world. A Cat teaches us lessons in life. She returns next day.

A Doggie is occasionally baby sat by us much to the delight of my young ones. He pees all over my hall proudly although it is not his territory. I am helpless at times. The joy makes it acceptable though.

My mother has a garden in our east side balcony. It has colourful flower bearing plants. A small Sparrow comes there on weekends. It chirps sweetly songs of joy and happiness. A few Butterflies take a fancy and visit our blooming flowers. It is a delightful sight. The Squirrel plays around in the pots. The garden buzzes with life.

A pair of Mynas bring us good luck at times.

I look at my family and compare them with the fauna around. My dad is the 'Lion' whose roars tremble each and everyone around. My mom and my wife are like kind 'Cows' who provide care and comfort to us. Chaitra is the sweetest 'Parrot' who keeps on chirping endlessly. Prithvy has just started walking and destroys everything in his sight. I call him the cute 'Monkey' as he is the most mischievous of all.

I am like a 'Mule' slogging around with the burden of expectations.

This is my life in a concrete jungle.