FORMIC ACID.

The army was marching in gay abandon. The foot soldiers were carrying their necessary rations in an orderly line. They would then stock it up in their secret bunkers. A small sugar crystal, a small bit of a leaf and a teeny weeny food morsel were enough for them to survive for days. Some heavy ration was carried in groups. They all looked happy.
We were small kids then and we were taught that the red army was a dangerous one and needed to be promptly dealt with in the fiercest manner, possible. We were armed with deadly insecticide sprays and using them like bazooka guns,we promptly sprayed them on the red ant army. The ants were taken aback by this guerrilla attack and froze in their foot steps. They never moved later. They were swept with a broom and disposed off.
We were victory drenched.
The red ants never stung anyone without provocation. The Formic Acid used to raise a small wheal and cause painful itching.
The black ant army was always treated with respect. They were meek and signified peace, wealth and good luck. They never stung anyone. They were left undisturbed. Sugar crystals were laced along their trails.
As I grew up, I realised the lessons of prejudice in life.
A rich lady was accidentally brushed by a car at a very low speed, She hardly got hurt. A crowd gathered in no time like ants pouring on a sugar cube. They were sympathetic and offered help which was not needed at all. Had she been a poor lady, the consequences would have been disastrous for her, She would have bled to death in full glory in presence of the impotent by standers. Such is life.
May be the poor people are perceived as the red ants by the populace, but the scientists haven't yet discovered any traces of Formic Acid in them. Yet, they are treated with disdain and undeserved contempt.
I have mercifully grown up and treat everyone like the black ant army, I try to infuse happiness and warmth in their lives. I go out of the way at times, just to make them feel being cared for.
I lace them with sugary words and try to sweeten their lives.
I never discriminate on lines of wealth, caste or creed.
I address them with respect.
But still at times, people hurt me with their misplaced words.
The cruel words spray out of their mouths like a deadly insecticide.
The words sting like Formic Acid,I die then, a small death.
I freeze like a red ant.
The high mighty heels crush me.
Little do they know, My spirit is indomitable.
I live on.

THE CARDBOARD BOX.

The diminutive maid easily slid inside the dark attic for the customary pre festive cleaning of our house. It was a scene common in all households when the house wives would wake up from their slumber to clean up the accumulated clutter, gathered around the entire last year.
I was supervising the cleaning operation this time and the maid after cleaning the attic spic-span drew my attention to a small cardboard box with a cloth bag lying in one corner.
It was a sturdy rectangular cotton bag with two handles on the top.
A symbol of our middle class.
The cloth bag would be used by each and everyone of us for multiple purposes. A hand without the bag would aimlessly fidget around, as if the bag had become an extension of the hand.
I rummaged through the bag and found a few now,vestigial articles inside.
It contained a copper bowl, a snuff box, a betel nut box and a pair of broken high myopic spectacles.
My paternal granny, Dadi used the copper bowl to massage her soles all the time. It was her favourite pastime. A little dab of coconut oil on the soles and the vigorous rubbing would begin in all possible directions. She was sure that the copper would get imbibed in her feet and keep her strong and sturdy. We never questioned her senile judgment. We sometimes tried to massage our soles but the heat generated by the friction used to put us off. It was meant for the senior populace and rightly we never meddled with it.
My maternal grand uncle, Mota Bhai was a much respected man in our community. A snuff box with the finest of Afghani snuff was always his companion. Sometimes we as kids would sneak up during his siesta hours and inhale the snuff with a small pinch of our fingers. The barrage of ensuing sneezes would send the elders in our joint family into raptures of laughter. We would be too, rolling in the aisles then.
My paternal uncle, Madhu Kaka was a maverick who revelled in singing songs of yesteryears. He was a music aficionado who knew the lyrics of almost all the songs of the early 60s. He could sing well. A betel nut cracker, lime and tobacco were alwas carried by him in a small aluminium box. We as kids would at times steal the betel leaves and eat them with sugar and aniseeds. Our red mouths would inevitably lead him to us but he would just smile at us forgivingly.
My maternal grandfather, Nana was a portly jolly person and was our favourite. His face radiated love and warmth. We would eagerly wait for him to take us out in vacations. He loved us a lot and lived only for us. His fulfilled dream of making me a doctor made him completely satisfied in life. He was contended. He was a man of no vices and lived a simple life. He was a perfect gentleman. In early 90s decade, as he was walking down from his house, he suffered a massive cerebral stroke and collapsed on the floor. A stream of blood from his ear trickled onto the spectacles leaving a smudge. He embraced death with a smile on his face.
The cloth bag was exclusively used by him to bring us fire crackers during Diwali. Me and my brother then would carefully divide the crackers amongst us. As we blasted them, My Nana would clap and cheer us. We used to be overjoyed in his divine presence.

All the above mentioned members of our family are no longer with us.
Their memories remain.
I carefully put the cloth bag along with flowers in a small cardboard box.
A few stray tear drops fell into the box.
Someday, my memories also would be cherished by my descendants in a cardboard box.

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.