(Note: This article was first drafted in mid 2016. And well, it then remained in
the drafts. Residency or some other thing took me away from writing. With the
lockdown, once during a conversation with a friend, we got discussing a blog I
used to once write. I lamented how I’ve lost the zeal to write, but we decided
at least there must be an attempt to reignite an old hobby. It’s Lockdown 4.0,
and I still haven’t come up with anything original of substance to write about,
but then this draft caught my eye. So, a lot of this is from 2016, and some
from 2020. Four years on, I’m baffled how drastic drift my ethos has taken. And
thus my attempt to chart an evolution.)
“You’re a total Mumma’s boy!” exclaimed Pallavi as I cracked
yet one more of my famous (or infamous, nonetheless, as they say, no fame is
bad fame) standup type jokes. There was no audience (cause three’s a crowd but
there were just the two of us), but I’m sure if there was one, I would have
been mobbed (for autographs and selfies, of course).
Pallavi is a simple creature, pure of heart and not much
wit. She gets fascinated by simple things. Like the other day, when I showed her
my new phone (edit 2020: Still using the same phone), her eyes lit up with
excitement – “Isme to front facing flash hai!!” (edit 2020: At that time there
was no Oppo, Vivo and mine was perhaps one of the first phones [yes it is
Chinese, but whose phone isn’t] to have a front facing flash. Tech Savvy, ain’t
I?)
So, a post call 1st year resident (i.e. Pallavi)
realising and emphasising my mumma’s boy status meant that the cat was out of
the box. And that has got me thinking. How do I quantify this trait? On a scale
of 1 to 10, where do I stand?
For one, all through the five and half years of MBBS (internship
included. Do i smell someone one fire?) I’ve
been going home for lunch, being served fresh hot fluffy rotis. Well, if your
house is 5 minutes walking distance from College, who wouldn’t go home. In my
defence, during my 12th I used to carry two tiffins – one for
breakfast and other for lunch. So, that definitely doesn’t count as a mumma’s
boy attribute. Yet, I do concur with the observation. But scientific thinking
mandates that conclusions have to be backed by plausible evidence (edit 2020:
WHO/ICMR are you reading this?) Hmmmm.........
1st August 2008 I joined the famed GSMC & KEMH,
and thus began a romance, one which has only enriched me. Here, I’ve got the opportunity
to bloom to a full potential, in both my academics and extracurriculars. Well,
this is my second home, I intend to be here for much longer and many more
innings (edit 2020: I won’t. And I’m much grateful for that. I now have many
more places I call home viz. Delhi, Coimbatore..... and counting?)
But, what had happened over the past 5.5 years is that the
home where I live had just become a boarding and lodging facilty. Go home,
sleep. Eat food. Back to Gymkhana for all those youthful activities (edit 2020:
Gymkhana is love.) Hopping from one activity to another, one semester to
another and one exam to another has been so engrossing that one hasn’t realised
that time has flown away. I joined MBBS as a 17 year old minor and by now I
have voted in 3 elections, have a political ideology (edit 2020: That has
watered down. Now, they are all just clowns in different colours.) I have a degree,
I deal with life and death (edit 2020: no longer. Hope to continue to make life
livable..... the quality of life aspect that I now deal with....... that’s
content for another blog), and hope to save many more lives in the future by
calculated heroisms that only medicine can offer one to do.(edit 2020: Meh!)
So many things have changed over these years, but there has been a steady
backbone through all the trials and tribulations, like a shadow which never
leaves – the constant called mother. Yes, there have been complaints that I
have had towards her and she towards me and both have amicably communicated to
each other. But, there has been a comfort in her presence and much of what I have
been able to do, has been because of this emotional cushion that she has
afforded.
In stark contrast to the ever absent from home 5.5 years of
MBBS, this past year of preparing for NEET has been spent within the confines
of home. I’ve talked more with mom this year than perhaps the last 6 years put
together. She has stories to tell and I have more. And now dwelling on that innocuous
observation that Pallavi, my dissection partner (not quite partner, she was
afraid to dissect, so Owais and I did all the work. No complains, we loved
dissecting. It was a mutual arrangement. Just one complain – she never went on
a dieting fad or I would have gladly eaten all her cadburys as well),made
brings me to the realisation that I have now come to see the white hair that
she (mother, of course) has, much more than 6 years ago.
Those fine wrinkles on her face, they
weren’t there the last I recollect. So, while as much as I may claim that she’s
been a constant, she probably has been largely relegated to being a shadow.
Have you seen your shadow carefully? Does it have a face?
Does it have features? No. It only has a silhout. And you never bother to
notice that because it’s just so taken for granted. People talk to mirrors when
they are bored and not necessarily psychiatrically ill (edit 2020: most would’ve
by now, courtesy the lockdown!), but no one talks to the shadow.
But this, year has given me an opportunity to see a face in that shadow. Indian boys are so attached to their mothers (edit 2020: this one
still holds), and so am I. But the shadow with a face, makes me realize that
the tables are turning. Sooner than later, as these wrinkles deepen and more of
the hair turns white, a change of roles is on the card. I will be the care taker, her constant, her backbone. This happens to all and sultry.
But, what will be different? Well, for her I’ll always be
the one with a face, the one she reads and deciphers- emotions that I have been
unaware that I was experiencing – she always has. To her, I’ll never be a
shadow. And this day forth, she’s definitely not a shadow anymore.
Post Edit 2020:
Long story short, in a couple of months I moved to Delhi for
my residency. Over the 3 years in Delhi, I’ve learnt to cook, keep my books (financially),
manage my groceries and shop for my clothes and wash them and iron them too.
Mother has been visiting often, her trips ranging from 1 week to 1 month.
October 2019, I completed my postgraduation and moved back
home in early November. Then, for two months I was home, till I moved to
Coimbatore in early Jan 2020 for my fellowship. In the two months, while mother
insisted on cooking breakfast, I realised that my food tasted better. So, from
taking culinary instructions over the phone in the Nov of 2016, here I was
dictating terms in the Nov of 2019. Minor tussle. Everyone’s happy now, cause
my food tastes better. As mother says, there’s something in the hands of boys
who cook. Yeah!!
Come Jan 2020, mother made a trip to Coimbatore. Something
here was feeling new, the house wasn’t feeling like home. But, ever since she’s
been here, it has been. In our temples we do pranpratisthan for the diety’s
idol. Well, her visit was kind of a pranpratisthan for the house I live in now.
After that 1 week visit was over, we had planned a longer one in March. This
time we were to go around to Ooty and all the scenic hill stations around CBE.
Just a few days before her departure from Mumbai, the frenzy around Corona was
building up. Being at that stage in my career where most of my batchmates have
joined as senior residents or lecturers or junior consultants, there was a
flood of information about the landfall that this pandemic was going to make –
raw data, the one that was not yet analysed or manipulated or disguised under
official figures. Real on ground situation!! And that was still March, before
the official lockdown.
So, in all sense of safety and security, it was mutually
decided to postpone the trip to a safer time, say October, tentatively. How have the last two months been? Extremely stressful? Yes and no.
I am happy, I don’t get to go home. I can’t. I’m a thousand
miles away. Also, I see patients. Wouldn’t have wanted to go home. Win-win.
But, there’s also always a moment every day, that I am
scared and worried. Every time, I hear of some so and so case. Some batchmate
testing positive. Of the shortage of hospital beds. Of being unable to be of
any use, despite all the resources and contacts at my disposal, because,
frankly, they themselves are stretched beyond imagination.
Ever since we’ve resumed OPDs since early May, I’ve been
using a N95 mask daily. It is a torture. It drains your energy. It starves you of
oxygen. And the headaches are like you’ve never experienced before. Then I
speak to some friend. And I feel happy that at least I’m not wearing a full PPE
in this sweltering May heat. At least, I am spared the dehydration and electrolyte
imbalance.
A few days back, I was speaking to Mom about how bad the
situation in Mumbai has become, and just as a fleeting thought I said "May be, I
should’ve let you come over.” Then again, I remembered speaking to my friend, “At
least you are lucky you’re getting a PPE!"
Can’t have both heads and tails, can we?
Going back to 2016, I had written
“Sooner than later, as these wrinkles deepen and more of the hair turns white, a change of roles is on the card. I will be the care taker.”
Come 2020, am I? Not
being around, is probably the best care that I can offer. We all are at nature’s mercy. I hope the answer is in affirmative, but only time can tell.
What makes a hero standout? He makes a sacrifice. And
recollect, in 2016 I had a dream to undertake “calculated heroisms”. Well, at
this point, to that end, we both are each others heros and rest is for fate to
decide.
“Have you seen these guys?” one of my professors had once
said. “30 year olds, still having their parents standing outside their exam
halls. When will they ever cut the umbilical cord?” It was probably in context
of DM entrances or MD final exams, I don’t recollect clearly, and he surely was
unhappy that full grown adults were incapable of fending for themselves.
To Sir, I reply. Yes, I have cut the umbilical cord.
Independent I am, a bird that has left his nest and gets his own worm. And that
partly, is also the reason why mother dear isn’t as worried.
I've tried to make her tech
savvy. Pushed her out of the house as much as I could. In Delhi, I bought her a
metro card and told her to go around sight seeing on her own, whilst I was in
the hospital. She would then come home and tell me about easier routes around
Delhi.
So mush so that, when she came to CBE, I told her that I’ll
come to the station to pick her up, she actually sounded surprised. And that’s
the reason why I am not as worried. I know, she’ll manage.
The
umbilical cord has been cut from both the ends. We now stand to each other as mirrors, not as shadows.
Coming to whether I’m still a mumma’s boy?
Well, more than
ever! On a scale of 1-10 where do I stand? at 11.
(P.S: That March ticket which she told me she’d cancelled –
well she’d actually rescheduled it for April. This she told me in April when IRCTC
messaged her that they’re not running the train. We both had a healthy laugh
about it.
It’s just not us, there are so many amongst us that yearn for our
loved ones. My heart aches when I think of the tragedy that the poor migrants
are facing, left high and dry. Were I to be a daily wager, I would also have taken
this thousand mile journey for sure.
But, we should be lucky to be privileged
that we are – me for being able to write this, and you for being able to read.)
