The wonder blunder!

Have I blundered,

I once wondered.

Opportunities? Potentials? Goals?

All drained down the rabbit holes?

It was about one and eight, approximately my age.

Nervous, naive, doubting if I should turn to the next page.

Maybe someone else will do it better,

For I was still left with a taste bitter.

So i took a back seat.

Lets see others and learn from their wit.

I sat back once, and then once more and yet once more,

Hmmmm..... Lets try again, I should do better at chance number four!

And so I tried.

Willing to risk getting fried.

And again I blundered!

O! How did this happen, I wondered.

I was aged, about two and two there,

Thus, very little about outcomes did I care.

Better than the last time,

a mentor patted my back,

Continue, you'll eventually do fine!

He said, to that nervous rack.

And with his wisdom I proceed.

Understanding that a rose comes with its thorn.

The mantra if you want to survive or succeed,

Is that You must take the bull by its horn.

Many a times, tossed around

Yet landing on safer ground.

Thank you sir for teaching me to welcome my blunders,

For they are truly, the world's real wonders!

Mere Naam ki Chai!

 Doomscrolling on Insta has become a part and parcel of my life. I spend the larger part of my day telling patients to reduce their screen times, and then scroll a good 1 GB of insta after dinner and before bed. Before you jump to any conclusions, let me declare unequivocally that I am anything but a hypocrite. In my defence, my consumption of insta content is part of my “research” to help me keep up with the latest social media trends. As I happen to interact with a lot of GenZ and millenials and I need to make a connection with them, ensure our “vibes” match, I have to keep abreast socially as well. That is why I doomscroll insta. Thus, you see, it isn’t what it looks like, and I am a not duplicitous person.

One particular reel that caught my attention was cartoons dancing to a Bhojpuri song called “chai piyenge, hum to chai piyenge”. Now, that is an emotion I strongly feel and relate to as well. I may come back from death if someone offers me a cup of chai. Secondly, I have always been called a cartoon, my mother used to do it when I was in school (and still does), Sakina and Seema and Dhanashree did it when I was in college(and still do), Savni and Komal did it when I was in KEM (and still do), Krishna did it when I was in Delhi doing my postgraduation(obvio.....duh!), and many more continue to do it in hushed tones.

Jab tak Suraj Chaand rahega,

Cartoon mera dusara naam rahega!

Till date, I haven’t yet posted a reel on insta which shows me celebrating how vibrating and reverberating my belly fat is. So this song was the ideal candidate for me to make a reel debut and try to see if I can make it to BigBoss next season. Saying so, I started brewing myself a cup of “Poore India me World Famous Jayesh ki Chai adrakh maarke, paani kam doodh jyaada”.   The thought that I could write a blog on chai also took roots.

Let me introduce you to Sakina, Seema and Dhanashree. We met in the year 2006 in Ruia, 11 standard, C division, science stream. In junior college at Ruia, the divisions were made based on what we had opted for as our second language. So, people who opted for Hindi as their second language were in “C and D” divisions. Our small group of friends solidified courtesy this stratification system. And, with Hindi as a second language, came our Hindi teacher as well.

Our Hindi teacher, a pentagenerian on the verge of retirement. An old schooler who wore a neat safari, spoke in chaste North Indian Hindi, was as passionate about teaching his subject as was strict and nontolerant about indiscipline in his class. Very difficult for teenagers who’d broken out from school and entered college and wanted to do masti. (In Mumbai, school ended at 10^th and 11^TH & 12^th were pursued in designated Junior Colleges.) Attendance was not free. He would mark you absent if you didn’t answer the roll call in the first go. Mentally absent, physically present was also marked absent. Luckily, Ruia had a strong Mumbai middle class culture and bright students converged there with a common goal to move ahead in life. More substance, less style.

He had a rule, that you had to carry your textbook to class. Anyone without a text book would be shown the way out. “Aap canteen jaao, aur chai peyo.”

And then would start a volley of “But Sir..... Sorry Sir.... I forgot......”

He wouldn’t have any of it. “Aap bhule nahi ho, aap laaye nahi ho, kyunki aap lana nahi chahte the!” he would say (not verbatim)

“Aap canteen jaiye. Unko bolna maine bheja hai. Mere naam ki chai pee lijiye.”

And, with this rule he was impartial, even the most favourite of his students were ceremoniously sent to canteen to sip on “Mere naam ki chai.”

The onus of responsibility lies on you. In many interactions that I’ve had with many non-genuine people over the years, this analogy has come to mind. “O! I forgot” ..... can be anything...... a shared task in a team situation where you’ve done your bit, and the other person hasn’t.......an unexplained delay in completing paper works......... forwarding files........ a phone call you’ve been waiting for....... or in any other format. “Aap bhule nahi ho, aap laaye nahi ho, kyunki aap lana nahi chahte the!” helps save you from investing a lot of your time and energy in the wrong places.

It has been more than 15 years since. As one moved in life, one found oneself having forgotten (unintentionally) to carry that hindi textbook to that hindi classroom (metaphorically speaking). And the masterji in this classroom is even more ruthless in sending you to the canteen. You’d often want to say, “But Sir...... Sorry Sir....... I forgot.......”, masterji aint givvin ya no second chances!!!

So, when someone tells me “Mere naam ki Chai peelo”, I do it and carry my Hindi textbook religiously to the classroom for the next class.

But it is also in this canteen when sipping kisi aur k naam ki chai, that I have met people to whom I can say, "Hello friends, Mai chai pee raha hu. Pappe kha lo".

Pawwry Time!!

 “She’s a pawwry animal” I told my friend in the course of our conversation as she unabashedly shamelessly kept prodding me about matters that are defined as “my personal business” or still better “none of hers”.

My dear buddy - the one who has no sense of boundaries just ‘cause she’s been my friend for over 16 years - the erstwhile queen-bee of party animals quipped, “O, it’s just a phase!”

 She once partied so hard, she hadn’t realised she’d fractured her foot. It was I, who noticed her swollen foot a week later, got her a Roentgenogram (Google this), reduced the fracture and plastered her leg. I had told her it pains a lot, so I was extremely proud of my bone-setting skills and for a moment starting fancying a career in Orthopaedics, when she didn’t even utter an “Uff”. My dream was shattered just a few moments later when I boasted to her that other patients have screamed their lungs out earlier, but now I’m very skilled that she hadn’t felt any pain and she replied, “O it was painful like hell. I just didn’t shout because I thought you’ll laugh.”

Now that’s the friendship that lasts 16 years!!

#SharedExperiences.

Jo dost kamina nahi, wo dost sachha dost nahi.

 P.S.: In retrospect, no I wouldn’t have ‘not laughed’.

“Well then, we have a phase difference” I retorted in my nonchalant-high IQ – I’m a Doctor, but I haven’t forgotten my physics - pun laden - scientifically accurate sarcasm and cut my friend’s soul into two with the accuracy of a gamma knife incision.

#FrontalLobectomy 

(Click here to Google(verb) Phase Difference and Frontal Lobectomy, but since you’re reading it on a smart phone, why don’t you ask Siri or Alexa to do it anyway).

“We all have our phases” she said contemplatively.

(Not sure if she isn’t high. She usually isn’t this philosophical; au contrare she’s quite a superficial type of person to be frank. It’s Saturday night and in my defence one can’t quite figure it out if you are texting people 25000 kilometers away.)

Blogging in the early 20’s was easier (i.e. my 20s, not the 20s of the Y2K millennium. Duh! Lest you be thinking isn’t this only 2023- aren’t these the early 20s – what’s this guy talking about?) Ignorance was bliss. Life was majorly a binary affair. Everything seemed wrong, and I knew what was right. The eyes did not see what the mind did not know. Then, over the years Delhi happened, then Coimbatore and Krishnankovil and back to Mumbai, and in the process the mind uncovered a great deal of mysteries, a myriad of events, a few personal experiences, a few from those of closer ones and many more just by being a mute spectator to all the chaos that unfolded with all the seemingly unrelated people around you. “O poor thing” that you felt for someone else, and the very next day it is you who were “the poor thing.”

The mind now knows much more, so the eyes now see that much more.

There’s no binary now, there’s only layers – deeper and deeper, infinite layers. And that makes it difficult to write. How many thoughts can one pen down about a single moment or an idea without sounding lost or confused or worse still, contradictory? While I could churn out an essay in a couple of hours earlier, it takes me months and years to finish an article now.

“Cut the umbilical cord” one of my professors used to insist. No, not in the delivery room, he meant it in the abstract sense of the word. Over time, I did it, rather it happened. It was the most liberating event to ever happen. That is, however, just one half of the story.

Once one graduates into an independent existence, starts the real journey of re-establishing that cord. Every paradise that’s lost has to be regained. And then there are new cords which need to be forged along the way. Some just happen so effortlessly, that you don’t know when found your clan...... You lean on some, some lean on you and the relay continues. 

“Ye Mumbai hai, idhar Time ka matlab hai paisa” (movie buffs identify this movie starring John Abraham and Nana Patekar). This was the attitude with which I had moved out of the city I called my home for 25 years.

 “I want to be 20 again” I was cribbing to another fellow human recently. At first, I thought I was getting overwhelmed by the complexities that I was seeing myself becoming aware of and wanted to revert to the easier binary phase of life.

But my friend has pointed out “O, it’s just a phase.”

True, and that phase has passed.  I want to be 20 again because it probably was very easy to make “cords” then. Why? Probably because I had the time. We bartered time, not money. The friendships, the connections, all that have lasted over geographical distances, have flourished because they were nurtured with an investment of time. We are all starved for time now. And so it becomes all the more important to ration time and invest it wisely, on oneself most importantly. At a stage where work takes priority, one has to spare time for life! 

The role of a career is to facilitate the progression of our lives, while one faces a situation where the career turns one to autophage on one’s life! We’re offsetting milestones, because you guessed it right, we can’t ration out the time for them!

Ever since I’ve returned to Mumbai the fallacy of “Time is money” philosophy has been laying itself bare. “Time is time” is what my learning has been. Let's not place two swords in the same scabbard.

I know you haven’t Googled or asked Siri or Alexa to spell out for you any of the things I had asked you to at the beginning.  So, I’ll just explain what phase difference is –

“A PHASE DIFFERENCE IS THE DIFFERENCE IN THE PHASE ANGLE OF TWO WAVES”  😛😛

Well then, what’s a harmonic?

So kids, what have we discussed today? 

Phase Difference, Harmonics and Umbilical cord. 

Sounds like a good science class.

And here’s a better thought experiment to end with –

I think I misspelt something? Is it cord or chord?

 

Etymologically, the word chord is derived from cord.

The irony that life presents is that 

until you don’t strike a chord, 

you won’t establish a cord.

(the floor is now open to discussion)

Reverend Father Google

 How would you know that I have done my schooling from a convent school? Well, for one I’ve asked a rhetorical question, so that is hint enough(Samazdaar ko ishaara kaafi hai). Two, you can search me on facebook and see my about info and melody khaao aur khud jaan jao. But high chances are that you are reading this article by clicking the link that I’ve posted on FB, so, that’s that. Three, you’re enchanted by my neat cursive handwriting (a close friend with whom I’ll be catching up in the very near future, prefers to call it curly-curly handwriting instead. She also calls food nom-nom).  My professor was. And he immediately figured out that I had a convent education, but also supplemented his observation with the wisdom, that public opinion of me being a qualified professional of the modern medicine system (i.e. an Allopathic doctor) would be averse as patients would be able to easily decipher my prescriptions. So, now-a-days I have restricted myself to only give prescriptions in numericals. (Go figure out what a plus 10 Dioptre sphere over minus 5.5 Dioptre cylinder at 135 degrees means)

Anyway, going back to school time memories (which right now stand exactly half a lifetime ago for me). School days are formative years and I developed my well-rounded personality with an equally well-rounded snowman-like bodyform in school and have maintained it over the years by actively adopting a lifestyle of sedentary work and physical inactivity coupled with a specially curated high carbohydrate and fat diet.

A part of English Composition curriculum in school was letter writing.  ‘Write a letter to a friend describing your holidays’. (Well, technically at that age, all the friends that I had were living within a couple of buildings’ radius. They knew what I had done in my vacation. Why would I write them a letter?) Then the teacher would dictate a letter describing some lovely vacation I had in Manali.( The description made me envious, because I didn’t go for that lovely vacation in Manali and if I had to actually send that letter, it would make me friend envious even more). I guess, recent trend in schools may have shifted to “write a FB post to make the world envious of the picture perfect holiday you had and also upload a thousand photos with it.” But, I have also come to the understanding that the world has long moved past FB to Insta, so I guess the exercise now would be #describe #your #instaholidays in #hastags.

Then there used to be the exercise of write a lie leave letter to Principal (that’s one proforma that one really needs to master from a tender age) and other such formal letters. So, the usual letter writing books we had, started letters with ‘Respected Principal Mr. XYZ’. But, the letter dictated to convent kids start with ‘Reverend Father XYZ’. (That usually caused confusion during the earlier school years with us thinking “that’s not my father”, “my father is not the Principal”, “Yay! My father is the Principal”, “Shit! My father is the PRINCIPAL” variable from case to case.)

Fast forward to my days as a solo fellow in a heavy retina department, younglings wanting to rid themselves of Ben Franklin’s invention kept me busy (especially on Saturday evenings) as I searched every nook and crany of their Ora serratae right upto the insertion of the second cranial nerve to the location where it pierced the sclera of their eyes and became one with the inner lining of the eye, for all the 360 degrees and for both eyes, with the zeal of Indiana Jones searching for lost treasures. Ophthalmology is a subject very few doctors know much about. “What do you do?” A MBBS batchmate recently asked me. “I shine bright light into peoples’ eyes and scold them if they blink”, I replied. As per a recent international survey, less than 1% of all qualified doctors globally know how to use an Indirect Ophthalmoscope. (Well, why do I quote this statistic? Because it gives me the chance to brag that I’ve tamed this monster to high level of expertise).

So, these insta-hastager younglings (I earlier used to call people over 30 as uncle and aunties, but ever since I’ve transitioned onto the toddler side of 30 last year, I’ve stopped using that terminology. I now despise those not yet 30 and derogate them as younglings), don’t read any hardcopies of any books anymore. Whichever fancy school/college they attend, the smartphone with all its apps is their constant companion.

So, this one Saturday, yet another youngling walked into the consultation chamber wanting to utilise the services of Indiana Jayesh. True to my nature, I took my archeological excavation tools and began digging deep to unearth the secrets that lie within the confines of his eyes.  Lo and behold! What a discovery! I detected a segment of his retina detaching. Timely discovery indeed! Advised him to undergo a prophylactic laser procedure to halt the detachment from progressing further.

As has been the bane of every doctor in my generation, no one takes our word of advice anymore.

“I want to talk to my father first” he said. I would’ve been happier if he had said that he would like to consult another eye doctor (unless his father was an eye doctor that I was unaware of).

“OK!” I said.”But the condition is an emergency.”

“Here or anywhere else, you better get the laser done ASAP” I added. (Everyone takes second opinions. He was just being thoughtful and not hurting my feelings by telling me that he wanted to leave me to go to another, but I was just breaking ice and addressing the elephant in the room.)

About 15 minutes later, he came back willing to undergo the procedure. His father had consented, I thought. The procedure lasted about 20 minutes after which I explained him the precautions and danger signs and the follow-up routine.

“Actually doctor” he said hesitantly, “I had not gone to call to my father that time. I Googled. And I read all that came up. It also said that it is an emergency.”

15 years of my painstaking training being held hostage to a Google search!

But for whatever it was worth, an eye had been saved at the end of the day. Earlier people trusted doctors in good faith. In my career people will trust me only in Google faith! Having come to this realisation, I decided to pen down a letter in neat cursive expressing my heartfelt gratitude to Google.

But being the convent educated kid I ended up addressing the letter to Reverend Father Google.

The Heart that never wept!

 The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

No dream ever broken,

No opportunity ever taken,

O The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

No shred of esteem it ever lost,

A winner it was at all cost,

And every time it felt such joy,

O boy! O boy! O boy!

The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

And so went on the saga, eons turned to ages,

Until one storm it found itself surrounded by wreckages,

O The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

Ripped off all accolades,

All medals and trophies it ever won,

One punch received such,

It lost its Midas’ touch.

The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

O! The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

All castles in the air had fallen,

All the steel and iron had molten,

Reduced to lesser than ashes,

It only sighed in suppressed hushes,

The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

Reduced now to bones bare,

Forget clothes, not even an inch of skin to spare,

As it tried to figure it had landed where,

O goodness, what a living nightmare,

The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

Wasn’t there a time when wishing for more was a norm?

To take on the bull by its horn.

But now it was afraid of the shark, and even the snail,

Was this it, on its coffin hammered the final nail?

O The heart that never wept!

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

The waves rose deadly,

It searched around sadly,

Alas! It saw no shore,

Neither a boat, not even an ore!

O The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

The situation was tough, the weather was rough,

Sadly The heart wasn’t seasoned enough,

No direction, no mission,

‘Stay afloat!’ it had a divine vision!

O The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

Like a duck it began to paddle, not swim, just paddle,

Unloaded from itself all the baggage, all the saddle,

Deja Vu! And once again it felt such joy,

O boy! O boy! O boy!

The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

‘Paddle! Paddle!’ Let it be labelled a clown,

If it ever drown,

For it would still be victory

If it drowned of fatigue and not of a defeated jittery!

 

‘Paddle! Paddle!’ Now it is thankful, it faced this session,

For it taught a great lesson,

A lesson to not budge,

For it realised, it was its own judge.

O The heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept!

 

‘Paddle! Paddle!’ And now it pondered,

Over the past its thoughts wildly wandered,

In this new found glory as it basked,

But one question begged to be asked,

When it was the heart that never wept,

How peacefully at night it ever slept?

Just Like Old Times.....

 On Sat, 6^th March 2021, I took the 2^nd dose of CoviShield. A day after the first dose, I did end up having some fever and chills. Well, after the second, the story was just the same, but the reaction a little stronger, i.e. fever and chills at around 14 hours compared to 36 hours last time, a stronger headache, a bit more of the general weakness and luckily, a Sunday to follow, to rest and recover. Symbolically, this may just be the beginning to the end of one of the most uncertain times of life my generation has faced. But times have always been uncertain in terms of the present and the future - it is only when one looks behind and connects the dots that just about any “pattern of certainty” ever comes up, if at all, i.e.

So, the last “uncertain phase” that I had was no longer than 2 years ago. Still remember like it was yesterday, the December of 2018. Komal’s wedding to attend, a thesis to submit and a race against time. Will I be able to attend a dear friend’s wedding? – well, provisional to the status of my thesis completion (Post that, it was –Will my thesis get accepted? Then, will I clear my theory.....what about practicals....... so on and so forth it goes on. One just being a stepping stone to another).

31^st December, the last day to submit thesis and a few days before that, a close friend’s wedding to attend. One of the rules that I had set for myself during my residency years was to try and not to miss any friend’s wedding. Because time was an entity to be rationed, I had my priorities set. {Still missed on attending 3 very close weddings..... that’s 3 too many :( for this lifetime....}

Anyway, since the chances of a last minute cancellation loomed large, I preferred to book a Rajdhani for my to and fro between Dilli and Mumbai over a flight simply because, one cancellation charges were feasibly acceptable and two, because cancellation charges were feasibly acceptable. (A “two” and fro journey). Third, because time had to be utilised wisely, 22 hours at a stretch in a Rajdhani compartment would allow one the mental peace to finish up a good amount of thesis writing, compared to the 8 hours - of travelling to the airport, security check, boarding a flight, check out and then reaching home – that would be rendered non productive, times 2.

A day before departure, I figured out that with my thesis discussion approved by my guides, I just had to finish up some proof editing, so the trip was on!! Hurrah! After a year in Coimbatore, I have sort of a faded memory of the “Dilli ki sardi”, but just remind myself that there’s a song about it – “tadpaaye tarsaaye re’, saari raat jagaye re’......Dilli ki sardi”.

I love trains, (that’s point number 4 of why Rajdhani >> Flights), second only to Sheldon Cooper when it comes to being a rail enthusiast. If the one of the functions of travelling is to learn life lessons, then a journey in the Indian Railways is a university certificate course.

Usually, I always reach the jugjug gaadi station a whole hour in advance to the departure (despite Indian railways following Indian Standard time, ‘cause I just love trains and the colourful chaos at the station). But in the Dilli ki sardi, peaking (or troughing, if you are a stickler for linguistic accuracy) at 4 deg C (Single digit), where even five layers of clothes can’t keep you warm for more than 3 minutes, I tried to play it short. So, with my train from New Delhi scheduled for departure at 10:50 pm, at 9:30 pm I started searching for Ola/Uber (around 50 minutes the drive from East of Kailash to Paharganj). Still sitting at home, 2 drivers had already declined, and the time was 9:40. So, I thought it better to go down and try and latch onto an auto. Maybe the cost haggling will provide some much needed warmth in this spine chilling, mind numbing climate.

Now, there’s a word for things that are different but sound alike. I don’t recollect it now, maybe it is called alliteration (I hate to google stuff that I don’t know about. If I google, I’m sure the result will eventually be that I am having some type of brain cancer. So, just in case, there’s a masters in Eng-leash literature reading this one, please un-leash your knowledge and let me know). Just as I was accumulating enough guts to head out and try and catch an auto, before I catch the cold, freeze and join the undead army of the Night King, I glanced at my ticket.

So, the alliteration (or whatever it is called- a rose by any other name would still be equally fragrant, a Jayesh by any other name would still be equally funny) which foxed me was the almost monoamniotic twin like similarity between fifteen and fifty. Boarding 10:15pm, departure 10:20 pm.

Now, I have small deep set eyes and they literally shut when I just as much as smile, let alone grin. Friends have displayed their astonishment over how I can even “see”, when I laugh (perhaps this led to the scientific curiosity that eventually made me take up ophthalmology as a career). But there are those marked occasions, such as the one mentioned above, when my oculi, lauch themselves out of the confines of the bony walls of the orbit of my facial skeleton and go into an orbit around whatever celestial object is available. (Sometimes newspapers have reported them as unexpected comet/UFO sightings). But this time, I had to hold them in place with both my hands, because we just didn’t have the time for them to finish a parikrama of the solar system.

So, with a racing heart, and hoping against hope to find an auto, while simultaneously frantically refreshing Ola/Uber, I decided to activate plan B. {Plan B: Head back to the warm comfort of home, and log on to IRCTC and cancel tickets and get a refund and message Komal -  “Sorry Yaaaar....... Can’t make it. Thesis not complete. I know you’ll understand. Damn this residency. Will catch up when I come back. Best Wishes. And I definitely am gonna take a treat from you. Much Love.” – the following morning.}

But, the thing about hope is, the first three letters are H-O-P. So, O boy!! Didn’t I hop into the only auto I saw driving that night (that too in the opposite direction. Some stunt for someone with my level of athleticism). He had only as much as made eye contact, and decelerated and before he knew it, I was already in his passenger seat. He continued driving.

“Bhaiyya, Nai Dilli station.”  I said.

He took a U turn. (Thank God! Cause, I wouldn’t have gotten off if he had refused and knowing Delhi, that would have been the night I would have gotten abducted. Some luck!)

“Kitna loge?” I asked.

“Tin so”

“Jyaada hai. Ola to dedhso me mil raha hai.” (Wishes are horses beggars can ride. But, three years in Dilli, I had learnt the Dilli ways)

“Nahi Bhaiyaa, tin so hi hoga.” He said. (I was expecting – To fir Ola hi kar lo. But, luckily that didn’t come. Maybe the cold had chilled out that Dilli youth’s khaulta hua garam khoon.)

“Dedh so theek hai.”

“Do so”

Finally 5 minutes later and 3 km away we agreed on 180. Plan B scrapped. Trip On.

With my eyes glued to Google maps, I was seeing the ETA as 25 minues. That’s 5 minues too many. At the Humayun’s tomb round about and no traffic to be seen, I figured, we could make it in 10.

“Bhaiyaaaa... Thoood.....aaaaa..... tejjjjjjjjj.... chaaa....laaaa...oooo” I said, may teeth clammering.

“Aur tej........ nah....iiiiiii hogaaaaaaa Bhaiiiiiyaaaaa” he replied (his teeth clammering).

“Tej karo bhaiya.. 10 minute me train hai.” (Teeth still clammering, but for the ease of reading, I’ve taken away the special effects. All conversations hereforth to be visualised as with teeth clammering.)

“Nahi hoga. Ungliyaan bhi mahsus nahi ho rahi. Gaadi pe control nahi hai.”

“Tej chalo bhaiyaa. Phizul ki baat mat karo. Gloves to pehna hai na” (That’s some Dilli attitude there, eh!)

“Kya bhaiyaa aap........(some pleasantries in muffled voice under his muffler)”.

ETA 15 minutes........ Reactivate Plan B. Open WhatsApp. Start typing the message. I could see myself reaching New Delhi and wave off the Rajdhani a heart wrenching bye-bye.

Anyway, despite all efforts from my autowalla (just giving him the benefit of doubt), I didn’t (i.e. DID NOT) reach on time. 5 minutes post departure time, is when I was the gates of NDLS. Then, I ran, only to find that there was a queue for security check. Just in the frustration of the moment, I did go ahead with the security check as well and reached platform 7. And Ola (as an expression of surprise, not the car service that had royally ditched me.), Rajdhani’s still there on the station (Dilli’s winter comes with Dilli’s fog and aint no train gonna remain unaffected). Run again. Hop into the first bogey that I could get into. Quite a ‘Jab we met’ moment it was.

Here’s rule one of travelling by Indian Rail. Get into the first bogey you can get into and then ask, “Bhaiya kaunsa coach hai?” and then find your way through. (Metaphorically speaking, this is also applicable for taking important life decisions. Take one, and then make your way through.) So, as I was searching for a Bhaiyya to ask him “Mai kaha hu? (in a quintessential 80’s bollywood style)” I could feel a tremor indicating that a change in the inertia of the train had been effected by an accelerating force. (i.e.Train had started moving). Eventually, made it to my coach and berth.

 

PART-II:

 

Another aspect of travelling in Indian Rail, is that if you are a single male, you’ll try and book for a side upper, but your seat will be shuffled at will. Courtesy an SMS from IRCTC, my initially allotted berth and coach had been changed after charting. As I settled into my compartment, I glanced around. I was travelling with two families. One of 4 (granpa, granma, mumma, her hyperactive almost ADHD 8 year old daughter) and another one of 4 (hubby, his bibi and two sons, who seemed 3y and 5y).

It was a late departure, so all slept well. Next morning after a cup of tea at Ajmer, I decided to start my thesis work. I didn’t have the side upper, but an aisle side 3 rd seat. The kids had woken up. The boys were quiet and well behaved, majorly fascinated and occupied by the scenes outside the window. The young lady had gotten into her elements and started singing and dancing and slapping her mumma. Every half an hour granma would say to mumma, “Tumhara ladki haath se nikal raha hai. Isko control karo”. From their accents I could figure out that they were probably South Indians settled in Dilli since long and had adopted Hindi as their lingua franca. Anyway, bearing through that din, I continued my thesis work, with some regular distractions every time the young lady started singing and dancing, followed by granma’s advise to mumma.

The other young family was a delight. Never seen two young boys being so well behaved for so long. Stark contrast between what was happening to my left and my right.

In between, the train halted at Surat. I called Prachi.

“Kidhar hai? Where is?” bespoke me. “I’m in Surat.”

“O Great! I’m at home.” Prachi replied. “When are you coming?”

“OK. Now I am not in Surat. Hehe.” I replied as the train started pulling out.

“Matlab?” Prachi’s confused reply.

“I’m in train re. Train’s left Surat now. Going back by Rajdhani as well. Will call you then. Bye. Take care.” (On the return trip, Prachi and Viral came to the station and we caught up for the 5 minutes that the halt there was for. Also, they brought tasty khichia papad for me which I savoured for quite a few days.)

As Mumbai dear neared, my interest in my thesis began to vanish. So, the laptop was shut, all data backed up on a pendrive and google drive and I gave in to the wave of excitement and anticipation that was rushing through.

Dahanu came around 4pm ish. One of the boys’, the 3 year old started becoming cranky. Too long a ride for a kid that age. That’s when my attention was diverted to this family on the side berths to my left. Hubby and bibi were talking.

Hubby to bibi: Marine drive chalna hai? (Ah Marine Drive! Just the mention of it got me more interested in their conversation.)

Just then the lady received a SMS. She read it and then turned to her hubby and said.

“O it’s a message from that guy. So there was this kid in my class. He didn’t submit his assignments. I failed him. He’s messaged that he’s qualified for merchant navy. He asked me to pass him, but I did not. Whatever he was doing, he should have submitted his assignments. Huh.....” she said.

Bibi: Bhel puri khaate hai.....

“Just like old times” they whispered in perfect nostalgic synchrony.

 

 

This passing – failing business is a major ethical dilemma I have seen some of my professors face. Each one has a different work around to it. I recall one of my Professors in KEM, who believed that no resident should be failed and they deserved to pass purely on the basis of the volume of work they had done during their residencies. “If he is a good doctor, patients will come to his clinic, otherwise they won’t.”

Another one believed in the sanctity of the examination process. One day can’t determine how good a candidate is, he agreed, it may be his off day. But, that’s the process. He would give ample of opportunities for a candidate to pass. “Exams are to assess how much they know, not what they do not know. If they know enough, they deserve to pass. And if they don’t, they don’t.”

A third one believed (arbitrarily) that passing percentage can NOT be more than x% and so (100-x)% candidates would compulsorily fail, irrespective. And there were some in betweeners who would pass a candidate if she looked pretty, or someone was answering questions after reading books they had authored and so on and so forth and vice-versa.

Anyway 2 years later, with a second wave of Corona splashing the globe with the vengeance of a tsunami, so many a careers have been devastated. What I still recall, though, is the tone of that “HUH”- one which intended to dwarf a bona fide achievement of a hardworking candidate. One which couldn’t accept that the other had succeeded, where she had rendered him a failure. On ethical grounds, yes, I agree he should have been held back (or may not have been also. Just don’t give him a gold medal.) But what was distressing was the lack of neutrality, let alone empathy, in that response.

Time is a commodity we all ration. 2 years down the line, I don’t know if submitting those assignments at the cost of a shot at a merchant navy career would have stood him good. But it is everyone’s guess.

New normal or not, the answer will be the same.............

“Just like old times.”

The Man From Zurich.

 *Bhompu bhompu* my phone rang as it notified a new WhatsApp message. Now, what sort of a ringtone is that you'll think..... but I am well known, amongst other things, for choice of the legendariest ring tones.

'Meh, yet another happy Diwali forward' I thought, and the best part is that "the prosperous new year part" is going to be repeated again after another two months.

So I went on to give a finger print impression to unlock my phone. There goes all my education in the drain.... sirf angutha hi lagana tha to itni magajmaari kyu ki?

Open WhatsApp and there's a message from "Zurich Uncle". Who was this? I couldn't quite recollect. So I opened up the chat. The last exchange we had was way back in 2014 (that's when the JV debuted on WhatsApp)...... Actually no.... We never had a chat. Who was this Zurich Uncle????? "Think.... think"

It had so happened, that Owais and I had once gone to catch a movie at Phoenix, in the latter half of our internship, probably once the entrances season was over. And afterwards, we had headed to a Mc D. It was evening time and the coronary artery choking food's outlet was jam packed with people. We had to wait around 10-15 minutes to grab a table. And that too we had achieved by jumping onto a seat vacated by the previous customer (and future heart failure patient) even before his gluteii had bilaterally vacaed the airspace over the seat. The spoils of his war with his physical wellbeing still lay bare on the table, uncleaned unkept. But, all we wanted was a seat at that time. (PG Seat > McD seat.... in that priority, but we contended with the McD). I held onto the table as Owais went to get the order. After sometime, an elderly gentleman came around with his platter of cholesterol and everything that's bad, and politely asked us, if he could join (There was a third chair vacant on our table and nowhere else). Since he seemed polish (in manners, not in nationality), we let him seat. 

Dressed in a kurta, or may be it was a Safari, he spoke in a Hindi, that was way too polite in its accent from Mumbai standards. "Are you from Lucknow?" I asked.

"No I am from Zurich." He said.

"Ah! Its in Germany no?"

"No! Its in Switzerland."

"I come to Bambai often for business. Usually I stay in Taj or other hotels. This is the first time I'm staying in Palladium. Must say, it is a nice hotel, The rooms are quite spacious. And its very cheap. Only 12500 per day."

Back then, I had no intension of taking up ophthalmology as a career. Still, after listening to that last sentence, I think I developed a transient self sealing spontaneous high flow caroticocavernous fistula..... (for the lay and non-ophthalmic folk: my eyes popped out)

"What do you do? My monthly stipend is 6500" I asked in dismay. (also with an element of a childish greed that a child who sees another child play with a fancy toy and then nags his parents ki mujhe bhi chahiye).

"I am an investment banker."

"What is that?" I asked. There's a joke that final year MBBS students crack that we felt shortchanged when we realised that ortho-pedics and pediatrics are two different subjects! I just didn't want to look uninformed so I replied, "O! OK!".

"Come to me when you have your millions." Saying so he handed me his visiting card.

That Zurich uncle had messaged me today. I was expecting "Happy Diwali", but what I got was

"Imtehaan ho gayi intezaar ki!"

*****Wish you all a very very happy Diwali and a prosperous New Year *****

Eureka! Oops, not yet!

Six months into the pandemic, life has become restricted to an arc of 100 meters. Home to hospital and back with the odd weekly outing to buy some fruits and vegetables. Long conversations with friends (luckily, of which I have many), phone calls, WhatsApp calls, video calls (nah, not many, cause I’m perennially running short of internet and being the Scrooge McDuck that I am, getting a bigger net pack is out of question) have not only helped alleviate boredom but to some certainty definitely helped to soothe frayed nerves.

A discussion on restarting the blog has become part of my daily conversations. But, call it a writer’s block or sheer lack of enthusiasm or the weight of uncertainty that has preoccupied the thought space, the inertia is a bit too much to overcome. But, when one is in the medical profession, there’s no shortage to stories to narrate. Thus, somewhere, it’s the narration that has taken the back seat.

Seeing patients is a roller coaster ride. Sometimes, you see a rare condition and feel that “Wow!” factor. The feeling is all the more rewarding when you’re the one to make the primary diagnosis. Academically rewarding always and emotionally draining sometimes. But, then you move on to the next patient and first is relegated a memory archive, only to be retrieved when you sit discussing with a colleague, or preparing a presentation for a clinical meet or when it just bursts into your conscious and you wake up in the middle of the night frantically reading up your textbook and searching PubMed for the most recent studies and researches and treatment modalities and prognostication indices etc. etc. And, yes, you won’t fall asleep until you haven’t read to your heart’s content. Heart? Or brain? Or both? Depends on what drives you, emotion or academics? Or both?

 Whatever be your USP, IQ or EQ, needs to be well balanced. Otherwise, the OPD is the right setting for you to become a classical display of a textbook nutcase of bipolar disorder. Happy and over the moon when you see a patient responding to therapy, and sad and soggy when he isn’t or you can’t offer anything.

“A doctor needs to be coated. You should be able to see, but not get affected. So, it must be a glass coating, not an asbestos one” said a teacher once. Second year MBBS students that we were then, nodded our heads in affirmative not catching a single meaning of the spoken words. “Kya mast bola na Sir ne.....” is all that we said at the end of the clinic.

A couple of years ago, during a Saturday charity OPD that I was attending, a postop lady in her 60s walked in accompanied with a male in his early 40s. Seeing her discharge papers, she had come for review a week earlier. In a heavy OPD, any unnecessary patient does give that feeling of having wasted your precious time. But now that she had come, and I had examined her, what was the point of feeling anything?

So, regaining my calm I said, “You’ve come a week earlier. Continue these eyedrops and come again next Saturday.”

“Dekha.... bola tha maine.....” she said in a scolding tone looking at her attender – the man in his 40s. Then turning to me she continued in the same chastising tone, “Doctorsaab..... ye hamara ladka.....” and got off the examination chair and limped out of the OPD, still taking support of that man in his 40s, now blushing with embarrassment.

The next patient who walked in had an advanced eye problem. She had been advised a monthly review, but she had come a good leisurely six months later. 

‘Super Laid back’ I had already made up an opinion. ‘She’ll say I had gone to the village’ my thoughts continued and I placed a wager with myself. And now, in just a second I was about to be proven right and get the rush of that Eureka! moment. So, in a single breath I asked, “Kaha chale gaye the? Ek mahine baad bulaya tha?”

“Teen ladke hai hamare. Par koi dekhne ko taiyaar nahi. Aaj ye hamari padosi aa rahi thi, to uske saath aa gayi” she replied. Eureka! indeed. What to do now? “Hmmm.....” I nodded. “Ye do test karane hai, dekhkar fir dawai badli karenge. Tab tak poorani chalate raho.” I said as I jotted down my advice and prescription on her OPD sheet in under 30 seconds and moved on to the next patient.

Many a thousand patients later, these two still come back to memory time and again, the scene feeling fresh out of the oven.

Almost a decade later, I’m still trying to figure out if I’ve gotten the glass coating. And if I have, how do I prevent it from becoming asbestos? Where does the sweet spot of titration lie? 

Still awaiting my Eureka! moment.

A Year with Mother: The evolution of a Mumma’s Boy.

(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 1^st 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 12^th 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.........

1^st 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.)

Settling in Delhi.

“Why Delhi?” Owais messaged. His astonishment palpable.

“Don’t become a Delhi boy or I’ll have to beat you up.” Savni’s warning was as clear as it gets.

A sizeably many more well-wishers sent their mixed greetings, and concerns and tips on surviving a city that we, the Mumbaikars, the people of the maximum city, the creatures who know no sleep, who spend 40% of our cumulative lifetime travelling from home to workplace and back, have grown up to think as of being one of ravages, fed both by our sense of superiority in being the more civilised of the races and media’s constant pandering to that thought.

“Blah blah blah. More blah blah, blah blah. Hence, Delhi.” I replied.

“Why Delhi?” Owais persevered with his CID style interrogation. Now, I was lost for words.

Savni has been kinder and more compassionate though, I must add. She just calls twice a week to put me in line.

But the bullet had left the pistol and so there was no looking back. Till so far, Delhi has been kind enough. The climate here has just turned supremely pleasant – hot and superhumid – just the way we like it back in the Gateway to India, where the philosophical bath time thoughts revolve around ‘why do we bath? So that even as we’re drying yourself, we get drenched in sweat again. Karma is such a pet canine of the female gender. ‘

In a couple of days I managed to rent out a lavish palatial estate to establish my retreat, found palatable, nutritious and hygienic (?? !! OK I’m making this up, but mom also reads my blogs na!) food which taste’s just as good as home food (paneer power).

Now, there are some people who blabber about things like “We Eat to Live”!! I don’t know which mad dog has bitten them. As far as I am concerned,” I Live to Eat.” And good food I’ve sniffed out (I repeat, my mother reads this blog). So when my seniors ask,” Have you settled?” I give an emphatic “Yay!!!” (P.S.: There is, in fact one senior who’s kind enough to spoon feed us, but that’s mostly food for the mind, but food nonetheless.) Spending almost 12 hours (i.e. all the daylight hours) in the hospital, I return to my royal abode, sink into my Jacuzzi (wishes are horses that beggars can ride, I’m just bathing in a Jacuzzi at the end of an exhausting day) before laying asleep in my king size bed.

“So have you settled?” another senior asked loving.

“Yes Sir!” I grinned from ear to ear. But something felt uneasy. So much concern was pouring in my way from home and otherwise, I wondered if was I missing something. Was I so lost in happiness that I was overlooking something obvious? Was I in a misery that I was unaware of? If I had flower at my disposal I would have plucked off its petals,” I am well settled...... No I’m not...... I am well settled...... No I’m not.......” But, alas, this was not to be my luxury.

A few days later, when my Mercedes had to be sent to the garage for maintenance purposes (sochne ka paisa nahi lagta. Insaan ki soch badi honi chahiye), I had to hop into an e-rickshaw, a Delhi commoner’s horse ride. The traffic was no worse than Mumbai’s. Across me were seated a gentleman and a fair lady in her twenties, who probably had delayed neurodevelopmental milestones. The gentleman was kind and tender and polite and probably the girl’s caretaker.

“O look! Wa-all-me-ate!” She exclaimed in her monosyllabic speech as the ride passed across the store. “Wa-all-pe-per-s! Ti-il-es an-d Fl-oo-ri-ngs!” She read the tagline out loud.

'Awww!!!' I thought out loud. The gentleman was unmoved. Some stone-hearted fellow. It isn’t unusual for caregivers of special kids to get frustrated. But, they courageously persevere nonetheless, for which I respect them a lot. There are human boundaries, and they brave them on a daily basis.

“Mu-naa-faa- Ma-rt.” She started again. “Aap-ki ba-ch-at ka des-ti-ne-sh-n. Babu, here we can get good discounts na!”

Babu! She said Babu!!!! She wasn’t no retard! I had been hijacked!

And then, the misery began. I had to bear through her reading aloud all the shop names along with their taglines and a monologue on their meanings. My schooldays flashed up out of the blue. ‘Sandarbhasahit  spashtikaran kara’, used to be a question in which we were supposed to build up on a couplet from a poem and explain its meaning. Though what we ended up doing always was just writing down the poetry into plain text. Just a couple of days ago, I had ventured out after dark (like Akbar used to) against percolated wisdom, to get to know the locality, its lanes and by-lanes and markets and shops. Had I know that I’d be stuck in this ride in heavy traffic; I wouldn’t have risked my safety, my belongings and my life.

"If someone comes to mug you, just give them everything" is all that Savni comes up with anyway.

Medical practice is very different in a government setup than it is in a private set up. Just that morning, I had asked a patient’s relative to sign on the consent form and pointed it out where Relative’s name, Relative’s sign etc. were written.

“I can read.” He had snapped at me, not taking kindly to my patronising instructions. Karma, my pet female canine had turned up wagging her tail to bite me that very evening. I apologise dear Sir, if you are reading this, I now know how irritating patronisation can sound. “I can read.” I too wanted to snap out. But, alas, this was not to be my luxury. The caregiver Babu had well developed biceps whose giant compressive strength I didn’t want to ask a demo of.

“Babu look......” she continued. “The light is red, but it is blinking. So the signal is kharab na!!” I couldn’t take it anymore. Looking away at a right angle for such a long time was giving me a neck strain. So, I looked straight into the caretaker Babu’s eyes.

“Wait baby/kuchiku/sonu/monu whatever....., I’ll go and find out. You don’t leave the rickshaw. Aapki chappal maili ho jaayegi na... Aap thak jaaoge na.... Fir mujhehi aapko utha kar ghar le jaana padega na. Bhaisab, aap jara saath chalenge...”

In the year 2006, when I wasn’t even a week old in Ruia, I was chatting with Rishabh while being seated on the first bench, under the then Hindi teacher Mr. Trigunayat’s nose. That was the first time I and Rishabh had met each other. Mr. Trigunayat didn’t appreciate people socialising in his lectures. He used to ask his disobedient pupils to ‘canteen jaao aur mere naam se chai pi aao.’

“Uthiye” he had said. I was about to stand up, but Rishabh stood up instead. “Kya batein chal rahi hai?”

‘Sir, iske pass textbook nahi hai, is liye ye mujhe pooch raha tha ki pichali baar aapne kya padhaya tha.’ I would’ve answered. I made eye contact with Rishabh as he arose taking one for the team, which was yet to be forged.

“Sir, mere pass textbook nahi hai, is liye mai isse pooch raha tha ki pichali baar aapne kya padhaya tha.” he answered. We hit it off that very moment and have been friends till date, sharing some great memories.

In the year 2016, I tried to telepathicunate with the caretaker Babu. But, alas, this was not to be my luxury. Too bad Babu, we could’ve made great friends.

I sustained my gaze for a few more moments. Babu was unmoved,by me as much as he was by his pestering baby/kuchiku/sono/monu/whatever. No pain, no angst, no embarrassment. Just pure, divine, serenity (Or maybe not). Seers roam about the world in search of the divine. Divinity comes from misery they say. Must be true.

The human mind is such a sadist! It finds satisfaction in others’ agony. I had been perplexed, if I was settled or not. I still am. But, I am relieved, that if it turns out that I am not, my suffering is nothing compared to that of some of my fellow human beings having to put up with so much misery and face so much judgement in their quest for the elusive divine.

More power to you bro (Your soul and spirit, I mean. Your biceps have a lot of power. Any more and that tendon will rupture). Thank you, if you are reading this.

(P.S.S: Please get the miss to read this out loud in her monosyllable speech as well. Mere aatma ko badi thand milegi.)