So. What is it? What is this 'India' thing you are so keen to expound? What is this motherland of yours you are so particular to shine to the world? The land of your birth. The little tricolor on your mantelpiece. What does it all mean to you? Do you love her so much that you had to leave? Do you adore her so, that you appreciate her from afar? Do you assuage this guilt of being away with threats to return? What is it, kid?
This is what is. I do wear my 'patriotism' on my sleeve. I love to wear a tshirt that says 'India'. Yes, I have rushed in to clarify others' misconceptions. I have often stumbled to offer an explanation. Sometimes even when none was sought. Agreeing to disagree.
No more will I provide my opinion. No more will a strongly-worded retort leave my lips. I will listen. Nod my head politely. I don't feel the need to explain any more or even get defensive.
This is why. India is not a country.
India is love. India is magic. India makes me smile when I'm sitting in a bus. India is warmth. India is goosebumps. India is eating paanipuri after work. India is walking on the beach. India is seven people cramming into a car. India is peace. India is chaos. India is heart. India is a hug. India is a rainbow. India is seeking an elder's blessing. India is walking barefoot. India is dancing like no one's watching. India is singing loudly in the shower. India is a rollercoaster. India is a thousand dialects. India is democracy. India is pudding. India is contradiction. India is intangible. India is a feeling. The most beautiful feeling in the world.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Huzoor, Wah Taj Boliye!
My father had come back from a trip to Bombay and the 4th grader me asked him all sorts of questions. How was Bombay? Did he see any cricketers buying their groceries? My sister wanted to know if any filmstars had waved at him. As is my wont, I needed to know everything. The complete picture. He had a bemused look on his face. He assured us that he had not seen any celebrities on this trip but he said he was directed to stay at the Taj. We were floored. The Taj!!?? Really!!?? I needed to see some evidence. Unbelievable. I said 'Dude. You stay in a little, pretty university town. How do you get to stay at the Taj?' He patted me on the head and continued to read the newspaper. My mother looked at me patiently. Everybody had moved on from that moment. Not me. Reluctantly, I fetched my cricket bat and got ready to join my friends at the 'pit (our local cricket field) and if you know me you will know that 'reluctance' and 'cricket' for me never made it into the same sentence. Just as I was leaving he quipped, 'Tommy (he called me that), they give you a basket of fruits when you check-in'. My little heart leaped with joy at the introduction of this crucial piece of information. Wonders never cease. 'A bowl of fruits!' Wow. I had to tell my friends. I had to tell everyone.
That was the Taj feeling for the middle-classes. It was a notion, a concept, a dream. When one had a b'day or one got a raise or one had something good happen to them, we would tease them to take us to the Taj. The Taj was our purported gateway to the 'posh' life. The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower in Bombay was aptly located adjacent to the Gateway of India. I have never had the good fortune of entering it's hallowed portals, but it was like a mothership. A spring that replicated it's presence through creating the Taj chain of hotels throughout India. We never had to explain to anyone the particular Taj we visited. A mere 'We are at the Taj' sufficed.
In medical school, we had a Taj close by. We would wait with bated breath for them to announce their famous midnight buffets (also known as 'leftover buffets') and an army of hungry medical students would converge at the Taj at the stroke of midnight. We would go to the Taj to watch a game of cricket and even though the steward knew we would sit for eight hours and only order one coffee (usually cold coffee with ice cream) and one plate of fries (which would remain largely untouched) he made sure he gave us the best seats in the house. He would generously give us discount coupons and pamper us like only the Taj can. It was like taking the famous Indian hospitality and serving it to us in generous dollops. We have a tradition at our medical school, the class socials. One social at the end of year 1 and the second at the end of med school. They were always held at the Taj. The girls draped in their best sarees and the boys in their finest suits. This was the Taj to us. Sometimes, when I had a long, calamity-filled duty night - when I had been up for more than 24 hours and got off duty in the morning - I would get on my motorbike and ride down to the Taj and have scrambled eggs and coffee while politely turning down an offer of orange juice.
We grew older. We had more income (Lol). We would meet up at the Taj. We would catch up on old times. When two of my closest friends got married recently, we went to the Taj in that city and as we like to say 'chilled out'. The Taj gave us a home away from home. We were as comfortable in the Taj as we were standing at a 'gaadi' (mobile food cart) and sipping on chai.
To even begin to fathom what happened on 26/11 is close to impossible. I do not want to talk about my anger against the perpetrators of this nightmare, or rant against the failure of the system to protect it's own, or even explain to others how India has always cherished peace, or how everyday life is in India.
The tales of ordinary men and women demonstrating extraordinary bravery during this ordeal are many. Be it a railway-station announcer who dodged bullets to shepherd people to safety or the soon-to-be-married commando who stormed into the line of fire with scant regard for his own life or the staff at the Taj who served food and drink to people trapped on that fateful day. It is undeniable that the staff at the Taj saved many lives. They took their oath of service at the priceless cost of their own lives. I salute my Taj.
That was the Taj feeling for the middle-classes. It was a notion, a concept, a dream. When one had a b'day or one got a raise or one had something good happen to them, we would tease them to take us to the Taj. The Taj was our purported gateway to the 'posh' life. The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower in Bombay was aptly located adjacent to the Gateway of India. I have never had the good fortune of entering it's hallowed portals, but it was like a mothership. A spring that replicated it's presence through creating the Taj chain of hotels throughout India. We never had to explain to anyone the particular Taj we visited. A mere 'We are at the Taj' sufficed.
In medical school, we had a Taj close by. We would wait with bated breath for them to announce their famous midnight buffets (also known as 'leftover buffets') and an army of hungry medical students would converge at the Taj at the stroke of midnight. We would go to the Taj to watch a game of cricket and even though the steward knew we would sit for eight hours and only order one coffee (usually cold coffee with ice cream) and one plate of fries (which would remain largely untouched) he made sure he gave us the best seats in the house. He would generously give us discount coupons and pamper us like only the Taj can. It was like taking the famous Indian hospitality and serving it to us in generous dollops. We have a tradition at our medical school, the class socials. One social at the end of year 1 and the second at the end of med school. They were always held at the Taj. The girls draped in their best sarees and the boys in their finest suits. This was the Taj to us. Sometimes, when I had a long, calamity-filled duty night - when I had been up for more than 24 hours and got off duty in the morning - I would get on my motorbike and ride down to the Taj and have scrambled eggs and coffee while politely turning down an offer of orange juice.
We grew older. We had more income (Lol). We would meet up at the Taj. We would catch up on old times. When two of my closest friends got married recently, we went to the Taj in that city and as we like to say 'chilled out'. The Taj gave us a home away from home. We were as comfortable in the Taj as we were standing at a 'gaadi' (mobile food cart) and sipping on chai.
To even begin to fathom what happened on 26/11 is close to impossible. I do not want to talk about my anger against the perpetrators of this nightmare, or rant against the failure of the system to protect it's own, or even explain to others how India has always cherished peace, or how everyday life is in India.
The tales of ordinary men and women demonstrating extraordinary bravery during this ordeal are many. Be it a railway-station announcer who dodged bullets to shepherd people to safety or the soon-to-be-married commando who stormed into the line of fire with scant regard for his own life or the staff at the Taj who served food and drink to people trapped on that fateful day. It is undeniable that the staff at the Taj saved many lives. They took their oath of service at the priceless cost of their own lives. I salute my Taj.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Ballad of the Violin-Maker
He seated himself on his bench. Doing what he did best. Better than anyone else. Maestro. They came for him from far and wide. He knew that each one he crafted was unique. Life of its own. Independent. They praised his skill to the sky. Ne Plus Ultra. Perfection. He never let them down. Never. Each one's need he made his own. Personal. His hands adroitly created these beautiful pieces.
This was all he knew. His life dedicated to genesis, to the birth of music so haunting it would melt the hardest of hearts. He worked till dusk and began at dawn while his clientele waited with a pretense of patience. Gently he would mould the wood, gingerly he would string the violin. Perfection every inch of the way. Carefully he would place it in eager hands. They would try. Joy would erupt in every sinew of his body. Create. Listen. Create. Listen. He learned to listen. All the time. To their tunes. To their stories.
One day. A little girl. Came across the violin-maker. He looked up and saw her. First time that someone came. Without needing a violin. He was puzzled. Unsure of what to do. What to say. She said all of one word. "Play". Shock. Clumsily he picked up a violin. Like a child taking it's first steps. Uncertain of direction. He picked up the fiddle. It felt strange in his hand. He had never held it in this way ever before. He looked at her again. Almost like she knew what he needed to do next. She was waiting. Oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. The realization, now fully formed struck him like an avalanche. A bolt of lightning.
He never learned to play. Too invested in making was he. Like a bird that would never flap its wings. Too tied up in serving others was he. Like love that was trapped in a heart. He never sat on that bench again.
Fin.
This was all he knew. His life dedicated to genesis, to the birth of music so haunting it would melt the hardest of hearts. He worked till dusk and began at dawn while his clientele waited with a pretense of patience. Gently he would mould the wood, gingerly he would string the violin. Perfection every inch of the way. Carefully he would place it in eager hands. They would try. Joy would erupt in every sinew of his body. Create. Listen. Create. Listen. He learned to listen. All the time. To their tunes. To their stories.
One day. A little girl. Came across the violin-maker. He looked up and saw her. First time that someone came. Without needing a violin. He was puzzled. Unsure of what to do. What to say. She said all of one word. "Play". Shock. Clumsily he picked up a violin. Like a child taking it's first steps. Uncertain of direction. He picked up the fiddle. It felt strange in his hand. He had never held it in this way ever before. He looked at her again. Almost like she knew what he needed to do next. She was waiting. Oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. The realization, now fully formed struck him like an avalanche. A bolt of lightning.
He never learned to play. Too invested in making was he. Like a bird that would never flap its wings. Too tied up in serving others was he. Like love that was trapped in a heart. He never sat on that bench again.
Fin.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A Writing We Will Go
So, I decided. To write. Letter.Note. Netter? Portmanteau. The hunt began. Had to find a pen. Pen had to have some ink in it. Nib had to be unbroken. Found! Glory. A battle won. The war, however remained. Needed paper. Parchment. Papyrus, where art thou? Obtained! Another kingdom conquered. I was on a roll. Sat myself in comfortable position. Favored beverage close at hand. Sara crooning to me. Ready.
Nib touched paper. My eyes opened in wonder. Wow. It started drizzling. The Gods themselves had opened a heavenly peephole to witness this rare event. Human writing letter by hand. I ignored them. Task at hand. Gritted my teeth. Furrowed brow. The rusty brain began noisily. Tongue slightly out. A la Michael. I went forward bravely. Began. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. Stopped to wipe sweat from forehead. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. I had to stop again. Like going to the gym after 7 years. Pooped. Word count. Nine. This was hard work. Not my forte. Must. Carry. On. I proceeded. Finished both sides of one sheet. The hand ached. The brain pained. I was done.
Spellcheck. Innocent thought. F7. No! Not available. Eepers! I was done for. Got over it. Looked again. Some lines went northeast, others showed a propensity for the south. The handwriting although never the best looked like it had been forced out of retirement while in the middle of a siesta. Egad! For a second, I entertained thoughts of a Control A, change font to Arial. 'No can do, Sir', said the letter. Got over it. Again.
Fine. Now the sending. Resources? Envelope? Nope. Stamps? A snowball in hell had a better chance. Panic. Suddenly. In the field of vision. A familiar silver-grey object. Scanner, baybeeee. Fancy me. Did the needful (describing scanning is trite). Emailed it as an attachment (do you feel more at home with that statement, Oh 5 people who read this blog?).
I was exhausted. Planned a vacation. Took a nap.
Nib touched paper. My eyes opened in wonder. Wow. It started drizzling. The Gods themselves had opened a heavenly peephole to witness this rare event. Human writing letter by hand. I ignored them. Task at hand. Gritted my teeth. Furrowed brow. The rusty brain began noisily. Tongue slightly out. A la Michael. I went forward bravely. Began. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. Stopped to wipe sweat from forehead. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. I had to stop again. Like going to the gym after 7 years. Pooped. Word count. Nine. This was hard work. Not my forte. Must. Carry. On. I proceeded. Finished both sides of one sheet. The hand ached. The brain pained. I was done.
Spellcheck. Innocent thought. F7. No! Not available. Eepers! I was done for. Got over it. Looked again. Some lines went northeast, others showed a propensity for the south. The handwriting although never the best looked like it had been forced out of retirement while in the middle of a siesta. Egad! For a second, I entertained thoughts of a Control A, change font to Arial. 'No can do, Sir', said the letter. Got over it. Again.
Fine. Now the sending. Resources? Envelope? Nope. Stamps? A snowball in hell had a better chance. Panic. Suddenly. In the field of vision. A familiar silver-grey object. Scanner, baybeeee. Fancy me. Did the needful (describing scanning is trite). Emailed it as an attachment (do you feel more at home with that statement, Oh 5 people who read this blog?).
I was exhausted. Planned a vacation. Took a nap.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
A Letter from the Prime Minister of Procrasti Nation
Loyal citizens of Procrasti,
Greetings! It is I, your Prime Minister. I meant to send this message two months ago, but true to form I am sending it now. I write this letter to bring to your attention an important legislation that I intend to introduce this Fall (er..maybe Winter). It is vital that you inform yourself of the nuances of this law-to-be. I intend to abolish all time-indicating devices. I think Procrasti will thrive without these infernal things. I am of course talking about clocks, watches, even the tiny spaces on your computers and cellphones that indicate the time. Off with their heads, I say. This will be followed by universal abolishing of the use of calendars. No more two week deadlines. No more finish-by-COB-Friday. Without this nuisance we will be blissfully unaware of when a week went by or even if today was indeed Friday. These measures would only serve the principles and values laid out by the founding fathers of this great nation. The forces of efficiency are upon us and threaten to shake the very foundations of our existence as a peace-loving, postponing people.
Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow Procrastinators to get behind me and the nation to support this crucial endeavor. Time is of essence now so that it need not be of essence in the future (Heh Heh Joke). Think about it. Now, you can keep putting off writing that SOP, delay mowing that lawn, keep adding to that to-do list and not feel an iota of guilt.
I have full confidence in you to do the right thing. Remember, together we can and we will..postpone.
Yours truly,
Your Prime Minister
Greetings! It is I, your Prime Minister. I meant to send this message two months ago, but true to form I am sending it now. I write this letter to bring to your attention an important legislation that I intend to introduce this Fall (er..maybe Winter). It is vital that you inform yourself of the nuances of this law-to-be. I intend to abolish all time-indicating devices. I think Procrasti will thrive without these infernal things. I am of course talking about clocks, watches, even the tiny spaces on your computers and cellphones that indicate the time. Off with their heads, I say. This will be followed by universal abolishing of the use of calendars. No more two week deadlines. No more finish-by-COB-Friday. Without this nuisance we will be blissfully unaware of when a week went by or even if today was indeed Friday. These measures would only serve the principles and values laid out by the founding fathers of this great nation. The forces of efficiency are upon us and threaten to shake the very foundations of our existence as a peace-loving, postponing people.
Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow Procrastinators to get behind me and the nation to support this crucial endeavor. Time is of essence now so that it need not be of essence in the future (Heh Heh Joke). Think about it. Now, you can keep putting off writing that SOP, delay mowing that lawn, keep adding to that to-do list and not feel an iota of guilt.
I have full confidence in you to do the right thing. Remember, together we can and we will..postpone.
Yours truly,
Your Prime Minister
Thursday, July 31, 2008
To.do.
12 months. Do things. Vide Infra. Blog about each experience. Idea.
In random order,
1) Learn Spanish. Visit Spanish-speaking country and achieve passing grade from local. Blog in Spanish. Estupendo.
2) Adopt a dog and call him Jack.
3) Work in a third country i.e. other than Country of origin and current country of residence
4) Learn the guitar. Learn 'Hotel California'. Gulp. Easily the toughest. Retire after.
5) Develop blueprint for a NGO. Supercool. Must. Find. Idea.
6) Run a half-marathon. Run, Bjorn, Run.
7) Salsa. Without stepping on her feet.
8) Volunteer. A lot.
Add more. You. I. Let's do this.
In random order,
1) Learn Spanish. Visit Spanish-speaking country and achieve passing grade from local. Blog in Spanish. Estupendo.
2) Adopt a dog and call him Jack.
3) Work in a third country i.e. other than Country of origin and current country of residence
4) Learn the guitar. Learn 'Hotel California'. Gulp. Easily the toughest. Retire after.
5) Develop blueprint for a NGO. Supercool. Must. Find. Idea.
6) Run a half-marathon. Run, Bjorn, Run.
7) Salsa. Without stepping on her feet.
8) Volunteer. A lot.
Add more. You. I. Let's do this.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
The Last Laugh
When I set my eyes on my father’s body, the first thing I noticed was the smile he still had on. For all posterity. I had never seen someone close to me die before this. There is this period when your emotional apparatus goes on a search to seek out the appropriate body language. The proper reaction. The areas governing grief in my brain were yet to be contacted and this gave me time to respond to my daddy’s smile. I smiled back. Almost chuckled did I.
My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.
The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.
For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.
My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.
The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.
For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.
Monday, July 30, 2007
How to eat breakfast
01. Find bowl.
02. Adopt expression of satisfaction with cleanliness of bowl.
03. Scratch head (You need to - breakfast time remember).
04. Look for cereal box.
05. Find cereal box and fill bowl with one large helping of cereal from found box.
06. Open refrigerator.
07. Locate chocolate syrup.
08. Use chocolate syrup to write your full name on cereal (the longer your name the better).
09. Look for milk.
10. Adopt expression as in 2 with respect to nature of milk.
11. Pour milk into bowl containing cereal.
12. Stop when milk turns a chocolatey brown.
13. Grunt in approval.
14. Use spoon, fork or dog-like eating practice (for best results).
15. Crunch! Crunch!
16. Do not forget to 'mmmmm' frequently (easiest step).
17. Finish cereal.
18. Look at bowl.
19. Let out exultant whoop to discover chocolate milk filling most of bowl.
20. Lift bowl with both hands.
21. Bring edge of bowl close to lips.
22. Drink.
23. Use tongue to lick off remnant chocolate milk from perioral area.
24. Rub tummy in glee.
25. Burp.
Credits: Jaximus - the master of breakfastian arts
02. Adopt expression of satisfaction with cleanliness of bowl.
03. Scratch head (You need to - breakfast time remember).
04. Look for cereal box.
05. Find cereal box and fill bowl with one large helping of cereal from found box.
06. Open refrigerator.
07. Locate chocolate syrup.
08. Use chocolate syrup to write your full name on cereal (the longer your name the better).
09. Look for milk.
10. Adopt expression as in 2 with respect to nature of milk.
11. Pour milk into bowl containing cereal.
12. Stop when milk turns a chocolatey brown.
13. Grunt in approval.
14. Use spoon, fork or dog-like eating practice (for best results).
15. Crunch! Crunch!
16. Do not forget to 'mmmmm' frequently (easiest step).
17. Finish cereal.
18. Look at bowl.
19. Let out exultant whoop to discover chocolate milk filling most of bowl.
20. Lift bowl with both hands.
21. Bring edge of bowl close to lips.
22. Drink.
23. Use tongue to lick off remnant chocolate milk from perioral area.
24. Rub tummy in glee.
25. Burp.
Credits: Jaximus - the master of breakfastian arts
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Raghavendra
The following is from my internship posting in surgery at a government hospital in India. It happens to be true.
It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.
I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.
Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.
The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.
When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.
I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.
So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.
I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.
Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.
Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.
It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.
I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.
Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.
The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.
When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.
I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.
So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.
I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.
Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.
Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.
A boy
He liked to know how it came to be
If only he were allowed to see
Just a little peek
But alas he was too meek
He took out his wand and said a spell
He hoped in time a tale to tell
But the magic, it did not work
The mystery just got a little more murk
He gave up and cried and ran to his mom
Could she please do for him this sum?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
the cup spilleth over......not
1983 was technically my first one. We won. Kapil's devils. Beginner's luck they scoffed. Not an iota of comprehension in my teeny weeny 18 month-old skull. Something was born for real that fateful day in India. Through the country-side she spread, through the slums she weaved, finding her place in the prayers of a nation. A state religion was established. Cricket was her name. Never before had so many been united by something as trivial as a game. Game??!! Sacrilege! Blasphemy!
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.
We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.
We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Sweat er...
For the first 24 years 11 months and 13 days of my grand existence I did not own a sweater. No yo. Sudden. Four days later I owned four keep-me-warms.
The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.
Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.
So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.
1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.
Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.
Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.
Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"
Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.
The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.
Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.
So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.
1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.
Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.
Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.
Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"
Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
the pluto of it all
The smallest gets picked on. Always. Its never fair. Remember the time when you were at that elementary school quiz. 'Smallest planet?' they asked. You replied. Quick as a flash. Surely this competition is not this easy you thought. PLUTO. Yes PLUTO. 5 points.
Jump to now. Right now.As-me-blogging-this type of point-in-time. Pluto is threatened. The smallest could be the no-longer. What? Planet darling. Peepils of the scientific community are at it. The status of the tiniest hangs in the balance. Banished from the solar system. Ta Ta. Poor poor planet.
It makes me wonder. Ponder. What is the fuss? Why bother? Let things be. Imagine the effort needed to correct all those school textbooks. Not to mention encyclopedias, quiz books, etc.
Are we sure what we live on is a planet anymore? I mean look what we've done to her. Stripped her bare. Paraded her naked. Use her. Abuse her. Trample. Don't care. And we want to decide on the yes-planet not-planet tag of some poor mute mass. We burn our fuels silly. Burn burn burn. Tear down our rainforests. Trash the globe. Its like the morning after some college party. Only thing is the party never stops.
Maybe there is life on other planets. Plenty of it. Who knows? But one look at us and they don't wanna visit. Picture it. We look at all the before-and-after pictures from gyms, salons, the lot. Wonder what a before-and-after picture of Earth would look like. Before-and-after man(so far).Plastic surgery anyone.
And we want to decide on the planet tag of some poor mute mass. We must be the joke of the milky way. The laughing stock of all the universe. The target of the big bang. No wonder we don't get invited to any galaxy barbecues. Who would want us? The corrupt, morally bankrupt people so full of ourselves. Decadence central.
Acerbic you say. Apologies and an antacid. With my compliments.
Jump to now. Right now.As-me-blogging-this type of point-in-time. Pluto is threatened. The smallest could be the no-longer. What? Planet darling. Peepils of the scientific community are at it. The status of the tiniest hangs in the balance. Banished from the solar system. Ta Ta. Poor poor planet.
It makes me wonder. Ponder. What is the fuss? Why bother? Let things be. Imagine the effort needed to correct all those school textbooks. Not to mention encyclopedias, quiz books, etc.
Are we sure what we live on is a planet anymore? I mean look what we've done to her. Stripped her bare. Paraded her naked. Use her. Abuse her. Trample. Don't care. And we want to decide on the yes-planet not-planet tag of some poor mute mass. We burn our fuels silly. Burn burn burn. Tear down our rainforests. Trash the globe. Its like the morning after some college party. Only thing is the party never stops.
Maybe there is life on other planets. Plenty of it. Who knows? But one look at us and they don't wanna visit. Picture it. We look at all the before-and-after pictures from gyms, salons, the lot. Wonder what a before-and-after picture of Earth would look like. Before-and-after man(so far).Plastic surgery anyone.
And we want to decide on the planet tag of some poor mute mass. We must be the joke of the milky way. The laughing stock of all the universe. The target of the big bang. No wonder we don't get invited to any galaxy barbecues. Who would want us? The corrupt, morally bankrupt people so full of ourselves. Decadence central.
Acerbic you say. Apologies and an antacid. With my compliments.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
of waterloos and waterlessloos
Waterloo was where it ended. Perioded. Game over. Napoleon, he of the general fame(you can't deny it but the cheap humor is back). The man who told us that fighting units walk on gastric bags. He had a bad day. But in war when you have a bad day, they mean it. Dispatched to Elba. English being a language of accommodation went on to allow the liberal use of the name of this career-ending town. As a cricket-breathing, book-avoiding young man my waterloo of course was that great invention of mankind, Exams. Cloaked in misleading terms such as tests, assessments etc. Exams were(are) my waterloos. But then I had a knack. Uncanny. Vernacs were my bugbear family. Thus the term was coined apropos my allergies to language tests- waterless loos! This was India. There was water in the loos. H2O was ubiquitous with toilets. We washed our bottoms after nature-induced businesses. Paper ain't our thing. No water, no happy.
I get visa. Two tries. Board plane. Also twice. Suffer flying experience. Again twice. Go to loo. With magazine. After. Reach blind hand for faucet. For my cleansing tool. For my savior. Not there. Jeepers! Where is it? People say reality strikes this way and that and all that. But if she chooses to whack you on thy cranium in a bathroom, then you can as well train to be a professional wrestler. Alarm bells rang through my capillaries. My lungs grew tighter. Sheet of sweat across stunned body. Then I saw it. Right there. Harmlessly dangling like an innocent. White. Rolled. I used. Feared the worst. One doesn't take matters of the distal end of one's alimentary tract too lightly.
It wasn't too bad actually. Hope. I could get used to this, once I got over the mild inflammation[;-)]. This was no Kannada essay. Tempted to say easy as pie.
But then. When you need to clean something, do you paper it? Do you paper your car? Do you put your clothes into the papering machine? Why then?
People say I got it all wrong. Strong advocates for the paper and its power.
Its the change I tell you. New skill. For now, paper it is.
I get visa. Two tries. Board plane. Also twice. Suffer flying experience. Again twice. Go to loo. With magazine. After. Reach blind hand for faucet. For my cleansing tool. For my savior. Not there. Jeepers! Where is it? People say reality strikes this way and that and all that. But if she chooses to whack you on thy cranium in a bathroom, then you can as well train to be a professional wrestler. Alarm bells rang through my capillaries. My lungs grew tighter. Sheet of sweat across stunned body. Then I saw it. Right there. Harmlessly dangling like an innocent. White. Rolled. I used. Feared the worst. One doesn't take matters of the distal end of one's alimentary tract too lightly.
It wasn't too bad actually. Hope. I could get used to this, once I got over the mild inflammation[;-)]. This was no Kannada essay. Tempted to say easy as pie.
But then. When you need to clean something, do you paper it? Do you paper your car? Do you put your clothes into the papering machine? Why then?
People say I got it all wrong. Strong advocates for the paper and its power.
Its the change I tell you. New skill. For now, paper it is.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I like
....previews before a movie
....benches
....and sitting on them
....the vastness of the sea
....Queen
....walking barefoot at home
....law-based fiction
....banana chips
....chocolate ice cream with chocolate chunks and chocolate sauce
....dining out
....good friends
....brown bags
....british accents
....Audrey Hepburn
....folding up my sleeves
....Goa
....benches
....and sitting on them
....the vastness of the sea
....Queen
....walking barefoot at home
....law-based fiction
....banana chips
....chocolate ice cream with chocolate chunks and chocolate sauce
....dining out
....good friends
....brown bags
....british accents
....Audrey Hepburn
....folding up my sleeves
....Goa
Friday, July 14, 2006
Transatlantia
Its been a while. I know. Peace reigns on the internet. Why? Simple, silly. The Thotastrical is silent. Zipped up. Shhhhhed. A month. Oh I love this self-importance talk. I relish it. Chew it to the bone even. Why? Ask, my child. Query. Just because(favorite phrase from school-days) nobody else will do it. I live in my own narcissism. My private island of one where I am king, subject and little Tony.
The above paragraph clearly depicts how rustiness can set in (faster than you can say 'Ferrous oxide') when you put the blog pen down for a bit.
And yes, as my blog post title(BPT) clearly depicts an ocean was indeed crossed. Flown over. But I didn't look. Not a peek. Not from a small window high high high up in the sky. Yes its true. I do not enjoy this thing called flying. I cringe at the thought. Shake at the knees. But there I was. A million miles away from home. Jet-lagged and clumsy.
People ask each other. What do you see first when you are landing in a new country? Junta responds variously. I'm not people. I'm abnormal. Fool(me). I saw trees. With green leaves. Huh! That's me. I see trees. That's my sixth sense. Tree-awareness. Blessed art me.
[The rustiness won't go away. Stuck in my head like a cobweb.]
This is bound to stop enquiries about blog updates and commence those for blog deletion. Be gentle.
I was this evening, the lambish victim of a visual tag. Blindingly energy-draining as it was, I managed to respond. Now as they say, 'You're it'. By mere sight. Jack and Jill time.
She: " I think we should spend more time...
He : " Damn fool woman ! You want more time? Don't you see we are already spending way too much time together!?! We are doing every single thing like we are joined at the hip ! But don't let that worry you .You just keep clinging on to me like the vine of the year and life will pass us by !Whoosh..What we NEED to do..is GET A LIFE ! Get it ?"
She: ... apart"
Above JacknJiller has been shamelessly copied from the original blog where I got tagged. [The blog that kicks this blog's ass 24/7]
And now my JacknJiller..
Jack: Lets go up the hill
Jill: Silly fool...Don't you remember the tumbling down last time?
Jack: But didn't the doctor tell us we lost our memories from the bumps on our heads
So leave your own JacknJillers
and
if you understood any section of this blog entry, kindly email me with complete explanation
The above paragraph clearly depicts how rustiness can set in (faster than you can say 'Ferrous oxide') when you put the blog pen down for a bit.
And yes, as my blog post title(BPT) clearly depicts an ocean was indeed crossed. Flown over. But I didn't look. Not a peek. Not from a small window high high high up in the sky. Yes its true. I do not enjoy this thing called flying. I cringe at the thought. Shake at the knees. But there I was. A million miles away from home. Jet-lagged and clumsy.
People ask each other. What do you see first when you are landing in a new country? Junta responds variously. I'm not people. I'm abnormal. Fool(me). I saw trees. With green leaves. Huh! That's me. I see trees. That's my sixth sense. Tree-awareness. Blessed art me.
[The rustiness won't go away. Stuck in my head like a cobweb.]
This is bound to stop enquiries about blog updates and commence those for blog deletion. Be gentle.
I was this evening, the lambish victim of a visual tag. Blindingly energy-draining as it was, I managed to respond. Now as they say, 'You're it'. By mere sight. Jack and Jill time.
She: " I think we should spend more time...
He : " Damn fool woman ! You want more time? Don't you see we are already spending way too much time together!?! We are doing every single thing like we are joined at the hip ! But don't let that worry you .You just keep clinging on to me like the vine of the year and life will pass us by !Whoosh..What we NEED to do..is GET A LIFE ! Get it ?"
She: ... apart"
Above JacknJiller has been shamelessly copied from the original blog where I got tagged. [The blog that kicks this blog's ass 24/7]
And now my JacknJiller..
Jack: Lets go up the hill
Jill: Silly fool...Don't you remember the tumbling down last time?
Jack: But didn't the doctor tell us we lost our memories from the bumps on our heads
So leave your own JacknJillers
and
if you understood any section of this blog entry, kindly email me with complete explanation
Monday, June 12, 2006
Boo!
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