Scene 1: Medical College Hospital, Ward 1.
Actors: Dr1, Dr2, Dr3
The stage is too brightly lit with numerous over-head lamps, with only one hanging mike at the center visible to the audience. Walls are painted regulation drab yellow - plaster peeled off in patches. Red spit marks bottom right. One old fashioned ceiling fan with cob-webs making creaky noises occasionally.
Drs 1 and 3 are sitting at a table at the end of a long ward. They are both male, in their mid - twenties, unshaven and apparently tired. Dr1 is sulking, Dr3 is writing into a case-record.
Dr1: "I hate him. God, How I hate him!"
Dr3 looks up from the case-record, looks at Dr1, and resumes writing.
Dr1: "I could kill him with my bare hands right now."
Dr3: "I am sure you could."
Dr1: "How could he? I had it all planned for the evening."
Dr3 does not respond. He appears not to have heard.
Enter Dr2 (Right). She is of about the same age as Dr1 and Dr3. She is wearing a white coat, and is greatly excited.
Dr2: "Guess what?"
Dr1: "Him dead?"
Dr2 looks at Dr3, who winks back. She chooses to ignore the remark.
Dr2: "Not yet, but we got another H1N1 admission today. Lady, pregnant, 7 months."
Dr3 stops writing. "One of our own?"
Dr2: "Nope. This one's ref from _________ multi-specialty. Software engineer."
Dr1: "So, What's new? Just another swine flu case."
Dr2: "My! You are today worse than usual, what happened? On second thoughts, dont tell me."
Dr3: "They got a bed for her?"
Dr2 looks at Dr3 with an expression of surprise.
Dr2: "And since when has that started to matter? They throw out, the moment a patient is diagnosed, and we take them in, no questions asked. You ought to know that."
(Exits Left)
Chorus: "You ought to know that. You ought to know that."
Faint wails arising from Right.
Dr1: "I can hear them now, that should be them."
Dr3 rises from his seat, goes to Right, looks out and returns to his seat
Dr3: "You're right. Its the new party. How did you know?"
Dr1: "What do you think how I know? I've been in this ward for a month, 've been on duty here 24 straight hours now, and next to the H1N1 quarantine unit as we are, I can hear them day in and day out."
"I can even tell what's happening just by listening to them. Here, last week, remember the old woman with her beads?"
Dr3 tries hard to remember for a moment. He does not respond.
"I could hear her non-stop reading from the scriptures, day in and day out, and the once or twice I went past that way, I saw that not only was she reciting her prayers, but she was counting her holy beads without pause, as if her daughter's life depended on it."
Dr3: "I remember now. That was one of our own. But she.."
Dr1: "Yeah, the same one that passed away last week. I was the first to know 'cause the old lady had quit praying. I had a good night's sleep that day. She was beginning to get on my nerves."
Chorus: "He had a good night's sleep. He had a good night's sleep"
Dr3: "And now that you've been asked to stay on for another shift, am sure you'll get closely acquainted with the new party as well."
(Exits Right)
Dr1 stays in his seat for a while, gets up, looks out (Right), returns to his seat.
Sound of Loud crying can be heard once again from Right. Enter Dr2 (Right).
Dr1: "Not dead is she?"
Dr2: "No. But the baby.."
Dr1: "That one was a goner alright. They'd be lucky to get the mother."
Dr2: "That they'll be. She got Oxygen Saturation less than 40% in her blood, I am told."
Dr1: "I really wish they wouldn't make so much noise. Its giving me a headache."
Dr2: "Could you for once stop being so cynical?"
Dr1: "Cynical! What's cynical about asking for some peace and quiet? And what's with all these lights anyway? Ask them to replace a broken one in the OP and it takes ages, and here, just look at it, burning away without a care! The obscenity of it!"
Dr2: "Relax. Have you forgotten this is a play and we are on a stage? They need to watch your every move."
(turns and gestures to audience)
Dr1: "Then why just one mike? Wouldn't they want to listen to me as well.. perhaps hang on to every word I say?"
Dr2: "Tell you what.. I don't think they do. I think they would rather look at you than listen to you...(Chuckles) you especially. Who wants to see a doctor whine anyway?"
Dr1: "What's this, a bloody pantomime show? What sort of an audience is this?"
Dr2: "You have been working too many hours"
Dr1: "The old man doesn't think so. Just gave me another shift."
Dr2: "Still do you have to be so bitter? Don't you know half the work-force is on strike?"
Dr1: "May be its better this way. At least I wont have to go to my room at the Quarters"
Dr2: "How's that a good thing to be?"
Dr1: "The room mates are all at the Labour room. Our focus of H1N1 outbreak, you know. Their colleagues had been confirmed to be infected last week. Now they have started showing symptoms as well, and yet they are asked to report for duty."
Dr2: "And yet you share the same room!"
Dr1: "You got a better idea? They did not throw me out when I got dengue fever 3 months ago."
Dr2: "Get yourselves diagnosed as infected or not. They have begun to take nasal swabs at the labour room, I hear"
Dr1: "You hear a lot, dont you? And yet you hear only so much"
Dr2: "Then get it done from the General Hospital. They have an H1N1 cell too."
Dr1: "That they do. And I had planned today to get myself checked there today evening. Guess its not to be"
Enter Dr3 (Right)
Dr3: "Its in the news. The labour room as the focus of infection. They have started shifting the patients out."
Dr2: "As usual. Too little, too late"
Dr1: "My! THAT was Cynical of you"
(Loud wails arising from Right.)
Dr1: "I think I am gonna sleep comfortably tonight after all"
Dr2 goes right, looks out, looks back at Dr1, exits Left.
Dr3: "She's much to learn yet. She still believes."
Dr1 is silent, lost in thought. He goes to right, looks out, and doesn't look back.
Over-head lights are dimmed one by one, until only one over the right window, illuminating Dr1, remains. It stays lit for a small while, and then that too is put out.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The day I spoke to Rahul Gandhi
It happened, really, in three parts, and may be that's the way It should be told.
ACT I
I was on night duty at medicine casualty, on the night of 6th October, 09. It was a particularly hectic shift, having barely been able to sit down for a few minutes until midnight. A first year nursing student at some college in the private sector had jumped off the roof of her hostel, and so in addition to the usual crowd we had hoards of media people going about their job, and in doing so interfering with everyone else going about their's.
At around midnight, there was a momentary lull in the end-less parade of people with heart attacks, snake-bites, 'Bronchial Asthma's and plain high fever of a few days duration. The three of us on duty sank down to our seats for a moment of respite. I was the junior officer. In addition, there was a post-graduate resident and the casualty medical officer (CMO), who was the one in charge.
I listened then to a conversation between the resident and the officer. There was talk of having received instructions from the HOD - Internal Medicine, to the effect that one ventilator machine at the casualty was to be kept free for the night. Mr.Rahul Gandhi was visiting the city on Wednesday, and for the entire duration of his visit the ventilator had to be kept ready and waiting in case of an emergency. To avoid any last minute complications, no patient was to be admitted during the night.
I remember having thought, that the security protocol in case of someone as important to the nation as Mr.Gandhi might actually justify this rather elaborate and costly gesture (in terms of the human and ethical cost involved), and the doctor, who at the end of the day was merely a glorified technician, was only expected to carry out instructions just like the rest of them. I knew the CMO on duty to be a good clinician, and - more importantly - a man of integrity, yet the coolness with which he relayed the instruction down to his immediate sub-ordinate, that was chilling.
Here was what I was most terribly afraid that this system might do to me as well over the years - make me as cynical as the next man, render me incapable of noticing the cost of my actions, and in doing so take my refuge behind the steel curtain of bureaucratic indifference and impersonality. I believe I am halfway there already, having seen time and again how similar steps were taken to mollify the giant egos of even local political wannabes.
The medical casualty has two ventilator machines - which are important in acute life support (please see my post 'The Reluctant Fisherman' for a bit more about acute life support and the ethical dilemmas therein), and usually we have only one of them functioning properly. To keep it vacant for an entire day - for an eventuality that only might occur, and that too when there were scores of such machines in the private hospitals in the city readily available, that was obscene. I know there might be dictates of protocol that necessitate such extreme measures, but I think its about time that more people began asking a few dirty questions around this country.
Anyway, the night passes, thankfully uneventful, but for a few more heart attacks (Myocardial Infarction or MI as we refer to them), a couple more of snake bites, and the usual number of Diabetics with very low sugar in their blood. Nothing happened, that would necessitate use of a ventilator machine, until 8 in the morning, when my 12 hr shift ended.
Drearily, I made it back to the quarters, having handed over charge to the day-shift team. One of the perks of being the junior officer is that though you have to be the first person to report for duty, you also get to be the one that stays on his seat through the night - even as nurses and paramedical staff go to bed - and then get to the one to stay on until the next shift has arrived and duty is handed over.
ACT II
My friend enters my room at the quarters, greatly excited, quite uncharactarestic for his quiet ways. He has a handful of cards in his hand bearing the picture of a smiling Rahul Gandhi. He asks me to grab my college ID card and go with him for the interaction programme with Mr.Gandhi, which was to start in one of the well-known arts colleges of the city in an hour's time. I declined at first, pointing out that I did not possess a valid college ID card just then, as was required by the instructions on the entry pass. However, it had been a while since we had gone out together, and my friends convinced me to try my luck as all the others had their papers in order. I thought of telling them that the Special Protection Group or SPG that was responsible for Mr.Gandhi's security were professionals of the highest order, and it would be futile - and unfair - to expect them to show any leniency, but in the end decided to go along with the fun as far as possible.
We make it to the venue, and surely, there's an obviously SPG person at the gate asking for our passes and college IDs: Clad in smart gray safari suit, tall and strongly built, eyes calm and intelligent. I knew we were gone beyond the point of no return, because to start walking away now would be to immediately rouse his suspicion. Expecting fully well to be turned away, I walk up to him, say 'Hi', show him the invite card, and tell him about the student ID card that has been submitted to the college office for renewal and upgradation to a faculty card. He takes his time to assess me, looking me up and down, and then looks at the IDs of my friends, some of them sporting brand new faculty cards, others fishing dilapidated student IDs out of their wallets, and then, almost to my disbelief, lets me in. I pause a moment to tell him I appreciate the risk he is taking in letting me in, and thank him for it. For a very brief moment, something like a smile fleets across his features, before they again become set in stone, and I realized why the SPG were regarded as the best in the country in what they did. It was not because they were burly robots that would follow rules blindly and to a T, but because they were sensible men who could assess situations and people using their own intellect. That was what made them invaluable and so highly effective.
We troupe in, my friends and I, and find ourselves seats in amongst one of the front rows of an auditorium that would eventually come to be filled with nearly a thousand people. Tired from the night, I start dozing off almost immediately. I was woken up by the sound of a thunderous standing ovation as Mr.Gandhi arrived, without the regular media entourage, which I learned later was deliberately forbidden from hanging in on the interactive session.
After the usual introductions, RG, clad in casual attire, rose up to speak, and went on to explain in some detail why he was making this trip. He talked of the core assets of India being its people, on the demographic advantage of having a higher percentage of youth than the other big nations of the world, and why it was hence important for the youth to take a more active interest in the running of the country. He started taking questions from the gathered students, and in answering their questions spoke of the other India, the India of superstitions and hunger and deprivations, the India that we had to strive to bring in to the mainstream. He gave the general impression of being someone who had learned at depth about the state of the nation - both its problems and possible solutions to the same. More importantly, he came across as someone who was neither blissfully ignorant of the complexities of the problems that we were faced with, but at the same time was not awed by the enormity of the task. He believed change was possible, here and now, if only we might exercise the will and faculties that we possessed. I felt he was someone who cared about this country, and had faith in the system's ability to correct itself from within, a faith that the people of this country seem to be losing dangerously fast. And lastly, it was obvious that this man did not take his authority for a traditional taken-for-granted fiefdom, but had made it a point to earn his entitlement. His faith and goodwill, was infectious.
ACT III
It was then, that I decided it had to be told. I could see that this man was different from any other politician I had met: in that he possessed a basic sense of decency and respect. I knew then, that he would never ask that a ventilator be denied to anyone whose life might depend on it, and keep it for his possible use. I knew, with some degree of certainity, that he would actually not stand for something like that happening on his name. I could feel that he was capable of doing something, simply because it was the right thing to do. Change was possible, here and now, he had said. I believed him, something I had thought myself incapable of doing in so short a while.
I asked for the microphone, and when my turn came, stood up and told him that I had a question for him, but first, I had a tale to tell.
I told him about the ventilator that was kept vacant only because he was in city. I told him that I drew no conclusions or made no accusations, but I thought he would like to know.
Strangely enough, my microphone failed, and RG asked me to just shout at him, which I did gladly and at the top of my voice.
I was right in that RG shared my sentiment. But he was shocked, and I hadn't counted on that.
"Its disgusting", was his reply. He promised to get on top of it right away.
I went on to ask my question, about the need to more strongly promote social engineering, rather than leaving it up to the people themselves, with the result that different communities were experiencing vastly different standard of living and rates of improvement of living indices. I asked about our inability, or rather, unwillingness to counter the sort of propoganda that led to the two-nation theory and the partition. I was hoping he might suggest a uniform civil code and more aggressively encouraging all sections to form a value consensus with the mainstream. The question was nebulous enough to have begun with, and without the help of the microphone it was hopelessly lost on RG, who could only catch my beginning phrase about Democracy in India having been the imposition of an intellectual minority. He talked of their having been elements of democracy in our culture long before the republic was formed - something I totally agree with him on. Argumentative Indian is a must read on this subject.
Immediately after he had answered the question, Rahul came back to the story of the ventilator, and wanted to know the name of the hospital and the doctor who had issued the order. Not wanting to shout names just there, I offered to tell it to him after the meeting was over. A dignified person came to me and introduced himself as working for RG, and took down the details. He took me aside and asked me to wait there for a meeting with RG. Soon afterwards, Rahul came down and came to where I was standing, and repeated what I already knew - that he didn't have anything to do with it, and would have never allowed it to happen in the first place. He asked his secy to raise the matter with the SPG at the earliest. I was beginning to feel ashamed for having made this man apologize twice for what was clearly not his doing, and I felt to compelled to say something.
I told him, words I'd always remember. "I hadn't planned on saying any of this here when I had come in. But after seeing you, and listening to you, I felt you deserved to know what they were doing in your name."
"You are a good man, Rahul Gandhi."
And I dare say I had the nerve to pat him on his back. Twice.
I think he was moved as well. He paused two seconds, said thanks, patted me on the back as well, and got inside the SUV that took him away.
Change is here, Rahul Gandhi. Way to go.
ACT I
I was on night duty at medicine casualty, on the night of 6th October, 09. It was a particularly hectic shift, having barely been able to sit down for a few minutes until midnight. A first year nursing student at some college in the private sector had jumped off the roof of her hostel, and so in addition to the usual crowd we had hoards of media people going about their job, and in doing so interfering with everyone else going about their's.
At around midnight, there was a momentary lull in the end-less parade of people with heart attacks, snake-bites, 'Bronchial Asthma's and plain high fever of a few days duration. The three of us on duty sank down to our seats for a moment of respite. I was the junior officer. In addition, there was a post-graduate resident and the casualty medical officer (CMO), who was the one in charge.
I listened then to a conversation between the resident and the officer. There was talk of having received instructions from the HOD - Internal Medicine, to the effect that one ventilator machine at the casualty was to be kept free for the night. Mr.Rahul Gandhi was visiting the city on Wednesday, and for the entire duration of his visit the ventilator had to be kept ready and waiting in case of an emergency. To avoid any last minute complications, no patient was to be admitted during the night.
I remember having thought, that the security protocol in case of someone as important to the nation as Mr.Gandhi might actually justify this rather elaborate and costly gesture (in terms of the human and ethical cost involved), and the doctor, who at the end of the day was merely a glorified technician, was only expected to carry out instructions just like the rest of them. I knew the CMO on duty to be a good clinician, and - more importantly - a man of integrity, yet the coolness with which he relayed the instruction down to his immediate sub-ordinate, that was chilling.
Here was what I was most terribly afraid that this system might do to me as well over the years - make me as cynical as the next man, render me incapable of noticing the cost of my actions, and in doing so take my refuge behind the steel curtain of bureaucratic indifference and impersonality. I believe I am halfway there already, having seen time and again how similar steps were taken to mollify the giant egos of even local political wannabes.
The medical casualty has two ventilator machines - which are important in acute life support (please see my post 'The Reluctant Fisherman' for a bit more about acute life support and the ethical dilemmas therein), and usually we have only one of them functioning properly. To keep it vacant for an entire day - for an eventuality that only might occur, and that too when there were scores of such machines in the private hospitals in the city readily available, that was obscene. I know there might be dictates of protocol that necessitate such extreme measures, but I think its about time that more people began asking a few dirty questions around this country.
Anyway, the night passes, thankfully uneventful, but for a few more heart attacks (Myocardial Infarction or MI as we refer to them), a couple more of snake bites, and the usual number of Diabetics with very low sugar in their blood. Nothing happened, that would necessitate use of a ventilator machine, until 8 in the morning, when my 12 hr shift ended.
Drearily, I made it back to the quarters, having handed over charge to the day-shift team. One of the perks of being the junior officer is that though you have to be the first person to report for duty, you also get to be the one that stays on his seat through the night - even as nurses and paramedical staff go to bed - and then get to the one to stay on until the next shift has arrived and duty is handed over.
ACT II
My friend enters my room at the quarters, greatly excited, quite uncharactarestic for his quiet ways. He has a handful of cards in his hand bearing the picture of a smiling Rahul Gandhi. He asks me to grab my college ID card and go with him for the interaction programme with Mr.Gandhi, which was to start in one of the well-known arts colleges of the city in an hour's time. I declined at first, pointing out that I did not possess a valid college ID card just then, as was required by the instructions on the entry pass. However, it had been a while since we had gone out together, and my friends convinced me to try my luck as all the others had their papers in order. I thought of telling them that the Special Protection Group or SPG that was responsible for Mr.Gandhi's security were professionals of the highest order, and it would be futile - and unfair - to expect them to show any leniency, but in the end decided to go along with the fun as far as possible.
We make it to the venue, and surely, there's an obviously SPG person at the gate asking for our passes and college IDs: Clad in smart gray safari suit, tall and strongly built, eyes calm and intelligent. I knew we were gone beyond the point of no return, because to start walking away now would be to immediately rouse his suspicion. Expecting fully well to be turned away, I walk up to him, say 'Hi', show him the invite card, and tell him about the student ID card that has been submitted to the college office for renewal and upgradation to a faculty card. He takes his time to assess me, looking me up and down, and then looks at the IDs of my friends, some of them sporting brand new faculty cards, others fishing dilapidated student IDs out of their wallets, and then, almost to my disbelief, lets me in. I pause a moment to tell him I appreciate the risk he is taking in letting me in, and thank him for it. For a very brief moment, something like a smile fleets across his features, before they again become set in stone, and I realized why the SPG were regarded as the best in the country in what they did. It was not because they were burly robots that would follow rules blindly and to a T, but because they were sensible men who could assess situations and people using their own intellect. That was what made them invaluable and so highly effective.
We troupe in, my friends and I, and find ourselves seats in amongst one of the front rows of an auditorium that would eventually come to be filled with nearly a thousand people. Tired from the night, I start dozing off almost immediately. I was woken up by the sound of a thunderous standing ovation as Mr.Gandhi arrived, without the regular media entourage, which I learned later was deliberately forbidden from hanging in on the interactive session.
After the usual introductions, RG, clad in casual attire, rose up to speak, and went on to explain in some detail why he was making this trip. He talked of the core assets of India being its people, on the demographic advantage of having a higher percentage of youth than the other big nations of the world, and why it was hence important for the youth to take a more active interest in the running of the country. He started taking questions from the gathered students, and in answering their questions spoke of the other India, the India of superstitions and hunger and deprivations, the India that we had to strive to bring in to the mainstream. He gave the general impression of being someone who had learned at depth about the state of the nation - both its problems and possible solutions to the same. More importantly, he came across as someone who was neither blissfully ignorant of the complexities of the problems that we were faced with, but at the same time was not awed by the enormity of the task. He believed change was possible, here and now, if only we might exercise the will and faculties that we possessed. I felt he was someone who cared about this country, and had faith in the system's ability to correct itself from within, a faith that the people of this country seem to be losing dangerously fast. And lastly, it was obvious that this man did not take his authority for a traditional taken-for-granted fiefdom, but had made it a point to earn his entitlement. His faith and goodwill, was infectious.
ACT III
It was then, that I decided it had to be told. I could see that this man was different from any other politician I had met: in that he possessed a basic sense of decency and respect. I knew then, that he would never ask that a ventilator be denied to anyone whose life might depend on it, and keep it for his possible use. I knew, with some degree of certainity, that he would actually not stand for something like that happening on his name. I could feel that he was capable of doing something, simply because it was the right thing to do. Change was possible, here and now, he had said. I believed him, something I had thought myself incapable of doing in so short a while.
I asked for the microphone, and when my turn came, stood up and told him that I had a question for him, but first, I had a tale to tell.
I told him about the ventilator that was kept vacant only because he was in city. I told him that I drew no conclusions or made no accusations, but I thought he would like to know.
Strangely enough, my microphone failed, and RG asked me to just shout at him, which I did gladly and at the top of my voice.
I was right in that RG shared my sentiment. But he was shocked, and I hadn't counted on that.
"Its disgusting", was his reply. He promised to get on top of it right away.
I went on to ask my question, about the need to more strongly promote social engineering, rather than leaving it up to the people themselves, with the result that different communities were experiencing vastly different standard of living and rates of improvement of living indices. I asked about our inability, or rather, unwillingness to counter the sort of propoganda that led to the two-nation theory and the partition. I was hoping he might suggest a uniform civil code and more aggressively encouraging all sections to form a value consensus with the mainstream. The question was nebulous enough to have begun with, and without the help of the microphone it was hopelessly lost on RG, who could only catch my beginning phrase about Democracy in India having been the imposition of an intellectual minority. He talked of their having been elements of democracy in our culture long before the republic was formed - something I totally agree with him on. Argumentative Indian is a must read on this subject.
Immediately after he had answered the question, Rahul came back to the story of the ventilator, and wanted to know the name of the hospital and the doctor who had issued the order. Not wanting to shout names just there, I offered to tell it to him after the meeting was over. A dignified person came to me and introduced himself as working for RG, and took down the details. He took me aside and asked me to wait there for a meeting with RG. Soon afterwards, Rahul came down and came to where I was standing, and repeated what I already knew - that he didn't have anything to do with it, and would have never allowed it to happen in the first place. He asked his secy to raise the matter with the SPG at the earliest. I was beginning to feel ashamed for having made this man apologize twice for what was clearly not his doing, and I felt to compelled to say something.
I told him, words I'd always remember. "I hadn't planned on saying any of this here when I had come in. But after seeing you, and listening to you, I felt you deserved to know what they were doing in your name."
"You are a good man, Rahul Gandhi."
And I dare say I had the nerve to pat him on his back. Twice.
I think he was moved as well. He paused two seconds, said thanks, patted me on the back as well, and got inside the SUV that took him away.
Change is here, Rahul Gandhi. Way to go.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Stench of the City, part III
I dont think anyone would want to read through in detail about what happened at the sewage plant, but I might as well finish it off for completion sake.
My team consisted of 2 health inspectors, 2 junior health inspectors, 2 public health nurses, 4 junior public health nurses, driver, and a police escort.
We could smell the place more than a km before we actually got there, especially as we happened to cross the path of downward wind.
The plant was located, not at a desolate stretch of wasteland, but on a somewhat thinly populated village.
The plant was not set up with the permit of the village panchayat, as such it could be called an illegal establishment. The panchayat had, for the past decade, been mired in a fight against the much stronger city corporation which was the sole beneficiary of the project.
While construction for the plant was under way, the gullible villagers were told that the corporation was preparing a garden and a flowering plant nursery. It was a reasonable explanation because 10 years ago the location of the plant had been a hill, which was a popular hang-out for local people. That hill was razed over the next decade to cover garbage in the sanitary land-fill. The hill was called, 'the sunrise-view'. By not giving them advance notice, probably because the govt knew it would never be able to establish a plant with the concurrence of the local population in this high density state, the govt had denied the local people the option to shift to other areas, and now their properties were un-sale-able due to proximity to the plant. Residents of nearby areas have not been re-settled to date.
So here the corporation was conspiring against a village panchayat, and because the plant was absolutely essential for the running of the capital city, the legal machinery and even political parties had decided to look the other way. The media, but for the occasional report, made no big hue and cry, as is its wont in such matters.
I especially remember one household that I visited, a large, old house built in traditional kerala style, and could for one moment picture this place as it was, only a few years ago. A house that once had a joint family living in it. The big cattle shed with numerous animals. The fertile lands full of fruit-laden plantains and coconut trees. Now all those capable of doing so had moved away to the city or other villages. Those left behind, left without their earning hands, were barely eking out a living. They were unable to rear livestock anymore, because the local stream where they used to bathe the animals had turned vitreous. Man and animal was bound to get sick if they touched the water. These were our people, and we were disbanding them.
At one point the local people, tired of fact-finding missions, blockaded the corporation van, and I could see that the police escort was no ceremony.
And I knew with a sinking feeling in my heart, that this mission was a joke already, even without my going in as the expert. It was no anomaly, just that the joke, without any mirth, had become that bit more funny. What do you expect when the corporation is sponsoring the fact-finding mission that would investigate complaints against itself?
Just then, I could really feel the stench of the city.
My team consisted of 2 health inspectors, 2 junior health inspectors, 2 public health nurses, 4 junior public health nurses, driver, and a police escort.
We could smell the place more than a km before we actually got there, especially as we happened to cross the path of downward wind.
The plant was located, not at a desolate stretch of wasteland, but on a somewhat thinly populated village.
The plant was not set up with the permit of the village panchayat, as such it could be called an illegal establishment. The panchayat had, for the past decade, been mired in a fight against the much stronger city corporation which was the sole beneficiary of the project.
While construction for the plant was under way, the gullible villagers were told that the corporation was preparing a garden and a flowering plant nursery. It was a reasonable explanation because 10 years ago the location of the plant had been a hill, which was a popular hang-out for local people. That hill was razed over the next decade to cover garbage in the sanitary land-fill. The hill was called, 'the sunrise-view'. By not giving them advance notice, probably because the govt knew it would never be able to establish a plant with the concurrence of the local population in this high density state, the govt had denied the local people the option to shift to other areas, and now their properties were un-sale-able due to proximity to the plant. Residents of nearby areas have not been re-settled to date.
So here the corporation was conspiring against a village panchayat, and because the plant was absolutely essential for the running of the capital city, the legal machinery and even political parties had decided to look the other way. The media, but for the occasional report, made no big hue and cry, as is its wont in such matters.
I especially remember one household that I visited, a large, old house built in traditional kerala style, and could for one moment picture this place as it was, only a few years ago. A house that once had a joint family living in it. The big cattle shed with numerous animals. The fertile lands full of fruit-laden plantains and coconut trees. Now all those capable of doing so had moved away to the city or other villages. Those left behind, left without their earning hands, were barely eking out a living. They were unable to rear livestock anymore, because the local stream where they used to bathe the animals had turned vitreous. Man and animal was bound to get sick if they touched the water. These were our people, and we were disbanding them.
At one point the local people, tired of fact-finding missions, blockaded the corporation van, and I could see that the police escort was no ceremony.
And I knew with a sinking feeling in my heart, that this mission was a joke already, even without my going in as the expert. It was no anomaly, just that the joke, without any mirth, had become that bit more funny. What do you expect when the corporation is sponsoring the fact-finding mission that would investigate complaints against itself?
Just then, I could really feel the stench of the city.
Friday, September 11, 2009
An Expert of the Highest Order (The Stench of The City, Part II)
And so I waited, while my friend left.
"Dr.Pillai, sir?"
In full dress uniform stood an official of the High Court of Kerala, though I did not know it then. Not the khakhi dress of the hospital peon but starched white with a cap with a dignified bearing. Black boots polished with care till they shone. It was obvious this man, whoever he was, took his job quite seriously.
I nodded in confirmation, and motioned him to a seat. He preferred to remain standing.
"I represent the authority of Judicial Ombudsman. A complaint has been taken into file at the Hon: High Court of Kerala against the Corporation of the City of T_____, and you sir, are hereby directed to jointly conduct an enquiry into the facts of the case with other experts and submit your recommendations to the Court."
Now, I had just the slightest idea as to who or what an ombudsman was, but as for the rest of what he had said, It might as well have been Greek or Latin.
I took a long look at the man, to see if he would just burst out laughing, and tell me this was all just one hell of a practical joke.
"Hold on one sec. What exactly is it that you are asking me to examine, and who (the hell) told you I am an expert in these matters?"
"The court has asked for an advice from the dept of SPM. Your name comes highly recommended."
"The Old man, I mean, Prof V________ told you this? Yes? I see."
"And what exactly?"
In reply he said just one word: The name of the village panchayat that housed the waste-disposal establishment that handled all the waste generated by the city. The once obscure town was now a house-hold name, thanks to the decade-old struggle by the local population objecting to the operation of the waste-disposal plant close to their homes and places of living and sources of livelihood. I had vague memories of strikes turning violent, and being put down by force.
I groaned inwardly. This was getting worse all the time. Missing lunch seemed the least of my worries just then. I was frantically trying to remember newspaper reports I'd read years ago, about corporation officials on routine visits being held captive by the people.
He took my stunned silence as the cue to go on.
The people had formed a citizen's action council and made a submission to the court to immediately halt the running of the plant. It was posing a grave public health problem to the area, they claimed, and submitted a list of people who were allegedly suffering from health problems related to the running of the plant.
My job-definition would be to track each of them down, establish the veracity of their complaints, determine if the same was due to their proximity to the waste-disposal plant, and submit a report on the same.
The corporation had arranged for four teams to investigate. They had got people with qualifications and experience in public health, and nothing better to do on the week before Onam, for three teams, but they had to send one more 'expert' to head the last one.
"Your pick-up vehicle will be here in a short while. The other doctors have already agreed upon a questionnaire and flow-chart for everyone to follow, so that work of different teams can be standardized. That should help you."
Will surprises never cease? What did he mean 'In a short while'? Was it that they wanted me to go today and now? Then I remembered, and knew the reason behind the professor's good manners. Someone had backed out at the last moment, and I was to be the fill-in.
He saluted smartly, and left. Funny, I think, that he should.
"Dr.Pillai, sir?"
In full dress uniform stood an official of the High Court of Kerala, though I did not know it then. Not the khakhi dress of the hospital peon but starched white with a cap with a dignified bearing. Black boots polished with care till they shone. It was obvious this man, whoever he was, took his job quite seriously.
I nodded in confirmation, and motioned him to a seat. He preferred to remain standing.
"I represent the authority of Judicial Ombudsman. A complaint has been taken into file at the Hon: High Court of Kerala against the Corporation of the City of T_____, and you sir, are hereby directed to jointly conduct an enquiry into the facts of the case with other experts and submit your recommendations to the Court."
Now, I had just the slightest idea as to who or what an ombudsman was, but as for the rest of what he had said, It might as well have been Greek or Latin.
I took a long look at the man, to see if he would just burst out laughing, and tell me this was all just one hell of a practical joke.
"Hold on one sec. What exactly is it that you are asking me to examine, and who (the hell) told you I am an expert in these matters?"
"The court has asked for an advice from the dept of SPM. Your name comes highly recommended."
"The Old man, I mean, Prof V________ told you this? Yes? I see."
"And what exactly?"
In reply he said just one word: The name of the village panchayat that housed the waste-disposal establishment that handled all the waste generated by the city. The once obscure town was now a house-hold name, thanks to the decade-old struggle by the local population objecting to the operation of the waste-disposal plant close to their homes and places of living and sources of livelihood. I had vague memories of strikes turning violent, and being put down by force.
I groaned inwardly. This was getting worse all the time. Missing lunch seemed the least of my worries just then. I was frantically trying to remember newspaper reports I'd read years ago, about corporation officials on routine visits being held captive by the people.
He took my stunned silence as the cue to go on.
The people had formed a citizen's action council and made a submission to the court to immediately halt the running of the plant. It was posing a grave public health problem to the area, they claimed, and submitted a list of people who were allegedly suffering from health problems related to the running of the plant.
My job-definition would be to track each of them down, establish the veracity of their complaints, determine if the same was due to their proximity to the waste-disposal plant, and submit a report on the same.
The corporation had arranged for four teams to investigate. They had got people with qualifications and experience in public health, and nothing better to do on the week before Onam, for three teams, but they had to send one more 'expert' to head the last one.
"Your pick-up vehicle will be here in a short while. The other doctors have already agreed upon a questionnaire and flow-chart for everyone to follow, so that work of different teams can be standardized. That should help you."
Will surprises never cease? What did he mean 'In a short while'? Was it that they wanted me to go today and now? Then I remembered, and knew the reason behind the professor's good manners. Someone had backed out at the last moment, and I was to be the fill-in.
He saluted smartly, and left. Funny, I think, that he should.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Stench of the City, part 1
The day had started well enough. The OP was rather light, and it looked like it was going to be that rare day when we might be able to shut shop before noon. It was the week before Onam, and there was a general festive mood that had rubbed off on everyone. The patients were probably bottling up all their troubles until the festive season was past. My colleague was already making plans for taking his friend out to a long-delayed matinee and buffet lunch. I was happy for him, having known one too many failed relationships amongst doctors only because he or she was never around when the other needed them. In a relationship, few things can be more damaging in the long term.
Just as we were about to call it a day, there came a call from the dept the of the rather elaborately named Social and Preventive Medicine or simply SPM. To have the officer in charge of public health calling you is bad enough, but when even she doesn't get to the point, but rather asks you to stay put and hands the phone to the professor, you get a really, really bad feeling in your stomach that this is going to be something really, really bad.
"Hi Dr! How are you? Got any plans for Onam?"
The Old bull-dog being courteous, even deferential! Who ever heard of that? Now I knew I was in trouble, probably with a capital 't'.
"Doctor, we got a situation. Could you please wait a few min until I can dispatch someone to brief you on it?"
"I know you are in some kind of mess you crusty old curmudgeon, and you want to wash your hands clean off it. Its not something you can ask me to in the normal course of things, but at the same time you need someone who you think can do the job. Well, beat it. I can see through your 'nice guy' act and I ain't buying it any more. I've done my tour of duty at more tight spots than anyone else you know, and this time am calling it quits."
How I would have loved to say that to him!
"Yes sir. Of course sir. My pleasure sir. Thank you sir".
That's what I actually said.
I looked at my colleague. He was not making eye-contact. The natural thing would be to ask what it was that the old man had wanted. That would be the decent thing too, for I could actually ask him to stay back instead of me, having already done more than my fair share of 'dirty jobs', as we both were sure this was going to be.
But if you take a good man, put him up against a wall, then put a gun to his head, and say, "Your life or your pal's", what do you expect?
I know what not to expect. I believe six years at this place has made me a good enough cynic to know better than that.
He leaves, not a glance exchanged, our greetings unsaid. Six years of friendship, probably our last posting together, and this is how it ends. I feel pity for both of us. That's the only emotion I am allowed to feel, they tell me. No anger or disgust or envy. They say its not becoming to someone in the white coat to feel any of that. So you internalize your emotions, nursing a feeling of being regularly if not constantly wronged against and not able to even say it out loud, of being alienated from the rest of society, from your near and dear, and even from yourself; of being de-humanized. And worst of all, the knowledge that you are being judged against by people without an ounce of commitment within themselves. So you put up a facade, one of impenetrable emotional stability, that often belies the turbulence just beneath. And the show goes on.
Of course, I did not think all that just right then. I don't think that well on an empty stomach. But I certainly did think of the Onam feast I might almost certainly have to miss that day.
To be continued..
Just as we were about to call it a day, there came a call from the dept the of the rather elaborately named Social and Preventive Medicine or simply SPM. To have the officer in charge of public health calling you is bad enough, but when even she doesn't get to the point, but rather asks you to stay put and hands the phone to the professor, you get a really, really bad feeling in your stomach that this is going to be something really, really bad.
"Hi Dr! How are you? Got any plans for Onam?"
The Old bull-dog being courteous, even deferential! Who ever heard of that? Now I knew I was in trouble, probably with a capital 't'.
"Doctor, we got a situation. Could you please wait a few min until I can dispatch someone to brief you on it?"
"I know you are in some kind of mess you crusty old curmudgeon, and you want to wash your hands clean off it. Its not something you can ask me to in the normal course of things, but at the same time you need someone who you think can do the job. Well, beat it. I can see through your 'nice guy' act and I ain't buying it any more. I've done my tour of duty at more tight spots than anyone else you know, and this time am calling it quits."
How I would have loved to say that to him!
"Yes sir. Of course sir. My pleasure sir. Thank you sir".
That's what I actually said.
I looked at my colleague. He was not making eye-contact. The natural thing would be to ask what it was that the old man had wanted. That would be the decent thing too, for I could actually ask him to stay back instead of me, having already done more than my fair share of 'dirty jobs', as we both were sure this was going to be.
But if you take a good man, put him up against a wall, then put a gun to his head, and say, "Your life or your pal's", what do you expect?
I know what not to expect. I believe six years at this place has made me a good enough cynic to know better than that.
He leaves, not a glance exchanged, our greetings unsaid. Six years of friendship, probably our last posting together, and this is how it ends. I feel pity for both of us. That's the only emotion I am allowed to feel, they tell me. No anger or disgust or envy. They say its not becoming to someone in the white coat to feel any of that. So you internalize your emotions, nursing a feeling of being regularly if not constantly wronged against and not able to even say it out loud, of being alienated from the rest of society, from your near and dear, and even from yourself; of being de-humanized. And worst of all, the knowledge that you are being judged against by people without an ounce of commitment within themselves. So you put up a facade, one of impenetrable emotional stability, that often belies the turbulence just beneath. And the show goes on.
Of course, I did not think all that just right then. I don't think that well on an empty stomach. But I certainly did think of the Onam feast I might almost certainly have to miss that day.
To be continued..
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Kindness of Murderers.
*Some parts of this post deal with graphic descriptions of violence, kindly be warned*
First of all, I must apologize to Kate Adie, chief reporter for the BBC, from the title of whose highly readable autobiography 'Kindness of Strangers' I got the idea to name this post.
I write this with reference to an incident that took place here earlier this week. The heir of one among the most well-established business house-holds, a young and upcoming entrepreneur in his own right, was found murdered by the highway in the wee hours of the night. The police sprung into action, forming a task force headed by a senior officer. To their credit, the gang behind what was obviously a 'professional' job were apprehended within 24 to 48 hours.
I learned the story through the Malayalam media, who had a field day over it. Lest we forget, TV channels gave round-the-clock coverage of the latest developments, repeatedly showing shots of the murder site, a damaged mobile phone, the vehicle that the deceased was driving when last seen, and such.
Also highlighted was the increasing goonda menace. Until recently keralites used to take pride in the law and order situation of their society. Using hit-men to settle scores with rivals, or for parents to secure possession of eloped children, for youngsters to get married safe from goons hired by the parents, or for ensuring smooth functioning of business interests without interference from other goonda groups - all this was not only unheard of, but positively inconceivable. Sure we used to have enough and more of our own special breed of murder and violence - of the political and ideological kind - but precisely because such incidents did not involve the common man going about his business, unless he inadvertently got involved with it, I think we may have developed an unhealthy degree of tolerance to a culture of violence over the years.
So here's how the story unfolded over the days in the media:
Day 1:
The media cried hoarse, and with good reason, about how cheap human life had become. How an up-coming entrepreneur was cut-down at the prime of his youth, and how if even the creamy layer of the society was not safe anymore, what did that say for the rest of us?
And we all joined in our prayers for the deceased, his handsome face and gentle features evidencing a refined upbringing that had now come to a tragic end.
Day 2:
It turns out, that the car he was last seen in, did not belong to the deceased. Further, it is learned to be owned by the leader of one of the dreaded criminal gangs of the state: That there had been two co-passengers with him on the fatal night whom his driver, who was asked to follow in another car, had not seen before. The co-passengers are discovered to have had strong links with many criminal gangs. Questions are now raised regarding the pervasive nature of the influence of criminal elements at even the uppermost echelons of society, and how the business class was openly cavorting with them. New conspiracy theories are raised, that suggest that the victim may have been mistaken for the gang leader, as he was driving the latter's car, AND seen with his associates. Could it have been a case of mistaken identity, after all? There have been other instances too, when the wrong person was assaulted by gangs.
I have had opportunity to interact both with police officers, as well as some of the men involved in such occupation, in the course of my daily practice - and if I might say so here, what was unsettling about the ones I knew was not that they were giant brutes as seen in the movies.
What was most terrifying about them was their ordinariness. How they were not as radically different from the average man on the street as we might wish was the case. These were guys who laughed at silly jokes and still cried out when a simple injection was administered. In fact, If there must be one defining trait to be described, then it must have been an inability to put up with pain, physical and otherwise.
I had a patient once too, who had been bedridden for past 8 years, because he happened to match some else's description, and wore the wrong colour shirt. He still lives on, like the way the other (lucky) chap was supposed to have lived the rest of his days - with daily excruciating pains over both legs. Its not for nothing that these gangsters are called professionals. Whereas the amateurs might take it upon them to simply murder or thrash a victim, the 'professionals' do offer tailor-made services. Sometimes I think its a game played between the doctors and the 'quotation' team as they are called, with the victims life as the stakes. For eg, it might be possible to reattach a limb if brought within a certain time. So as to avoid this possibility the more experienced ones actually see to it that not only is a limb severed, but it is also mangled, so that there is no chance of it being re-attached. It would have been fascinating if it weren't so cruel.
Day 3:
It appears that the young industrialist had once been arrested for possession of narcotic drugs. A ladies' bag and dress is known to have been recovered from the car.
Day 4:
There is one final twist to the story, one that prompted me to write this post.
The police says it was a professional job, alright, in the sense that it was done by an armed 'quotation' gang. But it was done with altruistic intention, and not on contract. The deceased was driving the big SUV on the fatal night, when at a relatively sparse stretch of highway he hit a motorcyclist from the behind, toppling him. The biker who was going home was seriously injured, and was saved only because he had a helmet on.
He did not stop. He sped away, like so many car drivers do under similar circumstances, that has caused so many young men to die on the roads. Lives that could've been saved, had, instead of speeding away, the car or truck drivers had done the right thing and taken them to a hospital. He may have wanted to avoid being seen with the particular company he had that night, or may be he was drunk and didnt care, confident of his place in the world.
As things would have it, the armed gang was resting after a job elsewhere, just out of sight, and they were drawn by the commotion. They rushed the victim to a hospital in one of their vehicles, while in a bout of self-righteousness some of them followed the SUV in another vehicle. They overtook it after only a few kms, and in the ensuing scuffle, drunk to the bone as they were, ended up doing a professional job upon a man whom the law might not have touched for all its long arms. Only one person delivered the fatal wounds, and he was relatively a new member to the gang, with no history of violent crime.
There you have it, the entire incident, as it came to be revealed over the days in the media. I shall not venture to draw lessons or morals out of it, instead, presently I shall stop simply by remembering the immortal words of Alexander Sholtzhenitsyn:
"The line that divides good and evil runs not between nations, but cuts right across every man's heart."
First of all, I must apologize to Kate Adie, chief reporter for the BBC, from the title of whose highly readable autobiography 'Kindness of Strangers' I got the idea to name this post.
I write this with reference to an incident that took place here earlier this week. The heir of one among the most well-established business house-holds, a young and upcoming entrepreneur in his own right, was found murdered by the highway in the wee hours of the night. The police sprung into action, forming a task force headed by a senior officer. To their credit, the gang behind what was obviously a 'professional' job were apprehended within 24 to 48 hours.
I learned the story through the Malayalam media, who had a field day over it. Lest we forget, TV channels gave round-the-clock coverage of the latest developments, repeatedly showing shots of the murder site, a damaged mobile phone, the vehicle that the deceased was driving when last seen, and such.
Also highlighted was the increasing goonda menace. Until recently keralites used to take pride in the law and order situation of their society. Using hit-men to settle scores with rivals, or for parents to secure possession of eloped children, for youngsters to get married safe from goons hired by the parents, or for ensuring smooth functioning of business interests without interference from other goonda groups - all this was not only unheard of, but positively inconceivable. Sure we used to have enough and more of our own special breed of murder and violence - of the political and ideological kind - but precisely because such incidents did not involve the common man going about his business, unless he inadvertently got involved with it, I think we may have developed an unhealthy degree of tolerance to a culture of violence over the years.
So here's how the story unfolded over the days in the media:
Day 1:
The media cried hoarse, and with good reason, about how cheap human life had become. How an up-coming entrepreneur was cut-down at the prime of his youth, and how if even the creamy layer of the society was not safe anymore, what did that say for the rest of us?
And we all joined in our prayers for the deceased, his handsome face and gentle features evidencing a refined upbringing that had now come to a tragic end.
Day 2:
It turns out, that the car he was last seen in, did not belong to the deceased. Further, it is learned to be owned by the leader of one of the dreaded criminal gangs of the state: That there had been two co-passengers with him on the fatal night whom his driver, who was asked to follow in another car, had not seen before. The co-passengers are discovered to have had strong links with many criminal gangs. Questions are now raised regarding the pervasive nature of the influence of criminal elements at even the uppermost echelons of society, and how the business class was openly cavorting with them. New conspiracy theories are raised, that suggest that the victim may have been mistaken for the gang leader, as he was driving the latter's car, AND seen with his associates. Could it have been a case of mistaken identity, after all? There have been other instances too, when the wrong person was assaulted by gangs.
I have had opportunity to interact both with police officers, as well as some of the men involved in such occupation, in the course of my daily practice - and if I might say so here, what was unsettling about the ones I knew was not that they were giant brutes as seen in the movies.
What was most terrifying about them was their ordinariness. How they were not as radically different from the average man on the street as we might wish was the case. These were guys who laughed at silly jokes and still cried out when a simple injection was administered. In fact, If there must be one defining trait to be described, then it must have been an inability to put up with pain, physical and otherwise.
I had a patient once too, who had been bedridden for past 8 years, because he happened to match some else's description, and wore the wrong colour shirt. He still lives on, like the way the other (lucky) chap was supposed to have lived the rest of his days - with daily excruciating pains over both legs. Its not for nothing that these gangsters are called professionals. Whereas the amateurs might take it upon them to simply murder or thrash a victim, the 'professionals' do offer tailor-made services. Sometimes I think its a game played between the doctors and the 'quotation' team as they are called, with the victims life as the stakes. For eg, it might be possible to reattach a limb if brought within a certain time. So as to avoid this possibility the more experienced ones actually see to it that not only is a limb severed, but it is also mangled, so that there is no chance of it being re-attached. It would have been fascinating if it weren't so cruel.
Day 3:
It appears that the young industrialist had once been arrested for possession of narcotic drugs. A ladies' bag and dress is known to have been recovered from the car.
Day 4:
There is one final twist to the story, one that prompted me to write this post.
The police says it was a professional job, alright, in the sense that it was done by an armed 'quotation' gang. But it was done with altruistic intention, and not on contract. The deceased was driving the big SUV on the fatal night, when at a relatively sparse stretch of highway he hit a motorcyclist from the behind, toppling him. The biker who was going home was seriously injured, and was saved only because he had a helmet on.
He did not stop. He sped away, like so many car drivers do under similar circumstances, that has caused so many young men to die on the roads. Lives that could've been saved, had, instead of speeding away, the car or truck drivers had done the right thing and taken them to a hospital. He may have wanted to avoid being seen with the particular company he had that night, or may be he was drunk and didnt care, confident of his place in the world.
As things would have it, the armed gang was resting after a job elsewhere, just out of sight, and they were drawn by the commotion. They rushed the victim to a hospital in one of their vehicles, while in a bout of self-righteousness some of them followed the SUV in another vehicle. They overtook it after only a few kms, and in the ensuing scuffle, drunk to the bone as they were, ended up doing a professional job upon a man whom the law might not have touched for all its long arms. Only one person delivered the fatal wounds, and he was relatively a new member to the gang, with no history of violent crime.
There you have it, the entire incident, as it came to be revealed over the days in the media. I shall not venture to draw lessons or morals out of it, instead, presently I shall stop simply by remembering the immortal words of Alexander Sholtzhenitsyn:
"The line that divides good and evil runs not between nations, but cuts right across every man's heart."
Friday, August 21, 2009
Of Wallets and Bullets
I lost my wallet last Monday, the 17th.
More precisely, it was stolen from my person as I went to temple in the morning, it being the first day of the new year according to the Malayalam calendar.
It had nearly half my month's pay, driving license, identification card at the hospital, and my two ATM cards.
It hurt.
It hurt that I had lost the money, that I'd now have to go through the laborious process of getting another set of documents issued as well as preventing misuse of the original.
But what hurt most was the dent in self-image. The realization that some common crook could pinch it off me and I didn't even know it: That the apparently efficient and competent professional could be outwitted so completely by a professional of another kind. That hurt.
There was not much to do, retrieving a wallet lost in a sea of perhaps a thousand being what the old adage 'needle in a haystack' is exactly about.
'Hope' is a strong feeling. Sometimes, it is all that stands between man and madness. In such hope, for gaining a degree of apparent control over the situation if nothing else, for retrieving a bit of that lost self-esteem, we tend to do something – anything – that might be useful; often, in the face of overwhelming odds and reason that tells us otherwise.
So I go to the police station, report the theft, get a receipt for the same that says my driving license is stolen, and then – wait.
I need not have bothered.
But something did happen. Life went on. It was not as much of a catastrophe as I'd thought at first that it would turn out to be. It hurt still, the actual loss as well as the feeling of being outwitted, but fortunately – and this is important - there was no pressing engagement that I needed the money for.
There was a sense of Deja Vu, though. There have been other occasions too in my life, when something that I thought would hurt deeply, turned out to be not that bad to have happened, after all. It was the fearful anticipation that was harder to bear than the actual event when it happened.
The converse has been true too. Something one anticipates to be infinitely pleasing, turning out to be just one more good thing to have happened. Here I would remember how getting into Medical College turned out to be a mixed bag.
Then there were the times, those things that happened, that brought so much happiness that one could never have thought possible beforehand. Case in point my buying an old, second-hand Royal Enfield motorcycle that leaked oil from everywhere. Life has never been the same after that.
And finally, some things in life, you never know how much pain and hurt they will cause, until the day when finally lost. Ask anyone who's been in love and lost it.
So, it turns out there really is no telling how much something would please or hurt until we actually get there. Turns out it may not be a very good idea to plan your entire life ahead of you, for who knows how we might happen to not really like what we had planned for ourselves, or conversely, how we might actually like something we didn't quite bank upon.
I guess there is some merit to living under the stars after all.
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