Curtains before the show!

This happened in March too. Two weeks before my sixth birthday.

School Day was an exciting prospect and the preparations for it pre-occupied us all a month before the event itself. Being in school was more exciting than ever because there were only practice and rehearsals instead of counting and handwriting. Besides, being selected for a dance bequeathed celebrity status on a first grader!

“Shantala, Jayalakshmi, Jayasheela...”My class teacher Mrs. Padma would call out after the prayers. It was for practice. “Lucky them!” “Could we go and watch too?” The class would break into a restless murmur. Strutting to the door, I would leave behind bench-fulls of wistful faces and jealous hearts.

Practice was in the first floor of the new building that was due to open from the coming academic session. Our dance teacher was Mrs.Padma’s niece-pretty, lithe and all of eighteen. I loved to be her. Her colorful lengha-choli or half-sari ensembles.... mesmerized, I would watch her single long braid snake and swish on her backs when she danced.  “Don’t stand there dreaming. Common dance,” she would chide me. It was a Kannada song about a summer storm – “Eenidu dhooli? Ho! Ho! Gaali...suliyutha banthai suntara gaali...” it went; as dancing, we swayed and shielded ourselves from the oncoming gale. Four rows of two girls each and I was the second right, paired with Jayasheela. (I settled for No.2 because the teacher’s daughter had the natural right to be in the front!)

By the end of the first week, I was street-performing. All the way along, from and back home which was two and half kilometers from school, I would sing and dance the storm-song, oblivious to passersby. By middle of third week, everyone in my house knew the song by-heart. Only they didn’t care to learn the steps! The D-day was barely a week ahead.

We had no individual diaries for the teachers to write instructions. They just told us and we went back home and repeated the instructions. “Amma, Thursday is the School Day. Padma miss has asked me to be there by eight in the morning,” I had told my mother. She was excited too. It was after all my first stage performance! She had her standard set of instructions (“You must concentrate on dancing. Don’t search for me in the crowd. You know I’ll be there watching you, all right?”) And admonishments. (“Haven’t I told you to leave the dance dress alone? Keep trying it out often- it will sure be dirty for your school-day!”)She had stitched the dainty long skirt and the matching sleeveless choli. We had shopped for matching bangles, necklace and nail polish. The henna leaves were procured from her friend’s garden and she had ground it into a fine powder. It would adorn my hands the night before the D-day. She even let me wear the gold ‘jhumkis’ which were my festival-exclusives.

However, as a final confirmation, my mother chatted up with the ayah, who was my escort to and from school daily.

“Tomorrow, isn’t it, Gowramma?”

“Hmmm..”

“She says we have to be there by eight?”

“Avva...Always the programme starts only after eleven thirty. If you dress her up here only, then you can report by eleven also.” she suggested. The idea appealed to my mother.

                She washed my hair the next day. Braiding into a plait, she adorned it with colorful tassels and flowers. All the while I kept whining,”Amma, Padma miss said eight o’clock!”

‘That’s ok puttu. I will tell her. Children who want to get dressed at the venue need to report early. I am doing all that here itself....it will keep you from sweating in a crowded green room,” she cajoled me.

And so, at a quarter past ten we set out. Being dressed in dance finery kept me from frisking. I had to walk only. “Thank God.  That’s more lady-like” amma had grumbled. People on the street nodded or smiled indulgently. Some even came across to pinch or peck at my cheeks. I hated it. “Amma, my  rouge got smudged! Oh! The powder rubbed off!” I would whine then, prompting her to pull out the make-up box and fix my face under the next tree. I did however manage to run the last few yards to the school. “Amma, I am thirsty. I will drink water and come back,” I had said disappearing into the compound. Actually, I had asked my friends to wait for me at the school tap. I wanted them to see all my finery before I went on stage.

The place was empty. I ran to the washrooms and there was no one there too. “They ought to have been here by now...” I thought as I dragged myself back to where my mother was standing. I didn’t  see her face. But looking beyond her, for any trace of my friends, I asked her, ‘Amma, what time is it now?” She knelt down and took me into a tight embrace. I squirmed. ‘Amma, you are spoiling my skirt...”I tried pushing her.

“Sweetheart, I should have listened to you...Your dance is over baby,” she said. As I was still pushing her away and looking for my friends, her words failed to sink in. “Lets go in Amma. They must be getting ready in the green room.” I said finally freeing myself and running forward. “Shantu, listen to me. Your dance got over an hour ago..” she repeated. I thought she was insane. I thought she was lying. How could it happen? I was the star dancer.. I ran inside and stopped agape at the door of the noisy auditorium! I saw all of them...laughing and clapping...the show was already on!

My friends spotted me at that moment.

“Hey, what happened to you? Why didn’t you come for the dance?”

“Why, you’re even dressed!”

             “Aunty, why didn’t she come?”

“Hey, Shantala, wait till Padma miss sees you. You’ll get it.”

 “Oh, the cleverest girl in class and she misses the dance!” someone snickered.

My mother was by me then trying to hold my hand. “You know putti, the ayah had got it wrong. The primary school function-yours- was in the morning and the middle school was for the afternoon. Sorry sweetheart. Look at me,” she was saying. I refused to let her hold my hands and ran away. Head bent, l rustled my beautiful cream skirt with saffron border and tinkled the matching bangles. Kneeling down, I pretended to finger my new silver anklet, hoping no one would see my tears. People were milling all around me. The henna on my hands looked redder than ever, drenched in my tears. I didn’t care now if anything smudged my kohl or rouge. Could this be happening to me? ‘She’s my best student!” hadn’t the dance teacher often said? And I missed the dance?

Someone pulled me erect. It was Mrs. Padma.

“Hey, aren’t you the bold girl? And you’re crying? Common, it wasn’t your fault. It’s OK. There is always a next time,” she took me in her arms, as amma looked on. That didn’t help. It only dug in deeper. So losing out- for no fault of mine, hurt even more than losing itself.

“Look here, sweetie. So what if your dance is over?  You could still be on stage, “she said, hoisting me onto someone else. The next moment I was in the arms of our principal, Mr. B.P. Rao. “Common, child. Up you go on the stage. They are beginning to sing, join them,” so saying, he set me on the stage- first row and forward! I looked behind me, staring at two-three rows of new faces- older children, all happy to be on stage, ready to sing. “I practiced the storm-dance. I don’t know any song.” But no one heard me. First row forward, even lip sync could be caught!  Helplessness only doubled my sorrow then.  I looked sideways, to scoot off the stage. Before I could even take a step, the room went quiet and the song began.

“Jana gana mana adhinayaka jayahe...” The National anthem! Of course, that was a song I could well sing! Not relief, but a deep sadness washed over me then.  The happy hours of practice, the beautiful dress, henna, jhumkis...the futility flooded me! I stood there, the only one not singing the National Anthem, with tears streaming down my cheeks as the principal, teachers, friends, amma and all dulled into a misty blur.... For me, being on stage was no consolation to not performing.

The show was over. The red curtain came slowly down.

Mirage (Pastels on paper)

Gender swap!

That dawn he delightedly discovered that his prayers were answered. Dreams did come true! Jumping out of bed, he looked about, fondly at his wife’s body. Bountiful at the right places......he hugged her, hugging himself, loving the unique feeling...

“Thank You Lord!” he exalted. But by then God had just condensed into a golden bubble and had gone ‘plop’. What a conversation that had been! God had condescended and talked to him, coming to his bedroom!

“Son, it must be a woman’s matter that’s causing you to hound me 24/7 with your woeful pleas. Out with your troubles before my wife discovers I have changed bedrooms in the middle of the night!”

“Mercy, my Lord! What have I done to deserve this life of monogamy, nagging and being a thankless ATM? These seven years have taken a toll on my body. The heart that skipped a beat on just glancing at her then, now almost stops when she starts a monologue. The throat refuses to vocalize despite the mind being in an expletive mode!

After an exhaustive day at office, what do I return to? A long list of groceries, electricity/ phone bill, a demand cloaked as a request for a holiday or jewelry and a threat to keep off the bed at night if I do not oblige.

When you called us your children, why did you bless us with some more? And none as docile and dad-fearing as I have ever been all my miserable life. Keeping a tab on and copying their peers’ lifestyle for them, keeping away from that desperate cigarette and that beckoning beer till they are out of sight, suffering the admonishments at the parents-teacher meet....I envy your laid back attitude as Father.”

God wiped his eyes. “What can I do for you now?”he sniffed.

“Let me be her.”

“What? I thought you wanted her-” God made a very ungodly gesture, drawing a forefinger across his neck with a matching sound.

“Thanks, but no. I want to experience the fun she has everyday. Imagine God...packing us off and having nothing to do the whole day except watch T.V serials, manicure, pedicure, bleach, tweeze, wax and most enviably, gossip! Eight hours of sleep, twelve of pleasure and only four grumbling-working hours a day! Compare it to mine- four hours sleep, twelve of boss-pleasing, back-breaking drudgery and eight of nagging-wife and devilish-brats? How much worse can your math and skewed your vision be?

So, all I wish is to experience the pleasure of being a woman, at least one day, in this life time!”

“So be it.” God had granted and here he was, in her body.

By eight in the morning, he had trundled off the imps and the husband and was looking forward to a luxurious mid-morning with TV, newspaper, hot coffee and a relaxed dip in the bath. But the pile of clothes waiting to be washed beckoned him and later transferred him to the mound of unwashed vessels and then commissioned him to floor sweeping and mopping.

“Honey, do we need a servant? They are so unreliable. I’m sure you’ll be better without them,” he remembered saying, cleverly saving seven hundred rupees.

By afternoon, the breaking back was only thankful to be rested, oblivious to the hungry stomach. But at that moment, the children were back-noisy and demanding to be waited upon.

Evening meant shopping for vegetables, planning the next day’s menu, ironing uniforms, polishing shoes, all the while being compared to a working woman who, unlike her, was more worthy and monetarily productive too!

By ten, he was exhausted. He was missing his body. Just a few more hours and I shall never pray for anything like this, he told himself. He realized that his haves were better than his better half’s! Just as he switched off the bedroom lights, he felt his husband’s hand groping roughly. Oh another chore! That night, he realized the sea of difference between ‘Hrrruumph’ and ‘Ah...Ouch!’

At the break of dawn, God reappeared. “Thanks, my Lord. Switch us back,” He couldn’t wait. But God seemed to be in no hurry. There was a halo of guilt around him. The mortal was mortified.

“ Gawd! Is something wrong?”

“Son, I’m afraid it is.....I can’t help you...For another 40 weeks. You just got pregnant last night!” This time God disappeared without a pop!

Patient abuse

We barely had eight weeks for the final MBBS exams. As a part of preparations, we would scout the hospital wards for interesting cases, examine, and discuss them.

So when we heard of an interesting case in male surgical wards, Unit C, we decided to see the case after lunch. In the ward, it was unnecessary to ask about the interesting case because there were already a dozen of our classmates around a cot in the farthest corner. Just then the patient, Mr. Ramappa, who had gone out for a late, hurried lunch came in.

He looked at all of us- in white coats, dangling steths, manuals and notebooks in hand; and with an audible sigh sat on his cot. A sudden vision of pithing slimy frogs in second MBBS floated before me. (Pithing- to study physiology of muscle and nerves, we had to make a muscle-nerve preparation from the legs of a frog. For that, we had to ‘boldly’ stick a long thick needle at the bent neck of a LIVE, wriggling frog! And, as its spinal cord severed, it would go limp and we would proceed dissecting the poor creature!) Discussions died down and each one of us began taking turns examining him.

Ramappa was a case of Thyroid swelling. (Thyroid- a gland that is present in the front part of the neck and is not visible as an obvious swelling in health) The examiner is required to stand behind the patient and the patient has to bend his neck for examining any neck swelling. So Ramappa sat, his head bent and turning from time to time when ordered as each student took an average of seven to ten minutes to examine him. Looking at his neck from front, we would ask him to swallow and note down in our books whether the lump moved with deglutition (swallowing) At one point after he had obliged twelve of us, he asked: “Could I drink water? My mouth is dry and I have to drink something to show swallowing.”

It was my turn next and as I started with inspection. (The first part of any examination is inspection-that is to see before we touch) I noticed that the skin of his neck appeared sore. Were he a little lighter skinned, it would certainly be evident as a bruise. So many of us had handled his neck since past two days, that it must surely have been painful. But he had not complained. As I looked up from his neck, our eyes met. I could have well been looking into the eyes of a trapped animal. Pain, anger, helplessness were all there, coated by a thin film of a threatening tear.

‘Interesting cases’ are admitted during exam times for the benefit of students and as cases for examinations. These people are often poor and come to government hospitals for treatment. When they are admitted and scores of students come to see them, they initially believe that many doctors are seeing them. Few days later, the knowledge dawns on them that they are being kept as examination cases. Many of them oblige, probably because of the fear that they may not get the necessary treatment if they do not. Some of them run away from the wards either during student rounds or permanently.

Ramappa’s thyroid swelling was diagnosed as Cancer Thyroid. It was a very obvious diagnosis given his change of voice, fixed swelling, palpable lympnodes etc. Yet he was kept in the ward, pending treatment, so that he could be examined by future doctors who could get the ‘feel’ of a cancer lump!

This is where our Medical curriculum errs. No one ever teaches us how to empathize with patients. It is only mentioned as if an abstract emotion by some teachers. The soft-firm-hard –cystic feelings in diagnosing lumps, that we are taught in surgery, do not reach beyond our physical capabilities. When it comes to feeling for patients, we are on our own, without guidelines.  

But that day Ramappa had taught me an unforgettable lesson. I refused to lay my hands on his neck. It did not matter to me if I missed the feel of one cancer thyroid. I had felt his pain and I valued it as a greater clinical acumen than diagnosing cancer. Since then I have forgone examining Shivu (a ten year old with Hereditary Spherocytosis), Shankar (a seventeen year old with Wilson’s disease) and others....They have all spent not less than 2 weeks at the hospital being examined by innumerable number of students. Shivu’s large dream-filled eyes and Shankar’s wobbling gait, toothless smile and ambition to become a D.C stay with me as reminders of my final year days. They remind me always how lucky and privileged I am and that the least I can do to alleviate their suffering is to understand them as human beings and not as interesting cases!

Vases's eight (pastels on paper)

   

Kamakhya-Temple for the female Organ of Generation

     

The Kamakhya temple is situated atop the Nilanchal hills, eight hundred meters above sea level, overlooking the mighty Brahmaputra. It is about eight kilometers west from the heart of the city of Guwahati in Assam.

Kamakhya is an important Tantric mother goddess closely identified with Kali and Maha Tripura Sundari, according to the Tantric texts (Kalikapurana Stotra, Yoginitantram) that are the basis for her worship. Her name means "renowned goddess of desire.’  As Kamakhya is associated with fertility, many childless couples also throng the temple every day. In Kalika Purana, Kamakhya is referred as the goddess who fulfills all desires, the bride of Lord Shiva and the benefactor of salvation. Kamakhya is one of the 51 Shakthi Peetas of the sub-continent where Durga is worshipped in many forms.             

Mythology:  Sati (Dakshayini) the daughter of King Daksha who had married Lord Shiva much against the wishes of her father went, uninvited, to the Yagna that Daksha was performing. She was ridiculed by her father for attending without an invitation. Daksha hurled abuses at her husband and humiliated them. Deeply hurt and angry, Sati threw herself in the blazing fire of the Yagna and died. Shiva was infuriated. Killing Daksha, he hoisted the dead body of Sati over his shoulder and began the Thandava- a dance of Annihilation.

            This shook the universe and frightened the Gods. Lord Vishnu, Brahma and Shani ventured to put an end to the blind fury of Shiva. With the help of his Sudarshana chakra, Vishnu reduced the body of Sati to pieces and Shiva, without his wife’s body, returned to meditation.

            However, Sati’s body parts, 51 in all, fell all over the earth and each of these places is revered as holy. The organ of generation (Yoni or the genital organs) of Sati fell over the Nilanchal Hills and today is known as Kamakhya Temple. (Assam was known previously as Kamrup Kamakhya desa)

Kama, the God of Love who was reduced to ashes when his arrow targeted Shiva, regained his original form (Kamarupa) after he fulfilled his promise and built a temple for Sati.

            Mythology also has it that Narakasura tried to build the path to the temple overnight with a desire to wed Kali but was killed when he failed to do so.

            According to history, the original temple was destroyed by invaders and had to be restructured.  King Naranarayan of Cooch-Behar in the late 17th century is credited with building the present temple. Representing the old Ahom sculpture, the vertex of the temple is oval shaped; like beehive-having 7 spires, 3 golden pitchers on blossoming lotus and upon that a golden trident. The temple exterior flaunts beautiful frescos of adorned gods & goddesses of Hindu Puranas.

********************

The Ganeshas

            On arrival atop the hillock, priest Ramani Kant Sharma escorted us to the temple premises. He took us to the Sauvagya Kunda where we washed our feet and hands, sharing space with a duck and a curious monkey. We placed offerings before a row of strangely sculpted Ganeshas, anointed with bright red sindhoor before ascending a cool flight of stairs to the temple precincts.

            The premise abounds with goats that wantonly amble, amidst generous droppings and pigeons that make homes in the eaves of the sculpted exterior and the air is a mix of strange scents, all familiar but individually unidentifiable! Sadhus who eye visitors with a hypnotic gaze pit the compound. A cache of bronze bells of various sizes (offered by devotees for special favors) hung alongside a wall

Prayer bells

Is she bearing down?

     A particularly interesting sculpture on the walls captured me but I had no one to explain its significance. For my obstetrician eyes, it appeared as a woman straining during labor!

          Inside the dimly lit temple, a tightly coiled serpentine queue of devotees mills silently towards the sanctum sanctorum. It is quite claustrophobic. The doors to the outside are silver coated and the interior has strange sculptures. Photography inside the temple is prohibited. So I had to quickly sketch an intriguing sculpture. It is a pregnant warrior, kneeling, with her head bent, a bow in her left hand and a quiver with few arrows.

The pregnant archer

            Just before we enter the sanctum sanctorum, is an adorned platform for the idol of Goddess Kamakhya made of an alloy of eight metals. Kamakhya is pictured as a young goddess, 16 years old, with twelve arms and six heads (five looking front and one atop of them) of varying colors, representing a powerful goddess who is omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent. She is ornately dressed, typically wearing a red sari, opulent jewelry and red flowers such as hibiscus. She holds in each of ten hands a lotus, trident, sword, bell, discus, bow, arrows, club or scepter, goad, and shield. Her remaining two hands hold a bowl, which is made of either gold or a skull. She is seated upon a lotus, which emerges from the navel of the corpse of Shiva, who in turn lies atop a lion. I cannot comprehend the mystical meaning in this (nor have I got it on the net, much as I scouted)

Kamakhya

Absently I offer rose petals to the draped and garlanded figurine for this is not the real object of worship. I am curious about the real object of worship.

            There are ten steep steps down into the Sanctum Sanctorum, which is lit by oil lamps only. It is beneath the largest temple dome as the walls here are circular, almost appearing to be closing in on us. It is very cool here. Going down the steps, I get a strange feeling of entering a gigantic, hushed womb!

At the actual site, I knelt, bending towards the ‘Devi Kunda’, which is the Mother’s Yoni (Vulva, regarded as the symbol of divine procreative energy). The Yoni exists as a large cleft in the circular rock, covered by water springing upward, constantly, from an underground spring. The soft gurgle sounds divine! I can see the spring clearly but the cleft is covered by a red cloth, flowers, and red sindur powder. I am directed to scoop a handful of water (which is supposed to be reddish due to high iron content. But the color is not visible in the darkness). “Piyo,” the priest says and I oblige a mouthful. The water tastes sweet and strangely, I find myself wishing it were Ambrosia! I run my wet hand on my hair.

            There is a similar neighboring wish-well attributed to Goddesses Lakshmi and Saraswathi. The ritual of par taking the sacred water is repeated.

            We come out of the temple and wade through a sweet cloud of dhoop sticks and Sharma suddenly assaults our olfaction. He takes us to the sacrificial place. The altar had been just cleansed with water for the smell of blood hung fresh in the air. “Three or four buffalos a month and almost the same number of goats daily,” Sharma says. Then the special Panchabali ritual involves the sacrifice of a buffalo, a goat, a sheep, a pigeon and a duck and is a common practice in the Kamakhya temple. All the wanton goats in the premises, the duck at the pond and the pigeons.... would all pass this station some day! I suddenly want to leave the place.

The goats go down here....

and the buffaloes here.....

            We walk down the steps along the alley of tiny shops which are by now open and displaying the trivia which are so characteristic of every such place of worship- marigold garlands, bright red gold laced chunnis, rudrakshas, photos of Kamakhya, idols of Durga, prasads, sweets and brass ware. Devotional songs set to contemporary Bollywood music blare over woeful sound systems.

            As we climb down the steps, brushing people climbing up to the temple, my right arm becomes moist. As I rub the generous mucus with my left palm, I realize that it is the saliva of a lamb that a devotee was carrying in his arms! I look back and lock eyes with it. The lamb is cute and black as it juts its wet spout beyond his cradling arms. Ten steps downward, I trip as it dawns that the lamb was being carried as a mid-afternoon offering to the goddess!

       

What's in a Language? - Labour Room

                As a third year medical student, I first witnessed a normal delivery, half hidden behind the partition of the delivery cubicle. It was probably around nine in the evening and the labor room was left in charge and in mercy of two midwives in the ever-busy Vani Vilas Hospital, Bangalore.

            My first reaction, as I watched the baby’s head crowning was- “I mustn’t get pregnant! (Correction: NO ONE must get pregnant!)  And most certainly, I must NEVER become an Obstetrician!” I broke my promise on both accounts, the former twice and the latter for a lifetime!

            The second reaction was- “My God! Labor is a cacophonous affair!” There was a constant cross talk...no. Talk would be too mild a word. Constant tug-o-war of words or constant cross-tonguing would be at least closest! The woman in labor wailing in varying decibels (often the higher end of spectrum); the nurses matching the pitch, trying cajoling-reasoning-chiding-scolding in no particular order. The women raise the bar, head bang-screech or at times, get up in an attempt to dart out of the labor room before the next contraction paralyzes them. The junior nurses and ayahs play run-and-catch; try scientific explaining (I wonder if any patient would ever understand labor physiology while laboring,- to understand which, I have struggled from student days to date!) And finally, when labor is far too progressed, the staff learns to ignore the woman’s irrelevant incoherence and focus on the emerging newborn. Perhaps the lusty cry of the baby is the only aurally pleasant sound in a functioning labor room!

            World over, irrespective of the languages spoken, the labor room lingua franca is the same. “I can’t” says the patient, “Yes you can,” retort the staff! However, 80% of the laboring woman’s in-labor vocabulary is devoid of any meaning. The intonations from those vocal cords are often of the primitive type and much less of any words or sensible sentences. It is only the supporting staff that speaks in decipherable language. Therefore, the labor cot itself is a-linguistic!

            Over years, it dawned on me that pain is universally similar and hence, like other human emotions, has no language. However the manifesting intonations vary. ‘Ayya-yyooo!’ down south, “Hai, Hai” up north; both meaning “I can’t bear.” At times also communicated as loud hisses or muffled moans through tightly pursed lips, labor pain redefines the boundaries of a language!

            Then there are others who call out to all their relatives-mother, father, the family deities and of course to the sister, ayah or doctor. I have wondered why women do not call out to their husbands more often and in my greenhorn days was admonished with a cold stare and a snort when I suggested to a laboring woman that she call out to her husband instead of her neighbor! Of course, I can never forget the fair, frail woman who was admitted to the labor room of Lady Hardinge Medical College, New Delhi, one summer evening. She surprised all of us when she called out ‘Jeeja-ji, jeeja-ji, jeeja-ji....’ throughout her labor!

            Yet another unforgettable patient was from the labor room (cot No.2) in St. Martha’s Hospital, Bangalore. She was the only one laboring that evening and surprisingly the labor room was uncomfortably quiet. As labor pangs wracked her, she only squirmed, twisted and turned, never once uttering a single word! “She is hearing and speech challenged,” said the midwife on duty. On looking at her closely, I could recognize and relate, from having attended to so many patients in labor, to all the unsaid words, suffering and pain she was going through in labor. Her facial expressions and animal whimpers spoke volumes and much louder than those women who could speak ever had! Mute in pain! Was this how animals went through labor? Helpless on two accounts-labor pain and inability to vent it out!

            Mercifully, Dr. Asha, who was the consultant on call that evening, had a working knowledge of the sign language and it was indeed a relief that there was someone from our side who understood the poor woman in pain! That night, after delivering her, in an uncharacteristically silent labor room, I conclude it was better off for my psyche to have a room full of throaty women than a vocally challenged one! I cannot bear to recall that helpless, beseeching look in her tear-laden eyes every few minutes. It made me acknowledge another reason why we must remain indebted for the gift of language (any language). I realized that we need a language-it matters not which-in times of pain...for happiness can hold on its own quite well without a language!

            Thus, did I learn to accept the unique lingual diatribe that reigns in any labor room-North or South, Public or Corporate Hospital.  The labor room is the most unique lingual predicament where language, but not its meaning must be encouraged.(No teacher of Linguistics would approve of that!) Letting the woman vent out and express her anguish while, the meanings, however explicit, under labor room atmosphere are best ignored. Because most patients say the most nasty things about most people- beginning from their husbands and rounding off with vocal and physical abuse of the attending doctor! Often complain that the staff is torturing her, not letting her go out but making her go through labor and even killing her, forcing her to bear down! Meanings must and are always discounted here! And surely enough, none of us bears any grudge about those mouth-fulls or the kicks and pinches or punches that we receive while delivering. And after laboring. alongside her, we feel worthwhile and ready for the next patient, as this one, being wheeled out of labor room says, “Thank you all so much. Indeed words fail me!”

Would love to deliver her....

            

What's in a language?...Victoria Hospital, Bangalore

Victoria Hospital

No linguistic academy can ever surpass the success that Victoria Hospital, Bangalore boasts of. It merits immense credit for evolving even the dullest medicos into multilingual civilians. Situated strategically in the densest populated, secular part of the city-Kalasipalyam- this healing home effortlessly betters the records of any self-help guide that claims complete mastery over an Indian language in thirty days. Amusingly though, the initiated are blissfully unaware of the linguistic mastery that has been bequeathed on them until they encounter the next medical emergency. (Probably because they are more preoccupied with the academics of surgery, Medicine or O&G than with the nuances of learning a language). And then, in one busy OPD or in a dinghy in-patient room, they are astounded as the colloquial lingua franca rolls out on and out of their flabbergasted tongues, in utmost fluency. Their unbelieving ears notwithstanding, they silently marvel at the ease with which they are able to answer back in the same dialect or language of the sick patient!

            I was first initiated into concurrent language classes in the hallow precincts of the surgical outpatient department in Victoria Hospital. Universally, medical students are taught that medical history taking is an art. But in India, especially in the culture cauldron of Bangalore, it begs to be an obligatory craft too! From the moment we set our eyes on the patient! What probable language suits this face? I’m sorry if I sound regionalistic but it is really what we start off thinking. Imagine a very sick patient in the emergency and you want to elicit some vital history. Strapped for precious minutes, we can ill afford to try out one after another language. We simply have to zero-in on the most possible language this patient can speak and begin conversing and examining simultaneously!

            The knack of zeroing in on the probable language and region from which the patient hailed was then a necessary prerequisite, being as important as the examination and diagnosis of the patient’s ailment! So, as I learnt history taking, I began training as a regional language interpreter too! Learning the methods of examination of a wound and a swelling, I perfected my first language lesson. I could now ask, “What is your name?” in five different languages! (Nimma hesarenu?-Kannada; “Nee pereme?”- Telugu; “Yenna peru?”-Tamil; “ Naam kya hai?”-Hindi and “Paerendha?”-Malayalam.)

            And so it progressed. With lessons on examination of the abdomen, my penta-lingual vocabulary added word meanings of pain abdomen , loose-motions, hard stools, vomitus and urine along with their frequency, colour, consistency or any other relevant sensory observations. However, I must admit I had difficulty with adjectives. I circumvented this by stringing in a few words in place of one-words! Example: If I did not know the correct word for colicky pain, I would either mime-opening and closing my fist rhythmically till the patient understood or said-‘Pain goes-comes, goes-comes!’...

In the Medicine wards, bedside clinics on asthma imparted regional equivalents of sputum, cough, chest pain and wheezing, while alongside examination of thyroid I learnt words for spit, swallow, bend, raise, blink-wink, sleep and so on. Most naturally, I also learnt many more words that no self-help book publisher would ever dream of putting in print-eg. defecating, micturating and other physiological processes of the human body.

By the end of the month, my knowledge of the southern languages-the dialects, accents and colloquial words stunned my non-medical friends and earned the admonitions of my elders (for the apparently un-lady like words and accents I had imbibed!). Also, my verbose tongue had probably instilled a fear in them that I would turn traitor to my mother tongue or worse still, be a case of delayed manifestation of identity crisis! But for me, it was a survival policy. How else does one establish any kind of contact with a patient in pain without being able to ask him basic questions? How do you counsel a young couple about contraception without being able to tell them how to- and what to- in the language they understand? What dietary advice for the infant do you give a mother who cannot understand your tongue? The surest path to a patient’s satisfaction and eventually in future practice, to their purse, is certainly, through words and language-his/her language-dialects, accents, profanities and all!

However cumulative, my medical vocabulary left me in a strange predicament. As easily as I could converse in their tongues within the confines of the wards and medical symptoms, I was an utter failure when it came to making even ordinary, cursory conversations outside the hospital. I did not know common place words like ‘Hello’ or ‘Thank you’ or ‘Sorry’ or ‘What did you have for breakfast?’ in their tongue! Learning the ‘ordinary’ vocabulary was not really a necessity for any medical student and the tight academic schedules precluded any attempts at it.

 I thought I was ripe enough to bring out a book-“Words that Learn-a-language-by-yourself would never print”! Thus selectively learned in linguistics, I was unsure if it merited brickbats or bouquets for me in future....

Coming up next: What’s in a language?...Labour ward!

Gender's edge

“Maa? Did I come from your stomach?”

“Yes, Malli.”

“How?”

“By God’s grace… Stop asking silly questions and let me cook.”

“Is that my favorite curry you are cooking? Do you think he will spare me some if I’m a good girl today?”

“You know papa likes it too.”

“Where did he come from, ma? His mother’s stomach?” She was back at her topic of the hour.

“Hmm.” Shanti knew that at such times, uttering one extra word would trigger a fresh set of bothersome rapid fires. 

“Did I come out from …here?” Malli lifted her frock and pointed to her belly button.

“Yes!” said Shanti, suddenly thankful for the human navel. But for it, she would have been at a total loss of ideas now.

“Did I hurt you while coming out, Maa?” Malli caressed her mother’s cheek with soft hands before planting a wet kiss.

“No darling. You could never hurt me.” Shanti said with eyes brimming.

“You are lying. I know…it hurts a lot. It makes you scream and writhe and clutch the bed-sheets!”

“Malli…that’s adult business. You shouldn’t be talking all this. Who have you been discussing this with?” Shanti was alarmed. Malli had friends of all ages in the neighborhood.

“No one. They showed it in the filim on TV yesterday evening! So… did you cry too, maa?”

“A little, yes.”

“Maa? Can boys have babies?”

“No.” Not an extra syllable, Shanti reminded herself.

“So he can’t be hurted…Still, why does he hate us?”

“What?”

“If the baby comes from your stomach hurted only you, why does papa not want you to have another baby?”

“How do you know this?” Shanti was aghast that Malli was privy to information beyond her age or understanding.

“I pretended to be asleep when you both were arguing… Maa, you are sad no?... There won’t be a baby, after all?” Malli asked running her little palms over her mother’s flat abdomen which had sported a gentle bump only last week.

“Yes. Just only you, princess.” Shanti hugged her daughter to hide her flowing eyes.

“Does papa hate me too?”

“No. Why should he? He loves you.”

“You’re lying ma - to protect him. I heard him say he doesn’t want a girl again. He even said he’d leave us both if you didn’t agree. He hates girls, I know!….Maa? Was she pretty too?”

“Who?”

“My sister…whom you left back in the hospital last week.”  Shanti nodded.

“Will I meet her some day when I grow up, ma? Like they show in filims…long lost brothers coming together? Maa, what is her birth mark by which I can recognize her?”

She had no birthmarks..She was marked for being a girl. Shanti cursed herself for being an accomplice, albeit unwilling, to the heinous process. She wondered how long it would be before Malli would return, demanding -‘Maa, what is abortion?’

“Maa, I have an idea! If I stopped wearing frocks and switched to pants and shorts; had a short hair cut-I would look like a boy! Then perhaps papa would love me?”

Shanti tightened her embrace.

“No need to do that. I love you as you are. You can keep your long hair and pretty frocks!”

“Maa, is there anything girls can’t do that boys can?” Shanti was unsure what she was expected to say.

“No….I can’t think of anything!” Malli jumped off her mother’s lap squealing in victory.

“Oofy! Ooofy! Mummy doesn’t know this!” she cried “Maa, they can pee standing, but we can’t!” giggling, she ran away!

Woe-man!

            “Saar, may I come in?” When our first division clerk, Shri. Srirangaraju steps into my room with the drawl on sir, he signals that he is bringing along trouble with him. And when he stands at the door instead of coming to my desk, I know that he is expecting fireworks from me in return.

            “Yeah? What’s it?” I am at my curtest best, determined to make it more difficult for him.

            “8^th March-Women’s Day, saar” he croaks. Oh no! Not so quickly! There must be a way out….

            ‘Mmm….so?” I pretend absolute incomprehension.

            “Office  celebrations……” He glanced down at the desk the same time as I groped about it. All the hurl-able objects had mysteriously disappeared and I was left clenching my fists instead. And in the next magical moment my eyes settled on the calendar and a huge sense of relief washed over me translating into a broad grin.

            “Why Mr.Rangu, there won’t be any office celebrations this year. March 8^th 2009 is a Sunday,” I cried jubilantly. Visions of the grand celebrations of 2007’s women’s day were indelibly etched on my ego-stripped psyche. The women had a whole day off at the office and got paid for it! That left all the men to do double the work in half the time. (Twice the number of females than males in our office) Adding insult to injury was asking the men to be extra polite, wish and present flowers to their female colleagues. I had almost wept myself to sleep that night. My male ego too rued the conspicuous absence of a single Men’s day in all of 365 days! Couldn’t it at least have been 29^th February?

            Anyway this year, a blessed Sunday had indeed saved me of further heartburn and humiliation.

            ‘Saar…” When he drawled with his hand on the door knob, ready to dash out, he meant he expected me at his throat. He knew I hated this particular celebration.

            “The Women’s lungi company had a clause….” I always enjoyed his blatant mispronunciation of lingerie. Woman’s Lungi sounded chauvinistically delightful! “…As our eshteemed cushtomers, they esspect a mandatory celebrations of women’s day…” The hawk eyed idiot! He sure doesn’t miss minor clauses like that!

            “But it is Sunday, man. We are ALL not working!”

            “Saar…” he had opened the door just a little as I began seriously inspecting my bare hands, wondering how they would feel around his bullous throat. “ The women want to pre-pone the celebrations!” he said.

            ‘What? This is ridiculous! And besides, 7^th is Saturday and it is everyone’s weekly off too,”

            “Saar….” He had begun to sweat but did not bother to wipe it off his neck fearing it could trigger a visual innuendo for me. “The girls want to celebrate it on 6^th, Friday!”

            “But that’s unfair!” It was my turn to croak, visualizing all the work the girls would leave this time. They were extremely studious in bettering their records yearly and this year they would surely keep several files pending from Monday itself! He was half out of the door sticking only a sweating, bald face when I suddenly jumped towards him.

            ‘No…No....No…” I stressed my words with a prompt action of firmly keeping my hands behind me. He then stepped in. “Rangu, can’t we cook up something on paper for the companies?” I whispered conspiratorially.

            “Cooking sir? The girls won’t like it. They keep doing it at home daily.” The imbecile! “And the ‘Phit and Preeti’ bosses, they ask for a written report from our women employees!” I had forgotten that. So, the celebrations stayed. So did my hands behind my back.  Suddenly I remembered having had generous helpings of garlic pickles for lunch and decided to try a never-once-before-one on this harbinger of irritation.

            “OK. Sssso whhhhaaat khhhaaaan we do fohh thhhhem?” Unleashing a deliberate volley of successive hisses, I punished him, as he squirmed and shrank against the wall at the garlic-gust.

            “Vegetarian lunch on 6^th, Friday…sir.”

            “Okhhhayy! Inform the canteen to bring in the food here. Okhhhay?” I retraced my steps for the fear he would faint of over-inhalation and hypoxia.

            “Saar….” It was a full minute before he came back to his senses, but normal smells would still take an hour. “They will want something better than the routine canteen food. How about from the three star restaurant across the road?” Which side did he really belong to? Outwardly he looked like a man, but…he was batting for them! He presumed my silence for consent.

            “Mr.Rangu, make it a quick lunch. It mustn’t last for over an hour.”

            “Saaaaaar…..” I envied the emperors of yore who beheaded the messengers who brought them unpleasant news. “The women plan to come in at lunch time and want to attend a Khadi exhibition later saaaaar….” It appeared the blueprint was already in circulation and only needed my cursory signature. The women knew how to treat themselves, indeed!

            “OK, go ahead.” I simpered, lowering a sagging shouldered frame on to my Manager’s chair.

            “Sir!” The crisp address signaled he was about to unleash a gossip. ‘Sir! 8^th, Sunday! Women’s Day celebrations for your Madam at home sir?!” With this he was gone with a chuckle.

            

Gentsh or ladiesh?

Sakamma’s tumultuous sojourn from her village had tempered her hoarsening screams to ominous silence and wild-eyed terror. Passed on from the traditional birth attendant….to village health-worker…to primary health centre…she now lay beneath the menacing lights of the hospital’s operating theatre.

“She needs an emergency operation.” That admission had invited commotion and belligerent voices from her kin who had brought her.

“Dakter saar! Don’t do this to us poor people!  We have no money for aaplesan. Can’t you do something cheaper?”

“Aaplesan-Uh?!! …No one ever had that in our family. Her mother, mother-in-law, aunts had over five to seven children each…all delivered easily, when on their way out for open air defecation!”

“They told us she needs care in big hospital. But aaplesan?! Mercy, God!”

 “She has been laboring for three days! I’m sorry we have no options now. The money part-I am sure the hospital will do something about it.” Were there a possible next stop, they surely would have scooted, in the hope of avoiding a surgery. Consent still pending, the bargaining continued.

“Can she bear a child again, later?” Eternal brave hearts, to be thinking about the next pregnancy when this one was battling a critical phase.

“Of course.” I was hoping for that outcome too, if the intervention turned out to be timely.

“Can she do all household chores?”  

“Yes.”

“Outside work also? In fields or as coolie? Lift weights?”

“After several weeks, yes.”

“Ok, dakter. Do aaplesan.” A grudging consent.

“She needs at least four bottles blood.” They were back in huddle, darting suspicious glances at me as if I was a human-organ racketeer. The older ones returned as others sauntered away, hoping to be out of my line of vision. They knew I would corner at least a couple of them to donate blood.

“Why she needs bled dakter? Had she really lacked it, how could she have grown a baby?” The skepticism returned.

“Listen. Sakamma is battling for life and she needs blood for the surgery.” My gaze settled on her husband. “You….You could donate a pint.” I said, incurring their wrath instantly.

“No, he will not!”

“Look at her! She asks for his bled!”

“Oh poor son! He toils in fields. How can he spare bled?” A human fence materialized around the robust fellow, daring me.

“Why not?  Blood gets replenished.”

 “Dakter, if I give bled…if I share my bled with her…won’t my wife become my sister?” The denial made its indelible mark.

“Ok.” I decided to request blood from the emergency blood bank with an undertaking to motivate some other voluntary donors. “Sister, get the consent forms please.” Left thumbprints were taken at the bottom of the legal-jargon-laden consent sheet. It would be an insult to their illiteracy if I were to ask them to read it. ‘Husband’, ‘Mother-in-law’ the nurse wrote beneath each imprint, with a cross mark preceding. Sakamma’s thumb was already on it.

We pulled no stops on heroics that night. Tense hours later, Sakamma was wheeled out of OR-2, her uterus saved and her long dead baby finally separated from its suffering host.

“Madammu, can we take her home in the morning? It’s harvest time now….”

“No.”

“The baby?” It was the first time anyone had mentioned the wretched thing since the drama began.

“Yes?”

“Yesterday they had told us that the baby was dead. Could you do something about it?”

“No. The baby remains dead. We could save the mother.”

“Dakter! The baby…was it gentsh or ladiesh?”

“I didn’t notice,” I lied.

 It’s a routine in my country- Life matters to some but living as males matters to most.