Shopping to Overcome Depression

(13 Mar ’10)

            I’m amongst the few people I know who do crisis-oriented shopping. Chappal-strap breaks, I take a taxi to the nearest footwear shop and buy a pair that fits. I’ve improved a bit. I buy a couple of pairs that fit, so it saves me shopping time when the next one breaks. I dislike shopping because it means I have to go in jostling crowds and noise. With the malls begin airconditioned and all that, one would expect shopping to be a good experience. They’re crowded, too. Besides, malls don’t keep the kind of footwear I wear. They want to force me to change my taste. No freedom of choice, me no go.

            In spite of not being a compulsive buyer, or a curio collector, in spite of recycling so many presents gifted to me with fond affection for Many Happy Returns or Congratulations, my house seems to fill up with things. Son, husband, daughter-in-law are collectors (respectively) of gadgets, tools and clothes and knick-knacks. There are things one can’t do anything with, for they have sentimental value.

            I have books and magazines I intend to read, clothes that are sitting on shelves waiting for an occasion to be worn at. Then there are pillows, sheets and cutlery waiting for guests to come and stay with us. There are expensive hand-me-downs which have been inherited from parents and in-laws. I use them. But everyone I know buys ‘the latest’ tools which do the same jobs. Ok, call me kanjoos, but I confess I’m shopping challenged and perfectly happy to use the same doorknobs, chairs, plates, pressure-cookers, scissors, whatever, as long they’re functioning well and don’t look terribly ugly. At the same time, am no fan of antiques. Just because a piece is old doesn’t mean it’s valuable, according to me.

            Recently I went to Panchgani (lovely place and the conference on Ethics and Values in Healthcare is something I will write about in another piece, another time). All my companions were interested in visiting the market to buy strawberry crush, sitaphul crush and some blue (rather delicious may I say) liquid made from sweet limes. Since I preferred to see the plateau and hike around for a bit, some kind souls bought and lugged the bottles for me. If at all I don’t mind shopping, it’s for food and drink. But I can’t think of buying gold from Dubai (one reason: no money) or glass from Poland (second reason: no money) or diamonds from Amsterdam (third reason: ok, you’ve guessed it.).

            My take on shopping is like this: if I own more clothes than closet space, all the chairs and tables in my house will be occupied. If I own curios, I’ll spend more time in dusting and cursing than writing and reading (horrors, what a nightmare). If I buy shampoos, jewelry, ‘novelty items’ that I don’t need, I would promptly give them away… what a waste of good money. So why buy?

            Bright and better qualified colleagues tell me the economy of a country depends on the consumer. So if honest-working, law-abiding, sincere tax-payers like me are sending India to her doom, mea culpa. 

            I know people who travel many kilometers to Consumer Shoppe or Handicraft Expos or whatever happens at Don-Bosco or Kala Academy grounds, laden with big bags, money, grandchildren, to ‘take a look’. At what? Latest masalas? Exotic underwear? Beyond me.

            Now people are doing so much research on shopping (buying was the old word), and selling (it’s called ‘retailing’ in case you weren’t aware). Earlier, people kept up with the Pintos and Pais. Now, no one knows whose keeping with whom, when, why and whether. Everyone’s out with debiting their credit cards to make themselves feel good. Doctors’ orders: I read so myself in this morning’s paper, that shopping is good for depression. Tricky use of the word good. Does it mean it nourishes depression or that it’s an antidote? I gathered from the article that the latter is true. So would psychiatrists get out of business? Or would they shake hands and sign contracts with the big mall owners to count foot-falls?

Once it comes to health… we could have you know, health-saloons where you could buy some tests like, you know, fasting blood sugar and creatine or measure your, you know, I mean … blood-pressure or Bone Marrow Density. Once the doctor and the media say shopping ‘cures’ stress, who’m I to argue with that?

The higher the bill, the lower your cholesterol or adrenalin or endomorphins, antigens.. something…. whatever it is that will make you not-depressed. Happy aamdani athannee kharcha rupaiyya.

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Grow Your Own Heart.

(28 Feb ’10)

            After anti-biotics, this is THE breakthrough in medical science. In the past so many years, all Nobel Prizes for medicine have gone to those who have done research in cytology or cell-related studies.

You’ve read or heard about stem cells, those magical things from which you can grow in a glass jar, a living replica of yourself, more than a twin (which has its own set of genes), a clone (which has your exact combination). I attended an ‘open forum’ arranged by the Indian Council for Medical Research in which top notch scientists explained what all this was about.

It’s still experimental, so if anyone promises to cure you yet of any disease using stem cells, don’t believe it hundred percent. Yes, those who are desperate, paralyzed due to injury or with a failed organ or end stage dreaded disease are going to try anything at all. But it’s good to be informed, nevertheless, for at present, it is hype versus hope. What is it all about?

The female ‘egg’ or ova is potentially able to become any tissue, organ, or even a full person. It’s a single cell. The moment it gets fertilized and starts to multiply, there are several such cells which can potentially become any tissue, organ, etc. These cells keep multiplying rapidly and at different stages are known by strange names like blastula, gastrula and, much later, foetus. Sometime during these stages, the cells become ‘specialized’. Their future functions are defined. Either they will become skin and bone (ectoderm) or nerves, brain, muscle (mesoderm) or stomach, liver, etc (endoderm). Once their roles are known, they have a fixed life cycle, they will fulfill their duties and die, to be replaced by others. So if one has to grow cells to do what we want, we have to catch ‘em ‘young’. That is, at a stage when they are still not ‘specialized’ or ‘defined’.

As of now, we can’t make these cells in factories, we can only ‘harvest’ them from placenta, embryos, women. Take out the nucleus from a stem cell, put in one from a patient’s kidney or heart-muscle, and voila, you can place that cell inside the patient and it’ll grow into that particular organ. Magic? Yes, but it’s more complicated than it sounds.

There are many parents who want to store/freeze their children’s placenta cells so that at a future date they may be useful in the treatment of disease. It’s an expensive proposition, but those who have Crohn’s disease or are on dialysis would do anything to spare their offspring the agony. (There are parents who have stored ‘spare’ embryos, too). We need to think: for how long can/will these cells (or embryos) stay ‘live’ and, if they are thawed after a couple of years, how effective will their use be? If they are not used at all, these ‘banks’ will overflow: how then will they be destroyed? Can they be destroyed without the consent of those whom they belonged to? So many ethical questions arise.

If someone offers ‘treatment’ by stem cell use (and presently other than bone-marrow transplants it isn’t the standard of care in anything else), please ASK a zillion questions. What cells are being used? Is the treatment investigational? Is the person or institution licenced? How many people were ‘treated’ thus before you and what was the response? Is anyone willing to give in writing the risks, specially the long term ones? What are the costs and what do the costs include? Remember, a single success story told to you, or even four or eleven such aren’t proof. Of safety or of cure. 

There are already companies which are selling processed stem cells (like one would sell drugs or any medicinal products) for skin and some other ailments. They are useful for bad burn cases, for example, or patients who have got paralyzed because of a damaged spinal cord. Stem cell therapy will benefit organ-failure patients, those with ulcerative colitis, Alzheimer’s disease, diabetes, etc.

There are several legal, ethical, religious issues yet to be debated. In-vitro fertilization or IVF is already helping so many couples to have children. It’s been around for years, and is still being debated. In a country like India, we have to be very careful about vulnerable patients: the poor, women, children, prisoners, the very old. They should not be exploited for research in the name of science or progress. Voluntary consent, voluntary informed consent is very important before anyone participates in any research activity.

I appreciate the ICMR’s initiative to have public consultations (like the one I attended) in four regions of the country. It has given rise to many questions in my mind. I’m spreading the word so that it can set off the thinking, questioning process in others, too.

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Something About Serials.

(14 Feb ‘10)

            I’ve never been a television buff. Nothing to do with quality of programs, it’s just that whenever I see moving images on a flickering screen, I fall asleep. Perhaps in the medical lexicon there’s a term for this condition. Maybe rare, because there is a very large majority that doesn’t suffer from this affliction. I say affliction because I suffer: imagine me sitting in a ‘hall’ in someone’s flat where the tv is on. Everyone’s either watching the news or a bit of soap, and me… I’m fighting drooping eyelids. I’m neither bored nor tired. Just full of sleep. No one understands and certainly no one listens to my explanations.

             Over the years, thanks to a husband who loves the news, I got used to seeing who’s being killed, arrested, raped, murdered, abused, taped, bombed, bribed in different parts of the country. Occasionally, also saw awards, trophies, prizes to filmstars, sportspersons, filmstars, filmstars again and even more filmstars.

             I seem to be amongst the very, very few amongst those I know who is a fan of Doordarshan. I actually get to see the status of crops, hear some real music, listen to scientists, writers speak in an hurried way by anchors who aren’t out to bully or badger the invitees. Sure, the technology and appearance is not as sophisticated, but it makes up in content quite often. When I tune in to We The People, I wonder why the audience is always in tune with Barkha Dutt. I’ve never seen a majority voting for something she doesn’t agree with. Intentional? Definitely. Well chosen friends’ friends’ friends, no doubt. Ok, one doubt: maybe they’re paid. Cynical? Yes, many of the channels have made me so.

            Of the so many channels my remote controls, I see four or five. Watching television is a recent activity in my life. Activity or passivity… whatever. I’m into Marathi soaps these days. I like the titles and the advertisements. About the former, my favourites are Mazha Kunku, Kulvadhu, Jis Desh Mein Nikla Chand (hope I’ve got this right, it’s such a forgettable line), and then there are the Bahoo series. It’s a wonder no one’s started a spelling war on that word: Bahu, Bbahu, Bbahoo, Bahhu, Bahhoo, etc. It’s something to do with numbers and luck, I’m told, the number of alphabets and which ones, in a name. I’ve been trying it out with my name: Sshila, Ssheela, Shheela, Sheellaa. I use a spelling a day, no way Lady Luck is getting attracted. Perhaps I should change it completely. To something from the other side of the planet: Zoe, Zzorra, Cipi, Lie, … Americans are so innovative; we have boring names like Subbulakshmivedashankaradharini-durga which these days gets shortened to the most interesting syllable: Bul. I believe that the advent of western ads has changed more habits than just changing of names.

              I’ve seen on staid Marathi soaps that Dad and Mom is what the young call their parents, especially if they’re going astray. Nothing’s really changed from the Hindi fillums of the ‘sixties and now. The good daughters wear salwar kameezes and the good sons shave every day. The villains have a stubble (ok, some heroes sport them, too, but shave at some time in the film or serial, the villains never do), the bad girls wear stilettos and walk silly.

              What I really like about the serials I’ve begun to watch with some regularity is the way they don’t let you forget what you’ve seen before. In case you’ve missed something, you can catch up. If you’ve seen it before, you’re likely to remember it for the rest of your life. I believe academicians can learn much from these techniques. Show the same shot, the same dialogue, shove it down the throat until it’s absorbed at cellular level. If I can remember why someone in a pathetic crumpled sari is weeping and bemoaning her fate without skipping a word or syllable, I can’t see why I won’t be able to remember formulae and tables if they were/are shown as frequently.

                Indeed, I’ve got the idea which will make my fortune. I’m going to tie up with a financer and start up homework serials: Who’s Afraid Of Teacher Math. What Akbar And Humayun Really Thought Of Indira Gandhi, Mayawati Bhi Kabhi MP Thi, How English Now Konkani (titles that don’t make sense are super hits, they say), When Raindrops Become Dam Water, Why Raindrops Can’t Become Damn Water, Corn Banega Kadipatta, etc.

                You remember those UGC programs? They were boring. They had boring names, boring themes. We need to get modern, update our methods, study these superhit soaps to see how we can make school-n-college lessons popular.

                If only I could stay awake long enough to figure them out.

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Family Owned Concerns

            I’ve mostly worked for family owned businesses. Other than some small time contract stuff I did for Doordarshan and later for the UGC programs, and perhaps a year-long stint as a teacher in a primary school, I should say ‘always’.

In Delhi, Network Pictorial was owned by a Marwari trader who’d invested in one of the best printing presses in India. This was the in-flight magazine of the erstwhile Vayudoot. When the editor quit and changed jobs, she took her team along with her, self included. Delhi Recorder was owned by a huge, moneyed sardar who lived in a rented Oberoi suite for years or months together. Our office in Connaught Place was posh and well located. When we shifted to the suburban Nehru Place, that place too was well done up. But most of the time there was little to do, the money wasn’t good, one never knew when the place would shut down, but when one is desperate for a job, one sticks. Many stuck. We were all qualified professionals, or so we thought. Actually, we were slaves. I remember a retired Brigadier who was employed to take charge of administration was told (very rudely) to fix a door handle. The tone was unbearably I’m-the-master-you’re-the-nobody. I’ve no idea where the money came from to run the outfit. Arms deals, maybe. No one found out. Most quit well before curiosity got better of us. Perhaps that’s why some of my ex-colleagues are alive today. Not that I’m in touch with them.

The next job I landed was at a Malayali-family owned school in Jodhpur. Imagine Malyalis in Jodhpur. Actually imagine Malayalis anywhere. Not difficult, for like Goans, Malyalis are found all over the place. That was probably the only family-owned concern where there was zero interference in the functioning. Reason? The entire family worked in the same institution. Their children, nephews, nieces, every single member was involved in it. Either teaching or learning, in admin, accounts, in the library…. And all were qualified for what they did or were qualifying to do so.  Still, systems had to evolve and weren’t perfect.

In Goa, I worked in a five-star hotel owned by one of the mine-owning families.  No matter how many fancy diplomas the managers and directors had, the boss was an offspring who’d barely scraped through school, maybe college, no one was quite certain. Whims reigned, emotions ruled, and the hotel ran thanks to that wonderful Indian commodity: the loyal worker. Most took pride in what long hours they worked and for how little. Only when other big hotel chains stepped into Goa and outsiders flocked in did some leave. Even then, they sort of slunk away, feeling guilty at having ‘let down’ their ‘maay-baaps’. Of all the places I’ve worked in, this one was the most ‘money-minded’. I remember how awful the ‘conference guests’ here were. No class, less money, and still we bent over doing that horrible ‘aarti-tikka’ to welcome them. The Taj, the Leela __ no other five-star hotel would touch them with a barge-pole. We didn’t mind them gargling in our pool, ogling at our female foreign guests. We were just interested in the rupees. Am glad I left when I did.

In Mumbai, my first job was with a private coaching class. The classes were held in dingy flats, crowded with every inch of bench space squeezing in human flesh. There were (are) several branches all over Mumbai and parts of Maharashtra run by the same family. Honestly, though, I must admit, they were very well run. Everything was on the dot, transparent and ethical. That was the first time I felt that privatized education was a good idea. Autonomy would/could ensure merit. Reputation is earned. It is no wonder this particular class is doing well in such a competitive environment. Quality matters.

Then I moved on. One more job, one more industry, one more episode in my life. This time I joined a well-known hospital. Everything here smacked of professionalism. Ethics were high, still are. Mumbai has taught me one thing: work is worship here. It’s service before self always. Even the chors and cheats take pride in what they do. But, a family owned concern has certain traits. The person at the head has to be a family member, whether or not s/he knows what’s happening or supposed to happen. Over a period of time, they pick up the ropes and can run the business, but … only time can tell how. Reliance, Tatas, Birlas, Khaitans, all have learnt one thing: nothing like education to beat the professionals at their own game.

A friend once told me: agar naukri hi karni hai, toh government ki honi chaahiye. Nahi to apna business karo. Wise words.

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Suicides in Mumbai.

(Jan ’10)

            Today a woman in her forties was brought in dead into the hospital. Upper middle class, she’d hanged herself in her locked bedroom, found by her fifteen-year-old daughter. Traumatic. Mostly, this sort of an ‘arrival’ into Casualty arouses morbid curiosity. But this time, there was a pukka debate, for in the last week or longer, there has been at least one suicide per day, and none of them dowry deaths. Teenagers, mostly, but other non-conforming ones also.

            One eleven-year-old female hanged herself because her parents said ‘no dance class for you, you have to study’. She’d appeared on one of the telly programs and had done well, maybe won a prize or two, and had got hooked on to that dream. So some blamed the television programs. Some blamed the parents for putting too much pressure on the child. Others took the easy way out: ‘it’s the Kaliyug’, bad things are bound to happen. One paper asked “Is Mumbai sick?” No one mentioned, at least in the papers, that our kids are just not used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. One of my colleagues told me that she gives her college going kids flavoured potato wafers in their tiffins, because they won’t listen to her. They’d always had chips, whether or not they were good for their health, and now it’s too late to mend their ways. Small matter, but these are the things that eventually matter because they grow into bigger messes.

            A fourteen-year-old boy killed himself in his school toilet. I personally believe that when such incidents get a lot of media attention, it also arouses curiosity and gives ideas to those who otherwise may not have ventured into this unknown territory.

                        I remember, a few years ago, I’d had a chat with a girl of the same age who’d jumped out of her school corridor and survived. She said she did it impulsively, ‘just to know what it felt like’. Let psychiatrists answer that one. One of my school-mates had done it to ‘teach her husband a lesson’. Hers was a regretful, horribly painful end, with her skin peeled off, her flesh all infected, her throat parched, hungry for air, with her mind intact and screaming for help, mercy, life. Too late.

            The young don’t know how permanent it is. An acquaintance’s daughter, bright and studying for her tenth boards, told her pal next door to phone her at a given time and keep it going till she answered. The phone rang and rang. The door was locked from the inside. The mother and sister ran out and saw through the window: the girl was hanging, dead. This had nothing to do with marks, nothing to do with being a dysfunctional family, no way one could really blame the parents, so then what? A thirteen-year-old in our neighbourhood died whilst trying out a way of getting a ‘high’ by depriving himself of oxygen. In the tiny Mumbai flat, his mother was in the kitchen and his grandmother had just left the room for a couple of minutes. A quick experiment with a bit of rope and he was gone. And that was well before the 3 Idiots was conceived.

            One newspaper came out with an article on successful people who were school or college dropouts: Sachin T, Albert E… but all dropouts aren’t prodigies. I remember thinking this after ‘tare jameen par’, that all persons with learning disabilities aren’t necessarily blessed with great talents. And all those who are doing badly in exams don’t necessarily have a label “dyslexic” or something else. We have to be objective, careful… else the (false?) aspirations lead to suicides.

            Desperate young men in trouble with money toss themselves off high floors, women not knowing how to get out of romantic tangles throw themselves before trains, old people who feel neglected and lonely after their spouses are gone swallow lethal doses of pills, and these teenagers who’ve barely moved out of childhood … we get to know only the successful ones. Who knows how many attempts have gone unnoticed? Who’d want to admit to a desire to kill oneself? Just as divorce or homosexuality or even a handicapped member of the family was once a dirty secret, it’s now suicide’s turn to come out of the closet. Just as Alcoholics Anonymous encourages its members to get on track by first publicly acknowledging that they have a problem, so also those connected directly (“I tried” or “I wished to try”) or indirectly (“Someone in my family…”) need to open up if we are to accept it as a problem and tackle it with sensitivity.

                        Who knows who’ll be caught unawares next.

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