Volunteers

(15 jun ’08)

            At least once a week I get a call from a retired man or a housewife with time on her hands, requesting to do social work. I know what they mean is voluntary work.

            Why me? Because I work in a hospital. I try to explain to them that we have enough staff thank you, but sometimes, yes, there’s a shortage of wardboys. Would they help out then? Cleaning bedpans maybe? Mopping vomit? Wiping drool? They think I’m joking. So I ask them what sort of voluntary work would they like to do, and they say, “anything”. My turn to wonder whether they’re joking.

            Most of these callers have altruistic intensions, I haven’t a doubt. But what happens when they’re actually taken on board is that: “my mother-in-law is arriving, won’t be able to come in today” or “I had sudden guests” or “I couldn’t wait that long for a bus so I gave up” or worst of all, when they don’t inform at all, assuming that if they’re not being paid for a job, it need not be done. The fact that they’ve given their word has no value. As a result, over a period of time, we actually have interviews of volunteers and give them a probation before we take them seriously. Even then, there are expectations: “Can’t we meet so and so doctor without an appointment?” “Can we go in without a voucher (that means without paying the fees)?” Out of turn favours are demanded. So the voluntary work is seldom without a motive.

            This morning, I got one such call. I told the caller that my hospital was far away from his home, why not choose something closer? “Like what?” he asked puzzled. I suggested a municipal hospital close by. In spite of the distance and the fact that we didn’t know what the other looked like, I could perceive the surprise on his face. A municipal hospital? Was I out of my mind? A highly educated, respectable, well to do person like him? So I changed tactics. Why a hospital, there were so many avenues he could explore. “Like what?” for the second time. Try the passport office, I said. “Passport office?” he echoed. Yes, I said, there’s such a crowd there and the staff is terribly overworked. Why not help those tired souls in the queue with the documents, checking them out without taking money instead of the touts and agents who fleece them? Even the government would be grateful. Naaa. I could practically hear his scream. What about lending the cops a hand? A week’s training and you could manage the traffic in your neighbourhood. Prevent accidents, prevent injuries, save pedestrians from using hospitals at all, what say? You’re an upright citizen and you could do so much….he slammed the phone down. Next time I’ll suggest the railway station. Maybe that’ll work. Maybe he had something against the Mumbai police.

            Not all volunteers are like that. I’ll take some names: Harsha Deshmukh worked very well for the kidney transplant program. Jyoti Nagda for oncology. Manissha Wadhwa and Uma Jaitley are doing a limited but brilliant job with the children. They are so involved that it’s hard to believe they aren’t a part of several families who have adopted them well after their children have departed/got discharged/grown up.

            A lot of people get overwhelmed by “I must do something for this world before I die” or “I have so much to offer to the underprivileged” or “I need to earn brownie points to get into heaven or to get a better life next time”. India gives you plenty of opportunities. We have poor people, starving people, illiterate people at every corner. Don’t need to search for orphans, strays, deprived, deranged, homeless, dying… they’re all within reach. Plus, there is garbage to be cleared, greenery to be saved, animals to rescue, heritage to preserve…please keep a cutting of this article.  The next time you say or even want to say, “I want to do something, I don’t know what”, do read it.

@@@@

Three Anti Opinions

(29 Aug ’10)

           In the locality I live in, in Mumbai, I’m sort of sandwiched between the headquarters of Shiv Sena on one side and the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena on the other. Friends from upmarket areas like Powai feel it’s some sort of a ‘backward’ area. I gave it thought: if I lived in any of the high-funda skyscrapers, I wouldn’t have been able to move around in a synthetic, glittery-shiny mass-Surat-produced, deejhayner sari. Here, I can wear my jeans, my neighbour can flaunt her ghunghat, or nine yards or burkha, and it’s ok. Firstly, wearing short tops or skirts doesn’t make you a progressive thinker, and neither does living in my neighbourhood make one a Hindu horror. There are plenty of moderate, mild, balanced people around here without vitriolic opinions about any caste or creed. Indeed, one of the things I love to write about is 6 Dec, Ambedkar’s punyatithee, when lakhs of dalits from all over the country converge to this park. It’s a sign of fourth-generation urban hospitality that they go back pleasantly surprised at the smoothness of their stay. None of the newer neighbourhoods would be able to manage that. This is one place where one can loudly say we need to rid ourselves of non-Maharashtrian people… and the very next day, the non-Maharashtrians get a chance to declare that this is their homeland, has been so for the past four generations. Where a Gulf-rich neighbour said: I could have a bigger car, but it would look out of place here. Talk of sensitivity…We’re pretty much tolerant of even the intolerant here.

            Another anti-opinion: schools in India must be doing something right. The Olympiads, for physics, chemistry, maths and biology have thrown up world champions year after year from India. Not from the fancy city schools, but from government vidyalayas and private ones with names like “Jai Hind Higher Secondary School”. Since my son studied in schools where the fees were barely Rs 15 for a term, in several states in the country, I can speak from some experience. In Rajasthan, I was possibly the only literate mom of my son’s class. In Goa, too, he studied in the T B Cunha HS school. Products of these schools don’t have the impression that ‘they know it all’ and that those who ‘don’t belong’ are in any way inferior. So also, whilst we must take in the good from the West, we aughtn’t to throw away all our processes. Learning by rote has its advantages: vocabulary, dictation, spellings, tables, colours. Rote has its limitations, but one can’t or shouldn’t do without it. I’m told by those who’ve lived abroad, that they appreciate the discipline that our children display. I recommend ‘A Road Less Travelled’ for those who believe that discipline is not required. In the long run, good habits taught in time help a person, a community and a nation. Even small things matter: calling an elder by the first name isn’t part of our culture. A mark of respect is appreciated the world over. Our schools do teach that. If we have so many Indians making their mark across the planet, we have several invisible, unsung teachers to thank for that.

            A third: my job requires me to work with the disabled. I know it’s politically incorrect to say anything but ‘special’ child, but blind is blind, deaf is deaf, and all of those need extra care, extra effort, extra everything…. From Normal people. Parents and family of course, but teachers, bus conductors, everyone. Seldom do I hear any of the differently abled persons or their families thanking those that are reaching out to them, spending a lot of time and energy to make their lives easier and as close to normal as possible: doctors, nurses, technicians, wardboys, educators, friends, relatives, strangers who donate money….. I have many instances of people who walk into my office to donate a part of their salary for a deserving patient. Rarely has a patient come to thank the anonymous benefactor or even track him/her. Sad.  It’s important to fight for one’s rights. It’s also important to recognize timely help and show gratitude. It’s not demeaning.

            Fourth: my favourite: we blame the government and the municipality for things we don’t do for ourselves. On this … some other time.

@@@@

Me and the Backache

(13 Nov 10)

            It was the third time I felt the shooting pain in the lower back, this time whilst crossing the road. Agonizing, but I managed to do something that resembled an out of step salsa sequence and got across through the horny (horning?) cars. Luckily, was on the OPD side, so decided that I must see a Spine Doctor. Unluckily, once I reached the building, I couldn’t climb those four stairs. Tried the ramp, couldn’t climb that either, because no railings there. Ten man-minutes were wasted helping me reach the glass door.

           

When I made the voucher, the girl at the counter said what I thought sounded like ‘stomach’. I chided her because she didn’t know that Dr N had nothing to do with that part of the anatomy. She looked shocked, then told me she said: “Chamak” the Marathi term for a catch in the back. The person behind me, who also wanted a spine doctor, asked me where Dr Chamak’s name was in the schedule that he was holding!! My bad.

            For one who normally doesn’t wait for a lift and takes stairs two at a time, it felt silly to say ‘first floor’ to the liftman. Someone remarked in Marathi: “She’s only first floor, we’re third” in a superior tone. I was ready to climb out but the lift skipped the first floor (someone had forgotten to press the button or it wasn’t working) and I got a ride to the third floor and back. Smirk, smirk, who’s superior now, I thought as those Marathi people walked out. 

            Next came The Wait. Doctors are always attending emergencies. A few of us patients couldn’t sit. The chairs were too low. We didn’t want to lie on trolleys. So we stood by them, our elbows and palms taking the weight of our painful backs. One wanted to go to the loo. She came back and told us that the seat was lower than the lobby chairs. Oof.

            Then came The MRI. It’s difficult to get out of a sari, fold the darn thing, put it on a hanger and change into loose, crisply laundered, tie it yourself, hospital pyjamas and tops in a 4 x 4 cubicle. I’d heard stories of claustrophobic patients demanding their money back, and was nervous about the loudness of the sound inside as well as the order “if you move, we have to repeat the sequence”. I was to press one balloon attached to a wire if I was in any way uncomfortable. Screaming and shouting wouldn’t help. The other way to attract attention of those outside the room (one is alone inside) is to wave the legs, for the rest of the body is inside the metal tunnel. Of course, the pain wouldn’t allow any movement of the legs so that wasn’t an option anyway.

No one told me how cold it would be. The blankets helped, though. The machine takes you in smoothly enough. The metal tube’s inner edge is more than 6” from the nose, so if one sneezes hard, there’s enough space to counter the move. You won’t bang and injure yourself. The drilling, hammering sound is easier on the eardrums than most car horns or construction sites. When the sound stopped and the trolley moved (with me lying stiffly on it) I believed ‘it’s over’. I was wrong. It keeps moving you, sliding you, bit by bit, every couple of minutes for what seems a very long time and is actually approx half an hour. Each time I opened my eyes and saw the white light and gleaming metal, I wondered how many brain tumour and road traffic accident cases had thus lain in here, possibly unconscious. How many lives had this machine helped save? It’s eerie, the thought that you’ve shared this little space with almost dead or dying fellow beings.

The big film with the little photos all over it showed pictures of my insides that I didn’t know existed. Between two vertebrae or discs, one tiny bit of inner lining had slipped out. A hernia. Like a little balloon. Luckily, no nerve was damaged, said the Spine Specialist; the pain is caused because the strong back muscles ‘guard’ or protect the injured area, go into a spasm and don’t allow any movement whatsoever. Nature does its thing.

Therefore, I have to lie flat (22 hours a day) I’m told, to allow relaxation. A bit of loo and a bit of keyboard won’t hurt, I think, though the doctor disagrees. What are rules for if not to be flexed at times? When I’m better, will write about what went through my mind as I stared at the ceiling day after day after day.  @@@@

Racism, Oz, India, Education.

(30 Aug ’09)

            There was a huge debate at office about the happenings in Australia. The attitude was “how dare they treat us like this”. In Sanskrit there’s a shlok (can’t for the life of me quote it) which says that the one in need is always the stupid one. The giver is the smarty-pants. Our ancestors understood the ways of the world better than we.

            Why are we sending our young to Oz? Because they have better ‘opportunities’. Means? Actually more money. But, it means better colleges, schools, hospitals. So why is it that we don’t crave for the same thing here? What it is that stops us from building world class institutions? Whatever quality we do have, we clamour to dilute it.

            It begins in kindergarten. The West has realized that children with enormous potential must be identified when young, and their talents tapped. They are the really ‘special’ ones for they will be the leaders of the future. Be it in art, science, sports, whatever. The slow-coaches, the ones who are mentally retarded or challenged or backward or stupid (if you want a more politically correct word, please yourself) need a different kind of education. And the bright sparks need a different kind. Which until now our IITs and IIMs were giving, but what about the schools and colleges?

            In my childhood, there were special divisions for bright children. The ‘dumb’ batch was, well, duh. It wasn’t like the label was permanent. If you lost out on marks, or gained some, you could be laterally transferred. By the way, later in life, many of the duhs actually did better than the bright sparks: will debate that in another column. Competition was edgy, but fair. Today, with ‘integration’ happening, and the movement that no one’s to be discriminated against…. Works against the gifted children. No one’s fighting for their rights. I haven’t read of any parents agitating for higher benchmarks, higher standards. No one’s demanding better quality anything. Customers want rights. Not responsibilities. If we want to teach Oz a lesson, we aught to have better universities, better colleges, better courses, and make their rich feel that their children should be educated here. Can we do that? Nyet? Then our young must face this ‘second-rate citizenship’ status in the developed parts of the world.

            See the four-generations-old schools, specially the good ones that were built during the British times. They have space, and more importantly, they’re good-looking. Homi Bhabha, when TIFR was conceived, made sure the place wasn’t just functional, it had the best sculptures, paintings, gardens, furniture, so that the scientists could give their best. Prettiness is conducive to intellectual activity. Yes, you can run teach children on a railway platform, and the odd child might even do well. But it’s only the odd child, not the herd.

            Check out discipline. My own school, which is in my neighbourhood, which is right across from my place of work, was well-known for its discipline. Yes, the cane was used. We were called ‘dunderheads’ when we did something idiotic and without fear of media or repercussions. Making us behave was part of the curriculum, well-ingrained in the genetic make up of our teachers and decades down the line, we’re grateful for it. It’s lacking today.  The principal’s afraid to tick the parents off, the teachers don’t think it’s important to check the students’ behaviour outside school limits/hours. No wonder I read on Facebook, ex-students saying school sucks. From current students I’d expect that, all of us felt that way, but from ex-s? I see children not rushing even when they can hear the Assembly bell. I see parents sloppily slurping on roadfood, unmindful of oil dripping on their clothes. No pride in the appearance, no pride in the manners, no healthy home-cooked snacks after school. Perhaps my audit sample is insufficient and there are better scenes elsewhere. I hope so.

            I’m told the vocational institutes are better, but I have no experience of them, hence won’t comment. Unless we pressurize and demand quality, unless we provide and supply quality education, unless we insist on accepting nothing less than the best, we will have to be at the receiving end for a long time to come.

@@@@