At 47 deg Celsius.

          If you hear a hawker shouting “naram mulayam kuckdee…” you know you are in Haryana/ UP/ Delhi in summer. Kuckdee describes a long, ribbed, slender cucumber not seen hereabouts. Our thick, seedy tausali are closer to what north Indians call kheera. (Dear Hindi-challenged friends, a kheera has nothing to do with milk-sugar-rice-pudding.) Neighbouring Maharashtrians call the kheera ‘kaakdee’. Kuckdee and kaakdee are similar-sounding but different members of the family cucurbitae. Muddle my already fuddled brain, these names.

These cucurbitae (along with the melons kharboozey, tarboozey) are life-savers when you’re living in degrees Celsius higher than 45, with humidity in the teens. Don’t know what this Celsius-humidity stuff means? Pre-heat your oven to those temperatures and shove your head inside. Stay like that for days, nights, weeks, months, till the rains come. Ghaziabad, Ludhiana, Bareilly summers feel like that. I’ve been there, done that (lived in those places, I mean, not put my head in the oven).

My salty-sweat oozing Goan skin had looked like dried camel bladder (they make fancy translucent lamp-shades of it). When people go visiting, even before the greetings are done, tumblers of water are thrust at the guests. Lest the latter drop dead. People do, when they walk/ stand in the sun, after temperatures cross 42.

In Goa, we politely confirm, during water-shortage periods: “udak peonach bhair sarley distaa.” In banks and government offices here, on every table stands a colourful plastic ‘water-bottle’ owned and used by the staffer manning it. We always carry a water-bottle in our purse/vehicle, don’t we? And our temperatures barely touch 38.

          Near the Thar, in Jodhpur, sandstorms drive house-proud wives and camels crazy. The former fret around shutting and sealing windows when dust clouds attack and the latter shut their eyelids, fold their legs and sit down meditatively. The khejri and the neem rule the scape along with the cacti. No mango trees, no bananas, pineapples, or jackfruits. Even the palms look strange. Tchshay men, all sand and no sea.

I owned a solar-cooker: used it to boil daal, bake cakes, roast brinjals and make toop. Four black aluminium vessels inside a square wooden box with a thick glass cover. The sun’s rays were reflected off a mirror fitted to the lid of the box, then intensified by the glass.  Result: mazho gas-cylinder khubb dis chaltalon.

And a ‘water-cooler’: a metal cube-frame that clung to our window. The side that opened into our room had a fan that pushed in air cooled by constantly wetted khus-grass curtains which covered the other three sides of the cube-frame. (The Brits called such curtains tattees, a name still in use, unrelated to undigested food.)

In Goans’ second home, the Middle East, the same temperatures/ dryness are tackled with 24-hour central air-conditioning everywhere, and packaged water. The cities look cool (pun!) because no matter how purple and gold the interiors might be, all buildings are a uniform white or pale beige outside. Maybe psychological, but even when it’s shimmering and horridly hot, it looks soothing, feels better. Everything is aesthetically controlled.

Could we try that in India?

I read in the papers that in Bengal, Mamtarani said: painting all building exteriors blue would “lift Kolkata’s spirits”. The Mayor’s council agreed to waive property tax on those who complied with that wish. If this happens in Goa, half our population will want yellow stripes, others will paint red spots in protest, traditionalists won’t paint their houses at all (their ancestors didn’t) but pay the tax instead. Orthodox Hindus might want saffron, Muslims green, Christians whatever their local priest chose, Parsis, Jews, Sikhs and others would go into wait-and-watch mode. There would be interpretations of ‘what is white’: grey, ivory, cream, bluish, pinkish, brownish… ai saiba, ami Goemkar can’t agree on such matters. Our weather makes us like that. It’s hot after the sun rises and until it sets. Anything above 27 degs affects us. The high humidity aggravates matters.

Last week Delhi had no electricity. Delhites could not pump water into the overhead tanks. Had they done that, the water would have been hot; pipes at 47 deg C are ‘untouchable’. 

Goa’s skies have darkened. Looking at the clouds, I do what any self-respecting Goan woman does: fan myself with a paper or dupatta, roll my tongue, make a ‘ssssss’ sound, shake my head and complainingly whine, “shee baba, kitle gazgazta, vaaz ailo saamko garmicho”.

Then thank my stars our air is never so hot or as dry as in the arid zones.

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GMC’s Cardiac Centre

               No one goes to any doctor out of choice. Unless one is a whining hypochondriac, out to cheat the employer/insurance company out of cash, or just plain ill.

No one goes to the GMC unless one is ill.

My maowshee celebrated her 81rst birthday in GMC’s medical ward, in unstable angina pain. Family members dashed in and out carrying tubes of blood for testing and prescriptions.

I have good memories of GMC. Fifteen years ago, my mother’s accidently injured wrist and elbow had been operated upon here. She got back 95 % of her movements; the doctors had predicted 65 %. Are doctors happy to be wrong at such times?

As observed in her previous admissions, I saw (besides dust and grime on the floor) the diligence with which many Nightingales kept track of medicine-consumption, wound-dressing and follow up on test reports. Perhaps my maowshee was lucky to get good ‘sisters’ on shifts; the ethos was better than newspapers’ cribbing reports. If the cleanliness levels could be better, if the moss and grunge are dealt with military meticulousness, the standard of care at GMC would be superior to that in private hospitals. If only Goans would badger the health minister ...

It’s not possible to trust the quality of laundering of linen, so cousin and his wife shuttled to and from their home to keep the patient clad and covered without inviting bacterial/viral trouble.

The results of an angiography indicated a shift to the cardiac ward.  Three trouble-making arteries were blocked: first 99%, second 97%, third 94%. Without surgical invention, she was doomed.

In the cardiac ward, where earlier the private wards were, I found the nurse in charge was duteous. “I allowed you two minutes and now it’s two and a half,” she said sternly but politely to me. Mea culpa, I thought, slinking out, appreciating her attitude.

The following day was the surgery. The cardiac operating room oddly faced the gynaecological ward and OPD. On one side of the corridor, on the floor, against the wall, sat relatives of the patient whose heart was (literally) in the surgical team’s hands; and on the other stood pregnant women with their husbands, mothers-in-law, firstborns and other pregnant women. The cardiac team spent hours bending over my maowshee, skilfully using scalpels, forceps, sutures, reading numbers and graphs on the machines attached to her, tracking levels of anaesthesia, urine output, gases in the blood, etc. I have no idea when or whether the team had breakfast or lunch, for after her, another patient had already been rolled and readied inside.

Most surgeries are successful. Most patients go home fine. For the relatives, there’s a long wait outside the ICU. I managed to squeeze in a seminar on cadaver transplants in the college library to learn about the advances in kidney, liver, heart, pancreas and lung transplants in the country. Goa has an eye-bank, but still needs one for skin (not for pimple-cure - skin-grafts save the lives of severely burned people or those with dreaded skin diseases).

As discharged patients and their eager relatives took taxis or rickshaws home, I saw no reporters covering the success stories: so many complicated, ‘hopeless’ cases went home fine. We never get to hear of or read about them.

I saw two doctors wheel a paediatric patient when the need arose. They did not wait for help to arrive.

A radiologist confided that s/he did the GMC job because it was much more interesting than better-paying private practice. I quote: “I sometimes don’t know what to do on Sundays, so involved am I in what I’m doing.” From what I witnessed that could be true of the cardiac unit staff.

The cardiac ICU was spic and span, and visitors’ discipline (of removing footwear, not consuming food/drink, putting phones on silent-mode) well-maintained. When my maowshee did not recover from post-operative complications, the surgeon took extraordinary pains and time to explain to us what had happened and why. No impatience with our lay queries. An open heart operation (CABG or by-pass) might have added a decade to her lifespan; in her case, unexpected post-operative complications hastened her end.

Maowshee’s body was dressed and transferred to the mortuary with dignity. GMC has PLENTY of room for improvement. Within its limitations, it’s giving its patients remarkable care.

I’d left my bag in the ward. A stranger handed sought a relative and sent it to me. Nothing was missing. Maowshee would have been pleased. I was.

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Anywhere At All.

12 Oct ‘14

            We were in a rattling, overcrowded bus winding our way over some ghats. Some fellow passengers were sick, and throwing up out of the windows with abandon. Undigested rotis and daal splattered the walls of the vehicle. The smell choked us. At the next stop, my classmate, Dr G, dug some anti-nausea medicines out of his haversack and offered them to all who felt queasy so that we could have some comfort for next couple of hours. When the bus re-started its journey, a middle-aged, pock-cheeked man with a city-tailored shirt-pant asked him what he did for a living. “Doctor?” he confirmed. From then on, Girish fielded questions about dyspepsia, drop foot, infertility, joint and other pains, falling hair, backaches… not just of that villager, but about his brothers, his sister’s children, wife’s family, everyone. When he ran out of relatives, he graciously permitted another passenger to take his seat to make full use of Daakter-saab whilst the bus continued towards its destination. Everybody took their turn. By the end of the journey, without examination, without even being present, several patients-in-proxy, had been diagnosed and the prognosis cheerfully given. One or two were declared ‘back from Yama’. A grateful sample of rural India’s population offered the good doctor a hen, some potatoes, a bagful of peanuts, firewood, and a used but warm scarf.

            Where do you practice, I once asked another doctor friend. “Anywhere at all,” she sighed. “The moment someone finds out I’m a doctor, symptoms overtake conversations. Incurable years-old headaches, lingering heartaches, near-death experiences, even boils in unmentionable places. Then begin the debates: ancient traditional treatments versus the toxic capsules one consumes these days. You have a veritable university set up in someone’s dining room at a late night party. Or beside a waterfall at a picnic spot.”

            What’s more, a doctor’s specialization doesn’t matter. At dinners and parties, paediatricians are asked questions about skin problems, dermatologists their opinions on heart ailments. Gynaecologists are spared. Nothing like a free consultation in these days of inflation. And ‘friendly’ advice somehow seems more genuine than ‘professional’ stuff (a misquote from someone who expressed the view).

            In a car-rally, a couple who hadn’t qualified managed entry because they were “doctors, you know, might be useful”. Another time, someone wanted her child babysat for an evening. She cooked up an ‘emergency’ to have her neighbour take care of it for a couple of hours. Policemen at signal seldom fine doctor-drivers because of the life-saving rush they’re in.

            A young doctor is a prime ‘catch’. “My niece/nephew is of marriageable age” is the thought that crosses every middle-aged mind who meets one such. The thought is often translated into direct questions and sometimes carried forth to visits home, exchange of biodata, etc.

People have made formal appointments with doctors, paid the fees, presented themselves as patients just so they could check out the bride(groom)-to-be. The latter didn’t have the tiniest clue of what was happening.

            Doctors are also supposed to have cures for all ills, even social and financial ones. “Please tell my son to study.” “Please tell my mother to stay out of our married life.” “Please tell my husband to change his job.” “Please tell me how to handle my quarrelsome neighbour.” Or “Do you think such and such bonds are a good buy?” “Do you think so and so mutual funds are doing well?” Even: “is this car better than that?”

Over a period of time, can’t blame the medics for believing that they really are the experts on defence, finance, foreign affairs, education, sports, arts and culture. The perks of their practice is to get invitations to events, discussions, conferences, plays, dances, forums, inaugurations, all sorts of functions. It is assumed that they attend them and assimilate every nugget of information received. All intelligence and smartness is incorporated in that word ‘doctor’.

            The flip side is that they cannot, dare not, fall ill. “How can YOU get fever/diarrhea/toothache/nausea?” is a common question, followed by the rider: ‘you’re a doctor’. Or ‘X is a doctor’s daughter, and still she got typhoid/jaundice/pimples/whatever .’

            It isn’t easy for any human being to live up to such expectations. No wonder they at times live in cocooned worlds. For if they didn’t, they’d be constantly at work, answering questions about others’ health-issues real or imagined, with no boundaries of time or location, anytime, anywhere.

            Do teachers, architects, beauticians, lawyers, drivers, do free practice?  Just wondering.

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A Mauling and a Mangal Yatra.

          Read about the young man who was killed by a tiger in his (the animal’s, not the boy’s) cage? The incident was filmed by someone and aired over television all day and night on Tuesday.

“Ghastly.” For once, Sri Husband and I both agreed on something. Such pleasures (sorry to use this word, though unrelated, in connection with such a horrific incident) are short-lived.

          “The government is responsible for this accident,” I said.

          Sri Husband asked, “How and why?”

          Sometimes I have to explain things to him slowly and clearly: “Because there was nothing to prevent the young man from getting into the cage. He climbed the barricade and fell down.”

          Animated response: “Barricade? There was a cage, a double barrier, the guard had warned him, warning boards and placards are everywhere, and everyone knows that tigers aren’t pussy-cats.”

          Me: “Obviously that wasn’t enough. A young Indian of productive age lost his life.”

          “What do you think the government could have done better?”

          “They could have walls around these animals with proper ceilings so no one can climb or tumble inside.”

          Sri Husband: “These animals are in a certain environment, forest-like. City-people should see them in their natural surroundings. At least as natural as possible. That’s the whole purpose of having a zoo, no? How will people look at the animals through walls? ”

          I tackled that one easily: “The walls could have windows for people to look inside. I once read about someone who pretended to feed a deer and put a rubber-band around its tongue. The deer died. The cause of death was discovered after the autopsy. That’s why we should have walls. To protect both animals and humans.”

          He gave me the exasperated look he gives the television anchors when they ask bereaved parents ‘what/how do you feel?’. I didn’t know what I’d said wrong. I waited for a second, then asked, “You always take the government’s side. Why?”

          “You can’t blame the government for everything. I just feel citizens should be more responsible, more disciplined.

Me: “For example?”

He: “No connection to the zoo episode, but… spitting on the road is an example.”

          Me: “The government should arrest/fine every person that spits.”

          “Which means it’ll have to employ several lakh staff to follow around habitual and occasional spitters. Great idea.” I ignored the touch of sarcasm. Also wondered where he got the word ‘spitters’ from. Never heard of it, but I know what/who he meant. This is one word the Oxford/Chambers dictionaries should include. Pukka Hindustani. Apt.

          I said: “Of course great idea. So many more jobs will get created. What’s the problem?”

          “Impractical, no?”

          “No.” I could see the streets filled with challan-distributors, fining spitters and pee-ers. Government coffers would swell. There would be activity and vibrancy all around. And in zoos they could have people to penalize those who tease the inmates or want to enter tigers’ cages.

          I said, never giving up a chance to have my voice heard, “There’s a lot the government can do in other ways: ensure that every child passes from class to class, school to college and promote people automatically. This nonsense about exams and performance is a western concept imported by desh ke drohi.”

          “What does that have to do with zoos?” Sri Husband doesn’t give up either.

“Just saying,” I withdrew.

Customary silence over, the conversation went off-track.

Sri Husband: “I read that the government’s going to have skill-banks. Who knows, we might even have changes in attitude.”

“Like?”

“Neatness outside the home, standing in queues, punctuality, honesty, living honourably, wanting to do what is right and legal rather than finding loopholes to circumvent regulations… and not jumping over wire fences that lead to disasters… what say?”

Abba. Lecture-baazi. He was in of those moods, feeling good about things.

“As things are, things remain,” I thought in silent disagreement.

          He changed the topic quickly.

He’s good at reading my mind.

          “This Mars Orbiter Mission is brilliant,” he said, showing a spark of enthusiasm. “ISRO’s put India in the world-class league.”

“Mission Mangalyaan, the world’s cheapest Mars mission?”

Sri Husband nodded appreciatively, not believing I’d actually heard about it.

I wondered: “Now what will happen to horoscopes? People with saade saati and mangal? Will this complicate our traditions? What if someone read the zoo-victim’s horoscope? Would it show time and cause of death?”

Sri Husband: “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. What do you believe?”

“In common-sense,” he retorted.

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