EXPERIENCE AT THIRUVANANTHAPURAM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

It was our first trip after the commissioning of the new terminal at the Thiruvananthapuram International Airport. The terminal is definitely an improvement on the terminal at the other end of the Airport. The authorities have made a serious effort to bring it to international standards. Aerobridges save the passenger from the vagaries of the weather as they board and disembark. The terminal is nowhere when it is compared with Changi, Hongkong, Beijing, Bangkok or Dubai. We are happy that at least a beginning has been initiated.

Immigration was very quick when we passed through the barrier. The official was very thorough as he went through the passports and documents. Incisive questions were raised. But they were not offensive. He even joked as he cleared the documents and wished us bon voyage.  It was a welcome shift from our earlier travels where the officials maintained a stiff upper lip and looked at every one with suspicion.

Our journey took us to Bangkok via Colombo. Except for confusion over the issue of visa on arrival at Bangkok clearances at both the airports were quick and hassle free. On our return clearances were faster. The officials at all the counters were courteous. They were helpful.

The experience on our return to Thiruvananthapuram International Airport left us with mixed emotions. Immigration was quick.  The travails began after that. Once through the immigration counter, there were five or six counters, all the passengers had to converge and pass through single exit where an official with a very suspicious face stopped us. He was there to confirm whether the passports were properly stamped by the official at the counter. While he took his time to do the verification passengers were forced to crowd in the limited space. It was a bit ridiculous as we were exposing our distrust of our own capable officials before the international travellers.

As we went on to claim the baggage we were asked to put our hand baggage through a scanner. Different countries have different laws and customs. We have traveled to a number of countries. We have never experienced such a scanning as we were making the exit.

The baggage was delivered through the conveyor quick. There were no porters to irritate the passenger. On our way out we spotted a duty free shop where we paused to pick up a packet of chocolates. As we finally pushed the trolley to the exit a Police Officer stopped us. Thinking that he wanted to verify the baggage tag, we showed him the tags. He said, “No, Passports.” (No ‘please’ we were used to at airports abroad). The passports were handed over. He rifled through the   passports and took out a slip of paper detached from the arrival card by the immigration official. He handed me my passport and commanded, “Get it.” I did as I was told. He said the slip of paper had to be filled up and led us to a counter where a lady official in white uniform sat. He asked us to fill them up and hand them over to the lady. Obviously it was our fault. As we had  filled up the arrival card in the aircraft we had omitted to fill up the last part where we were supposed to write our name and the flight number. When we handed the slips to the Officer she told us to hand them over to the Police Officer who had ordered us to fill them up. Taking the slips from us he allowed us to move on to the exit. I stole a look at the ID the Police Officer sported. It read, “Expiring on 09.09.2011.”  It was interesting that our return was on 18.09.2011.

The Police Officer was doing his duty. We were in the wrong as there was an omission on our part. But as we were filling up the slip of paper we found many other passengers moving out without any one stopping them to verify their passports.

We are not blaming any one. What we cannot understand is that as we were passing through airports abroad such procedures were not in evidence. No officials were there to confirm the officials were performing their duty well. There were no slips of paper detached from the arrival card and no security personnel to stop us once we were through customs and immigration. It beats us why the arrival card should have a detachable format that serves no purpose at all in a totally computerized environment. There was no scanning of hand baggage. The procedure needs simplification. We have to ensure that the visitors to India return to their countries with pleasant memories. Tourism is a money spinner for all countries. We are fine tuning it to offer the worst.

PUTHEN MALIGA PALACE MUSEUM THIRUVANANTHAPURAM

Puthen Maliga Palace Museum,  Thiruvananthapuram is an imposing  monument adjacent to Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple that hogs limelight these days  due to the invaluable treasure discovered in its vaults.    The stunning palace, known earlier as Kuthira Maliga,  was built as the official residence of Swathi Thirunal Maharaja of the erstwhile princely state of Travancore. The construction of the palace took four years. Swathi Thirunal stayed there for one year. He was a great musician. He passed away at a very young age. Considered as unlucky due to the premature demise of Swathi Thirunal, the palace never had another occupant. It is an eighteen and a half acre compound where there are two more palaces that were built for the princes of Travancore.  No one stays there either.  A trust administers the property.

A few years ago Kuthira Maliga was converted as Puthen Maliga Palace  Museum where artifacts, paintings, porcelain and priceless treasures of the Travancore era are displayed. The museum is open all days except Mondays from morning till evening. Though I have been residing in Trivandrum for a long time, I could not visit the museum earlier. The visit was worthwhile. I have been to a large number of places in India as well as abroad where artifacts and precious treasures from a bygone era are displayed for the visitors. Puthen Maliga is a revelation. I feel proud that what is on display here is far superior to what I have seen elsewhere.

The wood work in the palace is remarkable. The precision is unimaginable. The artwork on the ceilings differs from room to room. There are full size portraits of the rulers of Travancore. There are paintings by Europeans. When photography was not in existence events were frozen in time through paintings. A painting caught my  attention by the  brutality evinced. It was the Pulikkoodu (Cage of leoaprds). It was a circular cage on the Sanghumugham Beach, adjacent to the indoor court with  high roof. Indian Coffee House functions from a part of the building at present. The painting depicts a few leopards devouring prisoners sentenced to death in the presence of a large assembly of citizens and the militia. There is no trace of  the Pulikkoodu at Sanghumugham today.

The weaponry of the Travancore army is on display confirming its might.  There are beautiful porcelain vessels gifted to the royalty by visitors from abroad. Large imported mirrors adorn the walls. There is a medicinal cot. Different pieces of antique furniture are exhibited.  Two dressing tables displayed in adjacent rooms are unique. There are the musical instruments, the perumpara (drums to proclaim royal dictats), Crystal Throne and Wooden Throne. Beautiful statues of Gods   are on display. Two ivory cradles displayed are the icing on the cake. I have never seen such a luxury anywhere else. The gun captured from the Dutch Captain Delenoi at Kolachel is prominent by its rarity. It reminds in abundance the greatness of the legendary Marthanda Varma. 

There are halls for music recitals and for meetings of scholars. Swathi Thirunal wrote Keerthans in eighteen languages sitting in an elevated room with a window through which he could view the top of the Sree Padmanabha Temple.  The  Keerthans were inspired by the presiding deity of the temple, Sree Padmanabha Swamy. As I looked through the window I could see the top of the temple very close.

The magnificent palace has two floors. . All the rafters have a horse’s head crafted at the end acquiring the name Kuthira Maliga (Palace of Horses) for the Palace.  There is a Guest House in front of the Palace called Thekkini. Thekkini was built to accommodate the European Guests.  Every year Swathi Thirunal music festival is held at the Palace grounds for a week.

Though I was really impressed by the Palace and the Museum, its maintenance is very poor. The hedges are not trimmed. Grass is not mown. The rooms where the exhibits are kept are poorly lit. The visitors are led through the museum by an official guide who is poorly trained.  He is proficient in Malayalam alone. There is no commitment.  He gives the impression that he detests the job he is doing. He is not proactive.  Having seen guides in various parts of the world and after listening to them, I feel what is on offer here is the worst one can ever have in the world.  Seventy five percent of the Palace is out of bounds for the visitors. It has to be thrown open. Photography and videography are strictly prohibited here. There is a world out there that permits the visitors all this to enable them savour their tryst with history. Lingering memories persuade the visitor to come again and again and spread the message the palace conveys across the world. Eighteen and a half acres of Palace grounds and all the  palaces can be thrown open to the Public after beautifying them. The Chinese are doing this with their palaces and the palace grounds in the old city. They make money in the bargain. Here relaxing behind archaic customs, archaic laws and chronic inactivity we are negating the efforts we make for promoting tourism. Tourism is not for foreigners alone. It is for our countrymen as well. Here is the opportunity for our people to learn of our rich heritage. We have no qualms in barring it. I look to a day when I can state with pride we maintain world standards in Thiruvananthapuram.

HERITAGE - OLDEST CHURCH IN TRIVANDRUM

CSI CHRIST CHURCH, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India

Consecrated on 15^th November, 1859 Christ Church is the oldest Church in the city. An integral constituent of the Madhya Kerala Diocese of the Church of South India, Christ Church,  surrounded by the University Stadium and the Chandrasekharan Nair  stadium, is strategically located at Palayam in  Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India on the arterial Mahatma Gandhi Road on one end and  the Kerala Legislature Complex at the other.

For visitors to the Church, it is a glance into the past. They find history unfurling before them. The ancient tombs in the cemetery speak volumes on members of the Church who had moved over to strange new territories and had perished in an alien terrain.  The architecture of the Church is majestic. Anticipation turns into amazement as you enter the Church.  Well preserved antique furniture and invaluable paintings as well as pictures on the windows   faithfully serve the worshippers as they join together in the name of Jesus Christ, a tradition carried down all these one hundred and fifty two years of existence of Christ Church. The aisle and the pews make you kneel and pray to the omnipresent and the omnipotent who bestows love and affection upon the whole of mankind. 

The chiming of the tubular bell that dates back to 1915 is the precursor to the worship at the Church. The mood is still. The chiming has music in it and as it reverberates the hushed audience awaits the beginning of the divine worship. There are not many bells like it  in the world at the moment and Christ Church has in its possession a rare and wonderful object that has the stamp of history.

 Well preserved stained glass windows dating back to 1889 present a picture of serenity and piety as the worship progresses in the Church.   The beauty is unsurpassed

The portraits of Emperor Haile Celassie of Ethiopia and Rev. T.B.Benjamin, both great visionaries, adorn the Centennary Hall of Christ Church.. The visit of the Emperor to Christ Church was  historical. The Emperor in order to commemorate it made a handsome donation and laid the foundation for the Centenary Hall. The project took off with the donation  and the Centenary Hall became a reality with contributions pouring in from members whose names are inscribed on its walls. Centenary Hall has seen many events of significance taking place in it. Today, the Kerala Legislature Complex and the Centenary Hall face each other.

Elegantly displayed in the glass walled museum,  the hearse – coffin bearing carriage – is a sight to behold. The ancient mingles with the present. The hearse, imported from the United Kingdom, was in operation   till late 1960s. 

Connect, Grow, Serve and Go define Christ Church’s dedicated vision and  mission.

Connect   

‘Connect’ with God for a momentous existence.  Mark: 12: 29-31 tells  to connect with an open heart. It reminds that building enduring relationships alone suffice. Connect highlights the significance of worship, prayer and fellowship.  The Church is the platform that links man at once with God and the community.

Grow  

‘Grow’ in body, mind and spirit (Romans 12:2). Discern God's word and gaze at the effect in an individual. Though knowledge is vital God’s word makes one perfect when it is animate in him.  The true disciple comes into being as he heeds God’s word.

Serve 

‘Serve’ with willing hands (1 Peter 4:10-11). It nourishes the soul. The church is packed with limitless opportunities to minister and serve.  When the constituents work together for the Church they function as God has intended. He empowers His followers to serve and multiplies their efforts exponentially.

Go

‘Go’ with ready feet (Matthew 28:19-20). It moves one out of the confines of the Church to a domain that spreads across the whole of the community and of the world. . Witnessing Jesus Christ before non believers as well as believers is the most challenging and demanding task a true Christian faces relentlessly. 

KERALA'S VILLAGE OFFICES SHUN COMPUTERS AND HARASS PEOPLE TO THE HILT

The Village Office plays a stellar role in the lives of Keralites. It is the arm of the Government that reaches out to people. For most of the people Government begins and ends with the Village Office. The services rendered there are at once basic and extensive. People do not require anything more from the Government in their normal lives.

If we hold title to land it is mandatory that land tax as per law is paid every year. Failure to remit the tax bars us from enjoying facilities extended by the Government. In the event of default Government has the right to take over the land.

I make a trip to the Village office every year to remit the tax. I recount my experience this year.

I reached the office at 10 A.M. No one was there. As I waited I observed that there were a few others who were playing the waiting game. The officials arrived at the office after some time. All of us went in. There was a queue. The official advised the individual at the head of the queue that he would have to wait if had come to remit the tax. Then he took the cell phone and rang up some one. We could hear him conveying to the person at the other end to come to the office and do a cleaning up job in the office. He remarked to the other official in the office that unless the job was outsourced the office would never be clean.

The official disposed off the person at the head of the queue quickly, advising him that title to the property would be recorded only after 3.00 P.M. He looked at me. I showed him the receipts for the previous year and said that I had come to remit tax for current year. He said, “You have six receipts. It is a big job. Hand it to the official sitting next.”

I did not dare to tell him that it was the very same official who had directed me to present my case to him. It was back to square one. The official who had directed me elsewhere looked at me as I stood before him. “You have to hand it to the lady standing behind you.”

I turned around, saw the lady and handed over the receipts. She made a search, located the registers and placed the receipts and the registers on the official’s table. Then she repeated the procedure for the next person. The register was placed on top of the registers that contained my receipts. I did not object as objections would only delay the procedure and the officials might even stop the day’s collection stating that they faced a heavy workload. I recalled the experience the previous year. I had to trek it to the office three days in succession for the simple job. The first day the officials, as the serpentine queue reached midway, announced that they were stopping the collection for the day since they had other important work to attend to. We were advised to come the next day. The next day when I went there the officials were not there. We gathered that they had all gone to the collectorate to remit cash and there would be no collection on that day. Though I had to wait two hours in the queue I was lucky the third time.

Suddenly the official who had turned me back had a change of heart. “Give me a register. I will do some work,” he said. I felt unlucky as I found him taking the register on top. In the mean time I saw him reversing his earlier stance of attending to the recording of the title for another applicant. I thought the rules were dynamic at that office. One man was turned away and the other was entertained.

A Village Office always makes you learn and practice patience. I waited. I was gleeful when the official finally took hold of my receipts. He started writing. He opened the folio and compared the data in the previous year’s receipt with the data in the folio. He wrote out a receipt for the tax and returned the old receipt to me. He recorded some data on one folio. The collection of tax for the year was recorded in another folio. The process was repeated five times as I had six receipts with me altogether. The receipts I had with me belonged to different people. I was entrusted the job since the others did not have the time to squander. Finally I managed to extricate myself from the office with current year’s tax paid receipts.

While the official was going through the laborious process I felt it was high time the Village Offices were computerized in the State of Kerala. It would assist the officials efficiently carry out their functions. The State stands to gain too as it would dramatically improve the flow of funds to the exchequer that is always starved of funds for developmental and day to day expenditure. The productivity of the people also will improve as their turn around time is shortened enabling them conserve precious time for important activities.

As I had set apart the day for payment of dues to the Government and local bodies, I went over to the office of the local body to pay tax on the house. I had the shock of my life when the lady finished the job and handed me the receipt within a minute. She said," The office is computerized."

Woken up in the early hours

I had been cruising along contented. Altering the sedate lifestyle the authorities of CSI Christ Church, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India threw a challenge.  I am a member there. They proposed to revitalize the Website of the Church. The Church’s Website, according to the Vicar, called for a thorough overhaul. The suggestion galvanized the authorities into frenzied activity. The challenge was thrown. A time frame was set. The quaint yet beautiful Church,  an architectural marvel consecrated on 15th November, 1859 is the oldest Church in the city.

Creativity calls for objectivity, enormous patience and inspiration. When I began I realized that the approach had to be on two levels, one, editing content that existed and the other, creation of content from exhaustive research. ‘www’ is an open window to the world. It emphasized that nothing shall deride the church.

Accomplishment of the objective brought compliments from the Vicar. I replied, “Grateful for the compliment. It was not me who did it. I was only the medium for God to express online what He wanted. He woke me up in the early hours, kept me awake, did not allow me to move away both physically and in mind and just made me sit in front of the system keeping the flow in mind and the thought process singularly devoted to the fruition of His desire.”

 

GOD ALONE CAN SAVE YOU IN KERALA

An, all pervading gloom. He lay gasping. Life was ebbing out. I sat next to him, holding his hands. Disoriented, I did not know what was around, let alone the impending doom hiding in the wings, to explode. I believed everything was fine. Gullible? I believed he was going to be well. Up and about. As exuberant as ever. For me, he was everything. I had depended on him so much. He held the key to all my queries.

‘Babychayan’, people generally called him.I addressed him, Papa.Yes, he was my father.

Chacko.He battled there, on that dusk.

It began five days from that moment. The bell rang. It was a call from Anna, one of my innumerous aunts. “Babychayan is ill. He has been admitted to a hospital at Kanghazha. He requires surgery at once. Babychayan wants it done at your place.” I was dumbstruck. It was only a week, I had left him sound. I had brought my family home to spend some time with him. We kept him company. The day marked the second year of the departure of Mom. The day that left him a widower. That left us stranded.

I needed money, leave and a substitute. A procrastinator, I found the role mind-boggling

The boss, with characteristic reluctance, provided a substitute. I hurried to Kangazha. Chandra financed. It was pathetic to find Papa in the hospital, immobilized by the catheter. Dr.V.Krishnan, wrote the discharge.

“Chacko requires surgery at once. He has an enlarged prostate. We are hopeful it’s benign.” The shock multiplied. Calamity. The night found the three of us, Ravi, my brother had joined us, at the railway station on an endless wait for a train that threatened to arrive at any moment. The journey through the night saw us at my place, the next morning.

“Shall I move? Do you need more room?” I put it to the doctor who came to observe the patient on the final moments. Blissfully, I was unaware of the gravity. “Be there. Hold on to his hands”, the kind doctor was grim. The spasms turned violent. The agony uncontrollable. . Papa remained unconscious. He opened his eyes. He was not aware of the bustle where he was the central figure. Key actor. The screens were placed quietly around the bed. It didn’t signify anything to me. The message was evident to the rest.

Alarmed, a sister brought in the oxygen. She drew the phlegm out. It was blocking the air. Nothing worked. The patient was a few seconds away from the moment of truth.The barrier. The thin line.

A host of doctors surrounded the bed. The hand that jerked violently all the time, began to show signs of abatement. He was going to be alright, I thought. There was dejection on the face of the doctors. “The heart has stopped.” “Artificial.” I was watching a live show unfolding.

.“ Cardiac arrest.” The shout. “Bring the apparatus.”

I was pushed back. The senior resident moved the clothes aside. With precision he was pounding the chest. A scene straight from a movie. With great difficulty, a tube was inserted through the mouth. Trachea. Once it was in place, they started squeezing. Each time it was pressed, the abdomen heaved. On release, it shrunk. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Pendulam.

“Why have you not put the patient on the ventilator?” barked the surgeon. He had performed the surgery with precision. The perfect surgeon. Safe pair of hands. Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Renowned. Reputed. “Sir, we don’t have the rank”, the doctors with respect.

“The stretcher.” It was a command.

The patient was at once wheeled back into the theatre from where he was brought out three hours earlier. In the morning, when they had requisitioned him for surgery, he had declined the stretcher. “I’ll walk.” He was in robust health but for the catheter. How fickle life is? One moment, you are wide-awake. Struggle for existence, the next. The greatest asset man has, is his ability to breathe. What a dry log he is, if he cannot.

There we were. We sat on the floor at the entrance to the theatre. Each, lost in thought. There was a flurry of activity. Doctors rushing in. Coming out. Nurses running around.

A cardiologist and a physician- high in hierarchy. No one knew the status of the patient. No one spoke to us. A forlorn feeling spread across. Despondency.

“Did Chacko, ever have Cardiac history?” the surgeon beckoned me. “Not to my knowledge.” “The ECG was absolutely perfect”, he continued, “His blood vessels are in bad shape. He may not survive beyond

10 P.M.” My spirits sank. It was 8.30 P.M. The physician came out. He confirmed the prognosis.

If Papa was going away, we, the living, had to look beyond. Though the patient was yet to give up, we had to think of the arrangements, once he was declared dead. Kunjukunju chettan, an uncle, rushed to the Newspaper. The item must be in the ensuing day’s circulation. An ambulance was needed to take the body, home. Thankachayan, another uncle, arranged it.

We huddled together at the exit. We were the losers. There was nothing to hold on to. Hope withered. We just could not even think of life ahead, without Papa.We were in a daze. We watched silently as the relatives organized ahead. Braced ourselves to accept the inevitable. Absorb the final blow.

I thought of Reshmi, our sister. I wondered how to get the matter across. There was no way to reach her. The pictures of our family, the happy days we had spent together, the day when I had disappointed him with a lousy academic record, the years I went without employment and could do nothing for the family when they were in dire straits, the vain struggle for Mom, the wild elephant on the highway when he was driving the car with all of us in it - the scenes and many others, vivid, flashed through.

“No, I won’t let him go”, I resolved.

The surgeon came out once again. It was 11 P.M. “The moment has not come”, he said, “the patient will not see the morrow.” He seemed dejected. I sat down. I started praying. In fact all of us there, went on praying. Silent prayers. Nothing else to clutch to.

A voice within me.

“If he lives on to 6 A.M and beyond the next morning, he is going to survive.”

I went on with my prayers. “Oh God, please don’t take him before 6 A.M, the next day. Give him just this night. Leave him to us. Please don’t take him.” Focussed, like a man possessed, I chanted through the night.

11.30 P.M. The driver of the Ambulance. “Sir, I have a trip right now. What shall I do?”

“Carry on with, what you have.” Response.Resigned. Kunjukunju Chettan ran to the newspaper. “Hold the news.” “Chacko is still alive. Hold it for the next day.”

The doctors poured in and out. The night went on. The hospital became a beehive of activity. It was the busiest hospital in the city. We watched victims of accidents, brought in. In a trance we saw stretchers, fully covered, pulled across.

Dawn. There was no word from the Theatre except that the patient was on the ventilator.

Tears rolled out from all of us. We could not stand the agony any more. The chanting, unhindered. Life, for the rest of the world, normal as ever.

None of us saw the Physician’s arrival. He came out at 8 A.M. “The patient has survived till this hour. He has not regained consciousness. He may survive. But in what form or mode, I can’t tell. He may not survive. It’s a cliff-hanger.

The Kaleidoscope.

I ask myself, “What went wrong?” Money. Avarice. Neglect. Deliberate. Callous disregard for human life. One lives by money alone. “You have no right to be alive, without money.” “Agony, if you do not pay.”
****
Armed with letter from the Hospital at Kanghazha, we met the Physician. It was addressed to him. “This requires surgical intervention. Please take him to the Surgeon at once.”

“Admit the patient,” the surgeon, “Surgery required immediately.” “Ward seven”, the assistants. We searched out the ward in that labyrinth. The sister was furious. “There are no beds here. Where am to put the patient? Get back to the Doctor and ask him to find a bed.” There was no sympathy. The patient was in discomfort. There was the added discomfiture. The bag. The ornament.

I left them both at the Ward and ran to the doctor. “No bed.” “Bed is there. Get back to the Ward. the sister will arrange.” It was 10.30 A.M. Alarmed, I retuned to the sister. Mad with rage, she shouted. “I don’t have any bed. Wait here. The doctor will come and provide. I wonder how he is going to source it, here.”

We waited. Papa sat on a stool, a kind soul had lent. One hour. Nothing happened. Another hour. We saw the surgeon and his assistants trooping in. They were quite busy. They had no time even to look at us. Three fugitives. Finally, I took courage. “Sir, no bed yet.” “Don’t worry. You’ll have the bed.” They went away.

The clock swung. It was 1 P.M. The assistants returned. We ran after them. One showed sympathy and concern. “I’ll do something.” “I’m hungry.” Papa was indeed hungry. He had had a harrowing time. Food did not matter to us. A place for the patient was our prime motive.

The surgeon came in again. “Sir, bed?” “Don’t worry. You’ll have it.” He went away.

4 P.M. The assistant called out. “Chacko.” You have bed. Number 35. Take it at once. Else someone else may have it.” The moment the bed was occupied, the sister took over. Temperature, blood pressure, medicines, chits for medicines. Tired, we went out for an untimely lunch. A packet was brought in for Papa.

Government Hospitals are always crowded. Specialists are available there. Nowhere else.

The facilities available are never utilized. Socialism has ushered in an era, where one gets paid for doing no work. The services are available elsewhere, at a price. Universal corruption. The way of life. All are equal. Everything is free.If you do not pay ‘ME’ nothing is available. You are shunned. Shunted.

Blood tests. X-rays. “Get it from ‘Roja’ clinic. Their results alone are dependable. Don’t go anywhere else. ECG too. But from ‘Shalini’ only.” “The patient is admited here. How do we do it?” “Don’t worry. Tell the sister. Get a taxi. Take him everywhere. But, for God’s sake get the results fast. Surgery cannot be delayed. Life is at stake.”

A novice, I have never paid any bribe till now. I do not know the art. Lack of expertise.

“Did you meet the sugeon?” Rajeevan, our neighbour. “Yes.” “I didn’t mean that. Have you paid him?” “No. What do you mean?” “If you want your father back well you must pay the surgeon his fee.” “Fee?” “The bribe.”“How much?” “Rs.150 is the current rate. Pay Rs.75 before and the rest on discharge.

I didn’t know where the surgeon stayed. Locating it, I went there with Rs.75.

Dr. Shyamsundar.P.S, MBBS, MS, MS, FRCS. Consulting time 4 P.M TO 7 P.M.

There was a big crowd. My turn came at 8.30 P.M. “What’s your problem? What brings you here?” He did not recognize me. “Chacko. The inpatient. Surgery”, I blurted out.I placed Rs.75 in an envelope on the table. A good Samaritan had taught me.Dr. Shyamsundar suddenly recognized me. “Yes. Yes. I remember. Don’t worry. Your father is safe in my hands.” There was a hearty laugh. Pleased, I returned to the hospital to keep Papa, company.

Wednesday. The surgery was listed for the next day. Forms to be filled. Investigations.

More trips to the clinics, for the disabled. Preparation of the patient for surgery.

Money changed hands. The salaried employee did his job. The clinics ensure prompt payment of commission to the referrers. Counseling. Declaration.

Surgery. The stretcher is wheeled in. The patient exuberant. Full of hope.“I do not need the stretcher. I’ll march in.” 7 A.M. The theatre closes its doors. The patient is administered sedatives, as prelude to surgery. The patient is first in the list. 8 A.M. the surgeon goes in. A large crowd waits. A number of surgeries are listed for the day. “The operation will soon begin,” a resident. There are thirty of us. Babychayan is well liked by peers and relatives. 9 A.M. the surgeon comes out. “The surgery will soon take place.” We settle down. 10 A.M. The surgeon again,“The surgery will soon take place.” We are perplexed. “Rohit, did you pay him.” Poser from our cousin – Thampy, a doctor in the States, a former student, of the Professor. “Yes.” “In our days, this man was reputed, for the money he took.” “Hmm.” “If you haven’t, we’ll do that even now. May be, he is delaying, waiting for the pound.” “I have taken care of that.” “O.K.”

1.30 P.M. The residents emerge. “Surgery is over.” “He is in the post-operative.”Thampychayan and Renu, my wife, stare at Papa’s fingers.“Why is it bluish?” she asks. Thampychayan nods. He calls in a resident. He too examines it. “Wheel the patient back to the ward.” Efficient hands transfer the patient to the stretcher. “Don’t forget to pay the bearers”, Thampychayan. “O.K” The patient is back. The sisters take over. A string of tubes. I.V. Catheter. A big bottle under the bed to drain off the urine.

“Keep feeding the liquid.” Commotion. Papa is restless. Four sets of hands try to hold him down. He is unconscious. Yet he struggles. Thampychayan is concerned.“The condition is becoming serious.” I watch him speak quietly to Acha and Johny, my in laws. Thampychayan goes out. “Sir, the patient, Chacko, is critical. Please make haste.”

“I have my patients. I’ll come after I finish with them.” A poor man has a right to his living. “Sir, the patient you had referred to Dr.Shyamsundar. He is critical. post operative”, the in-laws spoke to the senior physician. “I have an emergency. A crisis. Will you all wait for me or return tomorrow?” The response was electric. The patients disbursed.

Dr. Ramachandra Iyer.P.K, MBBS, MD, MD, MRCP picked up Dr. Hari Govind. M, MBBS, MD, MD, DM, Professor of Cardiology. The arrival of the two seniors, professors, created a stir. Together, the patient was examined. “The BP has to climb. It’s very low”, they whispered. Medicines were prescribed. Administered. Tryst. “Hold on to his hands”, the resident. Grim.
****
Forty-eight long hours of vigil in front of the theatre. The patient remained critical.No contrarians among the eminent.
****
A fighter, he had been through a great deal. Singapore. Bombs rained. Shells blasted.

Scared, he ran and ran, lay flat. Japanese. British. American. Merciless. On and on it poured. Engulfed everyone. Many died violent. Many maimed. Survivors waited their turn.
***
As a child, an imminent watery grave stared at him.
***
Wild tuskers let him off.
***
A fall and a slide off a cliff with Mom – he held her all the time - evaded disaster.
***
Strange script.
***
“I never knew of this surgery”, Dr. M.K. Divakaran, the anaesthetist, a friend of Thampychayan. “Who did it?” “A PG.”
***
Socialism has ensured a fair deal.
**
“Did you satisfy him?” “Who?” “The surgeon.” “Yes.” “Presume, you didn’t give Rs. 500, the minimum, I mean his standard.” “No.” “That’s why the negligence.”
Thampychayan added, “You know why it went wrong?” “They started the oxygen very late. He suffered due to insufficiency of oxygen. They ought to have started the oxygen the moment the blue, appeared. It must have happened right when he was on the table. The PG was unaware, inexperienced, to notice it. The surgeon will do his job. Nothing else.” Specialisation. Compartments. Watertight.

“Who’s Rohit?” A resident, they were all friendly by then, popping out of the theatre.

It was more than two days since we were left in the lurch. “Will you come with me into the theatre?” “That’s it”, I thought, “The finis to a badly written script.” It was 2 A.M.

“I am not sterile. The theatre wear?” “Don’t bother. Keep away the footwear. Hurry.”

The relatives pushed me in. There he was, on a bed, wide awake.

“Who’s this?” “Speak out.” “Hey, the tube!” “Take it out.” “This is Rohit, my son, the eldest.” “What’s he?” “He stays in the city. Works in an office.” “Enough.” “Please go out.” “Your dad has regained consciousness. He’ll survive.” “Let him recoup.”

“Thank you,Oh,Lord.” The exit. “What happened?” “Is he in danger?” Quizzed ten pairs of eyes. “He’s alright. He’s alive. He’s spoken.” Smiles. Weary frames. Curtains to the long wait.

Future? Past, a bad dream. The present, we have. Much to strive for. The loser won.
It’s the beginning. Not the end. Fight. Fight to win. Never give up.Much to strive for. Much ahead. Hopes, plans for the bright Sun. Tomorrow.
*******















































































































‘

JIMMY WE MISS YOU

Jimmy was our Labrador retriever. True to his nature he never let any intruder or stranger into his domain. He died fighting a cobra that strayed into our land. Though he killed the cobra he succumbed to its venom. He was nine when he was taken away from us abruptly. He gave up his life to keep alive people he loved most.

Jimmy came to us when he was three weeks. The puppy, black, had not yet opened his eyes. He needed warmth. Like a child he was fed milk through the nipple. We kept him in our bed room for three months in a large basin covered with clothes to keep him warm. When he grew out of the basin he was free to trundle in the bed room. He was the new born in the family. He made high decibel noises. We had to clean the floor umpteen times a day. No one complained. With him after us life had a new definition and dimension. He was transferred to the kennel after three months as he did not require closer attention like in the initial phase. Though the kennel was his abode he was allowed into the house whenever he chose. He would lie down in the living room quietly after making sure we took our place. Time flew. He became full size. Twice he had fathered puppies. He was an exemplary watch dog. Our neighbors felt secure as he was doing an excellent job in a virtually seamless vicinity. Slight movements anywhere near our place put him on the alert. His snarl meant something was amiss.

Jovial and playful he was obedient to the core. He would watch, listen and respond quickly. He read our minds so well that his response to what went on in our minds at once surprised us and our visitors. He had no inhibition in expressing his emotions either.

We felt miserable when he left us. We wanted to save him, but the venom acted so fast that death was instantaneous. We could not do anything at all. We felt devastated. Death is real. It is brutal. One moment you have the animate brimming with energy. The next, it is all very quiet. Motion is stifled. The animate becomes the inanimate. The space is vacant. We stare into vacant space hoping for a turn around. The inevitable mocks at our pretensions of invincibility. What is gone is gone. Those who live have to carry on till they too reach the end.

We buried him covered in clothes. As he was lowered gently into the grave the three of us looked at each other with ashen faces. We could not hold back our tears. He meant very much to us. He had kindled a sparkle in our lives. He loved us. We loved him. He trusted us. We trusted him. He was a member of our family. He loved a ride in the car. We shared celebrations with him. .

“Jimmy, thank you for what you had been to us. Thank you for every thing,” was our spontaneous and tearful expression as death parted Jimmy from us with an irreversible and cruel finality.