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 fro 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 isn't the patient on 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 tot 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 admitte here. How do we do it?”
“Don’t woryy. 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.
*******
THE WARRIOR
--------------------------
ABRAHAM JACOB, T C 30/211, ASRAMAM ROAD,
ANAYARA, TRIVANDRUM
– 29
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 fro 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 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 tot 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 admitte here. How do we do it?”
“Don’t woryy. 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.
*******
THE WARRIOR
--------------------------
ABRAHAM JACOB, T C 30/211, ASRAMAM ROAD,
ANAYARA, TRIVANDRUM
– 29
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 fro 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 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 tot 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 admitte here. How do we do it?”
“Don’t woryy. 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.
*******
‘
THE WARRIOR
--------------------------
ABRAHAM JACOB, T C 30/211, ASRAMAM ROAD,
ANAYARA, TRIVANDRUM
– 29
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 fro 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 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 tot 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 admitte here. How do we do it?”
“Don’t woryy. 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.
*******
THE WARRIOR
--------------------------
ABRAHAM JACOB, T C 30/211, ASRAMAM ROAD,
ANAYARA, TRIVANDRUM
– 29
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 fro 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 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 tot 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 admitte here. How do we do it?”
“Don’t woryy. 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.
*******
‘
‘
‘
Posts
