MUMBAI FLOODS-AGNES’ AGONY

Agnes hails from Fort Kochi. She belongs to a middle class family there. Agnes had her education at a College in Ernakulam where she had done her Post Graduation in Chemistry. Her parents had soon arranged her marriage with Davis, a receptionist in the office of Air India at Mumbai.

Davis played soccer well. He was the goal keeper of the Air India Football team that had been at the top of the Mumbai League for a while. As his appointment was on the sports quota his job profile was cut out. He was under orders to practice and play the matches and attend the office when there were no practice sessions or games.

The marriage saw Agnes and Davis set up their home in Mumbai. Davis had been allotted a flat in the Air India Colony at Santa Cruz. Agnes managed to find a teacher’s job in a private school at Santa Cruz. The family life was happy and peaceful.  As the years went by Agnes gave birth to a baby girl. The baby, Florence grew up to a lean and tall beautiful girl.

Davis, as he became older had to take leave of the game he had loved very much. Those were the days when one could land a job in Kuwait easily if he had the right connections. Davis shifted to Kuwait as an accountant. The move was to make up for the extensive damages the family underwent due to the heavy floods in Mumbai at that time. The floods had badly affected quite a lot of Mumbaikars.

Santa Cruz Air Port had to suspend its operations due to the flooded runway. The flood waters had engulfed the runway in a span of three hours. The fury of the floods was unrelenting. The Air India Colony was inundated. The flood waters had entered the ground floor and the first floor of all the buildings there damaging all the possessions of the families that lived there. Agnes and Davis had to build their life anew. It was a tough call.

The stint at Kuwait helped Davis recoup the losses the family had suffered.

Life went on pleasantly. Agnes and Davis  carried on with their jobs. David would come home on one month’s leave each year. Angry floods had spared Mumbai for more than a decade.

Agnes and Florence were staying in their flat. Agnes would go to her School to teach and Florence was attending the Engineering College. Florence had to start early to reach her College in time.  One day a little while after Florence had left Agnes to her horror discovered that the area they were staying was a sheet of water. She could not move out nor go to her school. It was heavy floods again in 2005. Agnes was confined to her home. She was tense as she could not communicate with anyone at all. The lines of communication just did not exist. Agnes could not link with Florence or Davis who was in Kuwait. She had no word from Florence for five days and the distraught mother had  presumed her daughter had met a watery end.

The agony was insurmountable.

There was a knock on her door on the sixth day after Florence went missing. Agnes opened the door with trepidation.

There she was. Her daughter Florence with four of her friends stood there crying.  They were all wet. They had waded through chest high water for a long time to reach home.

It was a rambling narrative.  Soon after the Suburban Train Florence had boarded with her friends was on its way they could see that the train was stuck in the heavy floods. The Train could not move and as the level of water was very high there was no way for the passengers to detrain. Like the rest of the passengers the girls remained rooted to their seats. They could not open the windows as the rain came down heavily. There was no water to drink and there was no food. They were at once thirsty and hungry. The day went off. Night was scary for the girls. They kept themselves awake fearing for their lives. The ordeal went on for the second day and alas the night too. The third day a few good Samaritans who stayed close to the Railway line reached out to them with water and food. It was a big relief. But there was no escape from the enforced confinement. Relief operations were stream lined a little more on the fourth and fifth days. The regular supply of food and water saved them from starvation and a certain fatality.

They could move out of the train only on the sixth day when the flood waters started receding. They however had to wade through chest high water to reach Agnes’ place. There was no way for Florence's friends to reach their homes that were far off. Agnes profusely thanked God for keeping her daughter safe. She provided food and fresh set of dresses for all of them. The girls stayed with them till they could safely reach their homes.

It was a narrow escape for the girls from a watery grave. The many shades and  hues of the 2005 floods had brought the shadow of death closer to many Mumbaikers who were out for a stroll or out on any activity on that fateful day. Some of them had quietly disappeared into open manholes as they were negotiating the submerged roads. A few of them who were travelling in their cars had stopped their vehicles when they saw the water level rising on the road. and chose to wait it out. They kept their windows shut to keep the rain out. Unfortunately for them the water level rose sharply to immerse the vehicles and slaughter them.

There was relief for Agnes’ agony at the end but not for many ill-fated Mumbaikars.

The only prayer is ‘no more massive floods in the maximum city anymore.’

THE WARRIOR FIGHTS AND SURVIVES IN 1980

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.

*******

‘

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