I was born with the name Manavlal Yadav. That I would be called Manaiyya one day was an inconceivable thought. I rather fancied names like Ray or, Allen. Manavlal Yadav or, Manu was way better than Manaiyya though.
Well, well, what’s in a name, Mr. Fancy Pants, I heard her enquire with a hint of laughter. Dim echoes of that honey-dipped voice lilting, rising and, dipping as the occasion warranted. Sometimes, with a trace of sarcasm that dripped and stained while at others, the firm with a hint of compassion shone through. I had never known that the tone and tenor of a voice by itself could be this mesmerizing. Like tongues snaking out, feeling, caressing and the gradual, slow submersion into its depths.
When the letter of enquiry came from Ms Sagarika General Hospital, I recognized the feeling. The sudden churn. That name. A most unusual one - Sagariga, I had called her then. Sa, Ri, Ga, the first three notes of the sapthaswaras-the basic seven notes that form the foundation of classical music; any music. Its western counterpart began as Do, Re, Mi, and, ended in Do. I remembered the rendition of Julie Andrews in the ‘Sound of Music’. Of all the children watching the film, with rapture on their faces. Munching through handfuls of dry roasted peanuts, and non-crisp popcorn, school water bottles hanging from our necks, with bare feet or school sock encased feet that were snug within sandals. Sagarika was engrossed and hummed along gazing intently at the screen. Our grasp of the language was limited and we tried to follow the lives of the Von Trapp family chiefly through the visual imagery and the wondrous songs. Such was its impact that we imagined ourselves to be the Von Trapp children marching away and allowing Sagarika to take the place of Julie chiefly because she could sing. And she had a voice! There was no doubt about that.
Many joyful hours we had spent after school in the hot sun, tramping behind her, imagining ourselves to be flying about and living our lives in a castle. Sagarika’s obsession with the songs gave me the chance to rechristen her as Doremi. Not that she liked Sagarika anyway. The memory bought a smile to my lips.
Obnoxious brat she was; defiant, with a devil-may-care attitude. That fistfight with her a few days before she left was epic. She just wouldn’t give up. And that was all we had talked about for days after they had left.
She had given me good. Matched a punch for every punch that I handed out. Kick for a kick and, slap for all those slaps.
In the end, I was exhausted but determined to win. Inevitably, that led to a hollow feeling. Of having hurt her. I got roasted at home for bashing a girl. However fiery she was, Doremi was a fighter. Being the only girl among my gang of boys who were stout locals, the respect she had earned was grudging and soon turned to admiration.
I flipped the folded letter open and studied the address printed below. No. 143, Malcolm Road, Ravirajapuram, Chennai. So that’s where they had gone. From the northeast to the south of India. I wondered how they had adapted. I was keen to know the details. Itching to meet the family and, Doremi, if, that was her. I turned to check the search engine for Mr. Murthy - her father. Yes, that was uncle. He looked tired, haggard but still had the same kind eyes. And Doremi; omigosh, looked way different from the image that popped up before my eyes. Gone were the oiled plaits and bug eyed look. I leaned back in my chair to take a deep breath. This new avatar, I definitely liked!
It was providence that forced me to handover the resignation letter a few weeks ago. I was sick and tired of the corporate life. My life and work were on the same level. Ambition and remuneration had taken a backseat a long while ago. Delhi had begun to irk me. I was beginning to question where I was heading. I did not have a life. Neither were friends or companionship on my wish list. I did not have the time for anything, leave alone introspect. I was beginning to call myself a bore and suspected that the ugly snickers behind my back went along the same lines. The truth was, I was saturated. Exhausted. Nothing excited me. Not even the money or my high profile job. I had become part of the monotony. I was stuck in a rut and needed a change. Frankly, the letter stirred something in me. It was time to call my agent for a weekend ticket to the ‘Kanhaganj’ of the south. And hoped that this phase would pass. I would let my instinct guide me.
*
A curt information in the form of a mail had been sent requesting for an extra day off clubbed with the weekend. Knowing the management, I’m sure that they would agree to whatever I asked for. I was tired of watching their hangdog expression and tell myself, ‘Just this one year. There won’t be a next’.
Expertly packing formal shirts and a suit for the interview, I included a shirt and veshti8 ensemble should an informal visit to the home be included. Packing was a non-strenuous affair as I had been doing this for most of my working life anyway. I could pack and unpack stuff from a suitcase with my eyes closed. Travel time was three hours along with a few more of those stuck in the choking traffic. I was waiting to fly away from the smog.
Touchdown followed by customs check was a breeze. I followed the taxi driver bearing my name on the placard to his ambassador car. The ride was a silent affair as I was immersed in my thoughts. Nervousness coupled with trepidation was something that I was unaccustomed to for a long time now. I felt hesitant and unsure. Taking out a cigarette, I rolled down the window and proceeded to calm myself.
The structure that loomed before me was not a grandiose one. It was a cement and brick plastered double storied building. The yard in front teemed with lush greenery. Young fruit bearing trees stood discreetly among the larger shrubs close to the compound wall. I paid the fare and observed the view from within the enclosure after walking in through the open gates. A khaki clad native, presumably the watchman, came running to close the gate, offer his apologies and carry my suitcase. I watched him mutter non-stop without a clue as to what was being conveyed but at my indication that I had come to see the Big Man here, he barked out a laugh and motioned that here; a ‘respected woman’ ran the show. ‘Periyamma’16 he repeated twice encouraging me to repeat the word. I nodded to show that I had understood and followed him into the cool interior. Ceiling fans whirred at high speed all along the long corridor. There were men, women and children of all ages and sizes, sitting on the plastic chairs touching the walls as well as a few others hunched over and sitting on the floor with outstretched legs. All glances swiveled upon my entry and the entire group rose with palms folded with some bowing low and muttering, ‘Doctor aiyya’.
Taken aback at this response, I espied the board that said, ‘Murthy-Managing Director’ and walked in through the door. Inside the room was uncle, head bowed and writing furiously on a notepad. Hearing my tap on the door, he looked up confused. A tall man in a suit was a rarity in this part of the world. As his gaze took me in and rested on my face, comprehension dawned. ‘Manu,’ he said. Uncle got up from his position and came to enfold me in a hug. After giving me a chair and a glass of water, he enquired about the journey and my travel plans. Nodding at my answer, he stood up abruptly. “It’s time you meet the person who is the life and soul of this place.”
“Periyamma?” I enquired and uncle laughed. We walked on to the next room. It was marked, ‘waiting room’. Here, a few women sat on chairs and a weighing machine stood at one end of the room. Rapid fire muttering at the woman who was having her son weighed, followed by a volley of instruction to the nurse standing by the Chief Doctor’s side. Clad in a sari with hair clipped at the back, I would recognize that voice any-where. This was Doremi; Periyamma and, Chief Doctor all rolled in one; the lady who ran the show. I could feel all the pieces fall into place and a happy grin split my face wide open.
*
Dr. Sagarika gave me a cursory look and ushered us out of the room. Her consultation room was at the end of the corridor. A well-appointed room, it had a raised bed that served to check on patients who required a lie-down. I looked around and noted that the walls were bare save for a calendar that was printed in a South Indian language. Malayalam, I learnt later. As we sat facing her, I was struck by the changes. She had mellowed but there was a steely glint in her gaz
e. Aware that I was staring hard, uncle cleared his throat. This was an interview, I reminded myself.
Doctor Sagarika observed me for a moment and said, “Manu,” to which, I smiled.
She quickly corrected herself, “Mr. Manu,” My shoulders began to shake.
Catching the drift, uncle joined in.
Sagarika grinned broadly and continued, “Mr. Manavlal Yadav, welcome to M/s Sagarika General Hospital.”
The thaw had softened. The humble beginning of the hospital was narrated, my duties outlined, there was no Periyaaiyya running the show except for uncle, I was assured with a smile. I felt chastened and sheepish at the last remark.
The remuneration would be a fraction of what I was getting but it would be improved every year. As demands far outweighed the needs, I would be required on site 24/7. This was a hospital with a mission. Personal gains were not in consideration. Service to the needy was to be the outcome. It seemed to be a personal issue with the Murthys’ I gathered.
I found myself agreeing to everything that she said. I do not know what came upon me. The money and living style were issues I was not overly concerned about. I was sick of the life I led anyway. But, there was a hitch. The language.
“I understand,” replied Dr. S to that. Suppressing a smile, she stole a look at uncle and looked directly at me to say, “For that, I have the best teacher at hand. His patient guidance will help you learn the language effectively. I know so because he was my teacher as well during my school years,” Giving a tap on the bell with her forefinger, she asked the peon to call Murugan and introduce him to Manaiyya.
*
Manaiyya—my new name. Her choice.
Not Ray. Not Allen. It seemed that I was stuck with this version for now. My shoulders drooped and I got up to meet this ‘Murugan’ under whose care, I was to be assigned.
Jaw dropping shock! To say that I was flabbergasted was an understatement. I had been neatly cornered. This Murugan was just an old, bent villager! The same one who had muttered non-stop and insisted on my addressing the Periyamma the right way. How was he supposed to guide me? Was this the break from the corporate life that I had hankered for? This seemed to be the total opposite of what I was doing so far. Trust my instincts, my foot!
Everything seemed to be happening incredibly fast. The trip, this job, Uncle and Periyamma, and now, this Mururgan; son of a gun!
I trudged wearily behind him as he smiled and shook his head at me all the while, rapidly firing away phrases or names; I am not sure which came first. He led me outside to the garden and pointed at the trees, shrubs, all the greenery muttering and nodding at me. I waved my right hand at him and gestured that I did not understand. “Hindi,” I said loudly. “Hindi. No Tamil.” Murugan was nonplussed and stared at me for several seconds. Then off he rushed inside to confer with his boss madam and Periyaaiyya, I suppose. I was tired, hot and, hungry. Bundling my suit under my arm, I waited under the shade of a towering Peepal (sacred fig) tree that stood outside of the compound, for Murugan to return.
*
The three days extended to a week later, ten days. Finally, I called and informed the management that they were to count me out. I was going to try my luck in the land of the ‘madrasis’. I could imagine the shocked faces and the hushed whispers. Stray comments about Manavlalji18 making a bad move, jibes on ruination of the career, and so on.
I had decided to take the risk. Plunge in. I could fathom that the voice held me captive. Of course, it was not just that. I recognized the pull. But, the thought of going back to my penthouse depressed me. I had wanted to break out. To rebel. And I was being given the chance on a golden platter. If this was meant to end in regret, so be it. I would indulge in that at a later date. Not now. Not when the intrigue was just beginning to beckon.
I stayed as a guest at the Murthys’ home. The house was practically empty with uncle and Dr. S at the hospital throughout the day. Aunty was at home supervising home cooked meals for the family. The food was packed in steel boxes along with copper canisters that contained drinking water and buttermilk and was sent to the hospital in a beat up car by mid-afternoon every day. The amount that was cooked was gargantuan. Since I subsisted on a roti or two and a sabzi, the array of dishes confounded me. Rice, sambar, rasam25, up to two vegetable dishes—seasoned or steamed and accompanied by a gravy-based relish, yoghurt, a chutney, pickle, appalams30, and a sweet. The meals were served on plantain leaves. About ten numbers were cut every day, rubbed clean, tied with string and dispatched along with the containers. Most often, Murugan; yes, my tutor and general helper, landed at noon to handle the arduous task. The heat drained me and I needed time out between shifts. There were practically no shifts to speak of. So, I had to work up a schedule for practically everything, which seemed monstrously arduous given the fact that oversimplification was a matter of principle. There were no concrete rules that were followed in this part of the town.
The afternoon ritual thus, became a done deed. I regularly caught the ride in the car to the house with Murugan and the driver chortling away at my struggle in mastering the language. Thamizh was the local language but the Murthy family spoke fluent Malayalam at home. It was often no-man’s land in my case. Tut-tutting at my condition, aunty would often remonstrate her husband and daughter and, that arrogant ass-Murugan. The switchover to Hindi would be a welcome respite, save for the bumbling gardener.
Aunty would now wait for my arrival to share the day’s happenings while we ate. I was allowed a siesta of a full two hours, her diktat that none dared oppose. Her notion was that, I was working too hard for someone this new. Uncle hemmed and hawed at this while Doremi sulked. It was as if the four of us had bonded and functioned like a well-oiled unit. Murugan also displayed mild reverence, which was quite humbling considering his relationship with the family. Through him, I came to know and understand events of the yesteryears that had guided the family to its current exalted state. The entire population swore by Periyamma’s name. She was the blessed one. No one could take her place. Murugan’s Sagupaapaa was a phenomenon. And his Maariyamman had a hand in that.
*
Days flew by and so did the months. The first six though, were tumultuous with confusion reigning supreme. The entire system followed the coveted, ‘first come, first serve’ routine. Breaks and shifts were unheard of and I marveled at the dedication and energy put in by Team Periyamma. Knowing that my being was here for a reason, meetings were held and it was decided that the organization and management of the hospital would have a separate team of dedicated personnel. Dr. S would retain her team of doctors including the young intern Chandrashekhar, who would take care of all professional aspects such as diagnosis, laboratory, minor surgeries and the outpatient ward. A dispensary was included within the compound so that patients could avail of medicines as per the directive received from the concerned doctors. Travelling a kilometer away from the hospital to purchase the medicines could be avoided and the time saved was an additional advantage as well.
I, Manavlal Yadav was formally proclaimed as head of the Admin department. The revenue and logistics department now began to show a semblance of order. Several women were hired as ayahs from the vicinity and Murugan as the team lead, wore his badge with pride whilst conferring with them and orienting them on their duties. Nurses and Doctors began to follow the shift system with mandatory breaks in between. Two additional vehicles and an ambulance were purchased through bank loans and it was proposed that residential quarters for the personnel to stay on site be erected. I was able to meet and convince the very banks that had rejected the eminent Doctor’s application for the rapid changes to be implemented in a smooth manner. It was thus that, I moved out of the Murthys’ residence and began to live in a portion of the quarters allocated as per my designation. The daily lunch trips and weekend visits to the home continued on a regular basis. I began to feel as though I finally found my calling. The void within me, I had identified as yearning for a family. Something that I had thought
was not destined for me, now seemed to be within my reach. Nights heightened my anxiousness. Time seemed to be stagnant. Dawn dissipated the tense moments. I had wasted years living the high life and now, not a moment was to be thrown away. Mr. Fancy Pants had turned ardent admirer. Gone were the days where my sneers would crumple and deflate egos. Manavlal Yadav now craved to hear that voice, the smile that came along his way and the intense look that turned his insides to a quivering mass of happiness.
It was obvious to all but Periyamma that a rank newcomer had crept into the ranks of fervent admirer. The debatable point was when would either of the two realize or accept what was meant to be.
*
With the hospital running successfully, fame came calling. The very first invite addressed to Dr. Sagarika M.B.B.S, M.D. for the prestigious All India Medical Conference that was to be held across four weekdays in Bangalore was received. As preparations for the event were made with feverish excitement, I felt my heart plummet. Four long days! Now, the days would seem as intolerable as the nights. Summoning up the guts I decided to take the bull by the horns. Walking into her room, I cleared my throat. The Doctor and team were huddled around her table engaged in what seemed to be, a serious discussion. I cleared my throat rather loudly yet again. There was a sudden hush and heads turned in my direction. I felt a flush travelling from the neckline of my shirt to my face. (It was the heat, I told myself. The ceiling fan needed to be replaced.)
I had to continue now that I had her attention. In a raspy voice, tongue grating against teeth, I rushed on, “Doctor S, your tickets have been booked.” She nodded in affirmation.
Sweat trickled down my temples. “Does the invite extend to two? I know Bangalore well. I could show you around once the conference is done with.” I noted the smirks but strained to hear her reply. It was as though all the cells of my body were screaming for attention. After a hesitant pause came the answer, “Well. I have never had a vacation since I started work here, Manavlal Yadavji. Guess this would be a good time to start.” The room erupted in cheers and whistles. This was obviously a date that had been long in coming. All the members stood up, clapped and watched us; their heads of the department nodded and smiled stupidly at each other. I felt relief wash over me. It was an idiotic move I knew. One that would go down as part of the local lore but right now, all I needed was a glass of water and a chair to support my weak legs.
Girl in a million Page 8