She was obviously muddled up and did not know what to do with her life. She was thinking of so many things so fast. Was that the reason of her husband’s ennui, and the consequent distancing?
‘Pray get politics out of your mind. It is a dirty business. And social service doesn’t seem to be your cup of tea. Why don’t you think of a career in microbiology? The pharmaceutical companies are where you should look for an entry.’
‘But I have lost interest. I still want to act in TV serials.’
‘I hardly ever watch them. They seem pure rubbish to me. Even the news channels are so galling.’
‘Yes, but that is what the masses lap up.’
‘I feel happy ensconced in my own world, away from the razzle-dazzle,’ he blurted almost in annoyance. She looked at him in amazement, but he soon sounded an encouraging note, ‘If that is the life you desire, go ahead. Be guided by your own intuition, not by how I look at it.’
It was getting to be 7 p.m and she showed no signs of calling it a day, still sunk deep into the sofa. All the while she never alluded to the pain for which she had come in the morning.
‘Well?’ he said, signalling that the interview was over.
She took a deep breath as if to take the final call. ‘I feel I will leave him after I return to Mumbai,’ she said.
‘I would not take a hasty step if I were you. I would move away for some time and see how it works out.’
‘Sir, I am quite competent to look after myself,’ she said with pride. ‘I have a brother in Mumbai, but I will not move in with him. I need no crutches. I will prove to the world that I can get somewhere on my own.’
‘I like that; you have my blessings,’ he said in all sincerity and got up.
‘I want to remain your friend and to stay connected,’ she said, rising out of the chair, and extending her right hand.
‘Sure,’ he replied as he shook her small hand that got lost in his. And for the first time he realised how diminutive she was, her head almost touching his shoulder. But her smart exterior, her pretty face, her seeming self-assuredness masked it all.
‘I will need your guidance from time to time,’ she said again.
‘Sure. And how is your pain?’
‘Oh, the pain!’ She was taken by surprise at his question as she suddenly dug her hand into her flank. ‘I don’t feel it this time. Your healing touch, I believe.’
‘The dawning of awareness!’ he exclaimed.
‘I think so. And thank you, sir.’
Dr Kaul saw her off at the gate just when Jyoti returned from her walk.
‘You took long?’ he asked her matter-of-factly.
‘Didn’t want to butt in,’ she replied with an enigmatic smile.
‘Oh!’ he grunted.
‘Do we know her?’
‘Just a patient. She had come to consult me in the morning.’
‘What was the evening consultation for?’ Her tone was tantalising.
‘She had come over for a cup of coffee.’
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Ah, the new coffee culture! This is the first time I hear a patient coming over for a cup of coffee.’
‘But we forgot all about it!’
‘About what?’
‘Coffee.’
‘The time seems to have been well spent then.’ She was sarcastic.
‘Look, she is a woman in distress…’ He tried to explain.
‘And you the knight in shining armour!’
‘Just a doctor trying to reach out to a patient.’
‘An infatuated patient,’ she continued her banter.
‘Come on, she is less than half my age.’
‘That is why...’ She cast a wry smile and went inside.
NOTE
chunni – scarf worn around head and shoulders by women
KRISHNA IS HURT
Rukmani is 72. A Krishna devotee from her childhood, she lives with her family at New Plots, Jammu. The absorbing stories of Krishna’s childhood, which she heard from her mother and read from the epics, never fail to captivate her. Every morning she gives her Krishna a bath and dons him in clean clothes. She sings him leelas and bhajans, including, invariably, the one she likes most, Maiya mori mein nahi makhan khaiyoo (Mother, I have not eaten the butter), shedding tears of devotional ecstasy.
She sometimes wonders why her parents gave her the name Rukmani; why not Yashoda. But then she realises that Rukmani is as good a name for her as any. After all, Krishna is the beloved of all—his mother Yashoda; his chief consort, Rukmani; his 16,000 wives; his beloved Radha; the gopis; the villagers of Nand; and, in fact, everyone under the sun. They all love him beyond the physical. Their love is supreme; it is transcendental; it is pure bliss.
One morning, Rukmani woke up with fever and chills. The least she wished to do was to give Krishna his customary bath, but she felt too weak to move out of her bed. She called Indu, her daughter-in-law, and asked her to give Krishna a bath and change his garments. ‘He likes a good shower; be patient with him, handle him with gentle care,’ she enjoined her.
Indu felt privileged, for it was the first time she was asked to perform this ritual, but Rukmani’s last words made her a bit nervous. When she held Krishna under the running tap, he tumbled out of her hands into the wash basin, producing a tiny clink that reached Rukmani’s ears in her bedroom.
‘Indu, what happened?’ she called out.
‘Nothing, mother; Krishna slipped from my grasp. But he is all right.’
Rukmani lumbered out of her bed, still tremulous with fever, and walked slowly up to the wash basin. She took Krishna gingerly from Indu’s hand, holding him tenderly, looking fondly at him.
‘Indu, little Krishna is hurt.’
‘No, mother, there is not even a scratch, not the least blemish that I can see.’
‘But he is hurt; why can’t you see? Go get the doctor at once.’ She held Krishna close to her breast, fondled and caressed him, crooning softly into his ear, ‘You will soon get well, my little one; we will get the doctor for you, my fond one.’
Indu looked at her, partly amused partly annoyed. ‘Mother, he is fine. I can’t find any hurt at all.’
‘I can; I feel his pain. Go tell Rajesh to fetch the doctor.’ Saying so, she walked back to her room, cradling Krishna carefully in her arms.
Rajesh, by now all dressed up for office, hurried to see his mother.
‘What is it, mother?’
‘Son, look here; Krishna is hurt, he is in pain. Please fetch a doctor before you leave for your office.’
‘Mother, this is just an idol of Krishna. Idols don’t feel pain.’
‘Please waste no time; get the doctor, or I will myself go.’
‘Indu told me you are running a fever. I think you need to see the doctor, not Krishna.’
‘Not me; I feel a lot better already; my fever is fast abating and the chill is all but gone. But Krishna is in pain, my son.’
Bemused, Rajesh trooped out and walked to the nearest doctor in the neighbourhood.
The doctor thought he was joking when he learnt that Krishna was an idol and not any child. When Rajesh insisted that his mother believed Krishna was in pain after being hurt in a fall, he reprimanded him, ‘It seems either you or your mother or both of you need attention and not your Krishna.’
A chemist in the next lane directed Rajesh to Dr Mengi of Sarwal who, he said, hardly ever refused an emergency call.
‘Please, doctor, I would like you to come with me; there is an emergency at my home,’ Rajesh pleaded with Dr Mengi.
‘What is it about?’
‘Krishna slipped from my wife’s grip while she was giving him a bath. He is hurt.’
‘Is he your child?’
Rajesh related the sequence of events. ‘Though I can’t see it, mother is sure that Krishna is in pain.’
The doctor was fascinated by the tale. An astute student of human psychology, he would not let this opportunity go. He agreed to pay the house call.
Rajesh picked his bag, placed it in front between his legs, asked the doctor to sit on the pillion, and drove home on his scooter. His waiting mother welcomed the doctor enthusiastically. ‘Doctor Ji, thank you for coming. Please have a good look at my Krishna.’ And she delivered Krishna delicately into his hands.
Dr Mengi examined Krishna keenly while the family members watched spellbound.
Cast in bronze, Krishna was around seven years old with big and bright eyes, a crown on his head and standing on one leg, the other twined around with the tip of its big toe touching ground. He had a flute in his hands, his lips blowing into it, and his fingers in action. The doctor glided his hands carefully along Krishna’s limbs and body and palpated his head carefully.
‘Your little Krishna seems fine,’ he declared.
‘But you have not examined him fully,’ Rukmani moaned.
The doctor at once corrected himself. ‘I mean there is no external injury, no sprain or crack anywhere, but I have not finished yet.’
Then he fished his stethoscope out from his bag and started auscultation of Krishna’s heart.
‘Lup dup, lup dup…’
Was he imagining or was it real? He looked around in the room for any extraneous sounds, but there were none. He listened again. ‘Lup dup, lup dup…’ Krishna was speaking through his heart!
Dr Mengi was excited; a light gleamed in his eyes and he looked adoringly at Rukmani, and from her to Krishna and back.
‘You are right, madam; Krishna is a bit upset from the fall.’
‘I told them but nobody believed me.’
‘But he will be okay. All he needs is a restorative. I will send it from my home. Meanwhile, let him rest in your lap.’ And he delivered Krishna back into her waiting hands.
Reaching home, the doctor asked Rajesh to wait while he went inside and came back with a small pot. ‘This is for Krishna.’
‘What is inside the pot, sir, and how do we administer it?’
‘Hand it over to your mother; she will know,’ he said with a wide grin.
Thanking the doctor, Rajesh proffered him fees for the home visit.
‘That won’t be necessary. On the contrary, I must thank your mother for giving me the opportunity to examine her Krishna and discover the rarest case I ever met in my practice.’
Rajesh was amazed. He thanked the doctor and drove back. Reaching home, he handed the pot over to his mother. Slowly, she opened the lid and beamed into a cheerful smile that surprised everyone.
THE POET WITH A JAUNDICED EYE
It was my last working week before summer break. My clinic was flooded with patients eager to get checked up, and to take instructions for the four weeks that I would stay away. Amongst the patients was Prem Nath.
Prem Nath is a poet of repute and writes in Kashmiri under the pen name Shaad. His poetry touches the heart. He consults me from time to time, mostly regarding his son who often comes to seek reassurances for trivial complaints. This time, it was the son accompanying his father, helping him inside my chamber.
Shaad did not sport his trademark cloth satchel with a long strap slung from his shoulder in which he often carries copies of his books or a diary with his unpublished work. Nor did he wear his customary smile. This was unusual.
‘Pray, what can be ailing our poet laureate?’ I bantered light-heartedly.
‘Doctor Sahib, I am not well; I have contracted jaundice. It is getting worse by the hour.’ He put on a grim expression.
Shaad is generally a cheerful and engaging person, but in the matter of health he is like his son, fretful and neurotic.
‘It is a shame that jaundice has decided to visit me just when you are breaking for a holiday, leaving us in the lurch,’ he said as if it was a visitation by an evil spirit. ‘Pray, where should the patients go during your absence?’
‘I am around till Friday. That gives us four days to deal with your problem. In any case, you can always reach me on the phone. Now, let me know your story.’ I tried to sound reassuring.
Shaad’s problem had started 10 days earlier with loss of appetite and nausea. At first, he attributed it to something in the diet that would pass, but a few days later he started passing yellow urine, and his wife noticed yellow colouration of his eyes. By that time, the nausea was gone and his appetite was returning even as his jaundice was getting deeper. He didn’t report any pain or fever, except for a mild chill during the first few days of his illness.
Jaundice gave his eyes a yellow hue and his skin a light tan. His liver was enlarged and tender.
‘Shaad, this looks like viral infection of the liver,’ I said after I finished examining him.
He turned pale with anxiety. ‘Is my liver in bad shape?’
‘I do not think it is bad in your case since your appetite has improved and the nausea has subsided. I will order liver function tests. I suspect hepatitis E. That is the virus prevalent in Jammu during summer,’ I said.
He seemed alarmed. ‘Am I in any danger?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Could it be something other than a virus?’ Shaad asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Cancer.’
‘It seems very unlikely, but we will find out. We may conduct an ultrasound if necessary,’ I replied as I handed over the prescription to him. ‘You don’t need to come with the test results from the lab; send them with your son. And, please stop worrying.’
‘What about medication? What should I eat meanwhile?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Frankly, you don’t need any drugs; it is a self-limiting illness. You may eat almost anything you feel like.’ I gave him my stock answer to uncomplicated patients of hepatitis.
‘Anything?’ his son asked.
‘Yes, anything, unless some foods do not suit him. He may cut down on oils and fats for a while and take plenty of fruits and juices.’
‘But my food choice has been drastically curtailed. They don’t let me eat anything other than rice, gourd and squash. No oil, no butter, no mutton, no spices,’ Shaad moaned like a child.
‘Who is stopping you?’
‘My family, and others who come inquiring after me. They invariably come up with dietary advice, whether I seek it or not. I am utterly confused.’
‘Confused about what?’
‘The food I should eat.’
‘What would you like to eat?’
‘I would love to eat my normal diet.’
‘In that case, go do it; eat what you like.’
‘What about spices?’
‘No problem with spices,’ I assured him. ‘In fact, spices may be beneficial.’
‘Even turmeric?’ his son asked.
‘Even turmeric,’ I replied with emphasis.
Two days later, Shaad returned along with his son who placed the test report on my table.
He looked anything but Shaad which, translated from Kashmiri, means ecstatic. He once told me that he had initially given himself the pen name, Aijiz, which means jaded. That would be more appropriate in his present state of mind.
‘I came only to seek reassurance from you,’ he said apologetically. ‘After looking at the report, I am worried to death. There seems a gross abnormality in all the tests that you ordered.’
‘Yes, the enzymes have risen quite high, but I would not worry too much about it. I expect the inflammation to resolve on its own in three to six weeks. Thankfully, you are not pregnant,’ I said with a chuckle.
He looked surprised. ‘If it is a joke, I did not get it,’ he said.
‘But if you have conceived a new poem, it is all right,’ I continued in the humorous vein.
He forced a smile on his face. ‘You are teasing me with your riddles, Doctor Sahib.’
‘I am happy to see you smile again. The good news is that hepatitis E does not generally cause complications, except in pregnant mothers. You are only an indulgent father.’ I winked at him.
‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, understanding the joke. But he
seemed still unconvinced. ‘In that case, I don’t need to worry about complications?’
‘Only rarely does hepatitis E result in any permanent liver damage, unlike hepatitis B or C.’
‘That is a big consolation. But the enzymes are so high; can I still eat my normal diet?’
‘I told you; you can eat what you like.’
‘Can we use oil while cooking?’ his son asked.
I nodded my head in affirmation. I was getting impatient with the father and son taking turns asking the same questions about diet even as I had detailed out everything, including all the facts about hepatitis E, as if I were teaching medical students.
‘What about medicines?’ he persisted.
I had no intention of writing a prescription for Shaad. He did not need any. Since I was breaking for four weeks, I would hate to leave him petulant if I did not prescribe a drug. A blank prescription would be like a blank cheque for Shaad to run from one doctor to another until one of them prescribed drugs with unproven efficacy in hepatitis. Reluctantly, I wrote a multivitamin pill for him. Father and son beamed with satisfaction.
But he would not leave unless I had answered all his burning queries. He had come armed with a long list of dietary items written on a page for me to tell him which ones were allowed and those that were not. He had other needless questions too—about the length of time he should stay in bed, whether he could take a shower and, again, about the duration of self-imposed dietary restrictions.
And finally, ‘When do I need to go again for my liver function test, doctor?’
‘You will not conduct any test till my return.’ I put my fist down on the table in exasperation.
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 20