October 24, 2011
Another bumpy rickshaw ride to the hospital in the morning to collect my blood test results. At the sample room, the nurse told us that everything has already been included in the file and sent to the doctor. Dr. Haridas recognized me from the door and waved us into the tripartite consulting room.
"I wanted to contact you," he said.
With that suspenseful sentence, our discussion was cut off because another lady and gentleman sat down facing the doctor.
"Please wait for a minute there. Let me talk to them first because they have sat down."
I had no qualms in waiting. My mind was fully occupied coming up with Tarantinosque scenarios about why the doc had wanted to contact me. These fantasies were interrupted by his diagnosis of the couple who had sat down.
She had piles. He went about telling her exactly what needs to be done. Including vivid gestures of how to apply the ointment using her left index finger. As if embarassed, she switched to a complaint about pain and weakness in her left arm.
"Maladwarathile pilesum tholile vedanayum thammil bandhamila. We will deal with them separately. Malabhandam undo?" (There is no connection between the piles in your rectum and the pain in your shoulder. We will deal with them separately. Do you have constipation?)
Even after the couple left, my file hadn't arrived. The doctor displayed the extraordinary patience of a mentor with the nursing students scrambling about in the room. "Ningal veruthe angottum ingottum nadakathe. Oral oru joli elku" (All of you don't walk helter-skelter in the room. Each one take over one duty)
As a new patient sat down, he turned to the junior doctor to his right. "Do you see how quickly I do the diagonisis? We don't need more than a couple of minutes. "
An old lady with a baby, must be her grandkid, sleeping on her shoulder was consulting with the junior doctor to the left. He wasn't around during our last visit. He stood up and leaned over to the senior doctor with the patient's file.
"Herniayude koode ampendicitisum cheyyamo?" (Can we do ampendectomy along with hernia surgergy?) he sought the mentor's advice.
"As a matter of principle, no. In hernia surgery, we insert a mesh. Removing appendix might lead to bacterial infection in that region which is harmful for the mesh." the explanation was provided in half English and half Malayalam.
"Can we do the surgery tomorrow?" asked the junior.
"What is your advice?" the doc threw the question back at him.
They both looked at the diary. The page was packed.
"Let us try. Ivar ellarum koodi nale vannal problem aakum" (If all of them show up tomorrow, it will be a problem).
I wondered if it was the little kid sleeping blissfully on the woman's shoulder was the one getting operated on.
Finally my file arrived. "Arun, do you have a family history of blood sugar?" I turned to Achan who was sitting in the row of chairs bordering the sliding doors of the examination rooms. Achan had diabetes. 'Father diabetic' the doctor scribbled into the page of the file.
"Rest of your organs are fine."
He looked at my chest x-ray. 'Great'!
"Cut down on sweets, have less rice, exercise more."
"Can I have fruits?"
"You must eat fruits."
"Sweet ones?"
"Not too much in one go. I also have sugar problem, but I love having fruits. The problem with genes is that all the bad things also come over with the good things," he smiled at Achan.
I was ordered one more blood test to double check the sweet nature in my blood by birth!
While the nurse in the sample collection room was busy searching for my vein, a flustered middle aged man showed up at the door.
"Why is the normal value not written here?" he asked waving the paper at the nurse's assistant.
"Only the biochemistry department writes the normal values, " she said while tightening my arm stiffner band.
"Ningal computeril feed cheyathathu kondale?" (Isn't it because you haven't fed it into the computer?) he was in a combative mood.
"Doctore kanichile?" (Did you show it to the doctor?) she wasn't going to give up. She sealed the velcro on the stiffner band a bit forcefully.
"Doctorku ariyamayirikum pakshe njangalum ariyanamallo" (The doctor will know but we also would like to know) he said while leaving.
"Why don't you have the value entered?" I asked her while she was applying the cotton swab
"It is two different values for adults and kids, so we leave it blank if the value is normal" she said while pushing the needle in. I felt a pinch unlike last time. May be my left arm is more sensitive. May be the young man managed to upset her.
***************************************************************
Once again, on our return, the first rickshaw was willing to take us only till Pettah junction. This was a brand new vehicle, freshly garlanded. It had identical posters of the majestic elephant Pambadi Rajendran on both the passenger windows. The animal and the poster seem to be very popular with the drivers in this area. As he dropped us, the driver provided some native wisdom based on overhearing our conversation on blood sugar.
"Perakka...pacha perakka...poovu paruvam kazhinjathu...ezhu divasam ravile kazhicha mathi...complete sugar pokum...pinne muttayi kondu nadakendi varum" (Guava...green, unripe guava....just after the flower stage...eat it for seven days in the morning...all sugar will be gone...after that you will have to walk around with sweets to give yourself some sugar)
At Pettah, at least 10 autorickshaws refuse to go to Vellayambalam. Sun begins to irritate as it gets closer to noon. Achan gets frustrated. He asks one of the waiting rickshaw drivers why other drivers are refusing to go to Vellayambalam. The driver grins and shakes his head that he doesn't know.
A frail, old fisherwoman in a floral pattern blouse, balancing the aluminimum vessel of fresh fish on her forehead atop a wooden plank, overhears this conversation and interjects in Thiruvananthapuram accent, "Ethu pattiyada Vellayambalathu pokathathu?" (Which dog is refusing to go Vellayambalam) and walks away.
Dog is not the respectable American dawg in these parts of the world. Achan and I smile over her unexpected reprimand of unknown rickshaw drivers. It was impossible detect if she was drunk over the fish smell.
Soon a non-canine driver arrives. He explains that other drivers don't want to be caught up in all the signals on the way to Vellayambalam. In the rickshaw, we speculate how Amma will react to the sugary development in my health.
***************************************************************
We stopped at the 'Haritha' vegetable stall near the entrance of the housing colony towards the Althara Devi temple to buy ingredients for a 'sambar'. Valiyamami (Achan's sister) had told him that vegetables are good quality and cheaper at this stall.
As soon as we placed the order, the proprietor went into panic. Her knife was missing! Another woman standing outside the stall suggested that the knife might have been dropped into the bag of the lady who just got into a rickshaw with her purchase.
Strange guttaral noises emanated from the two feminine throats.
These pre-linguistic mantras managed to halt the rickshaw.
The irritated face of the customer protruded out of the vehicle.
"Pichathi bagil veena?" (Did the knife fall into the bag?) That woman snapped open the plastic bag, looked inside and shot back an expression of Nero who had been interrupted while playing the 'veena'.
The shop lady went about lifting every single plastic tray arranged in the front. It was not among the green beans, not under the carrots, not stuck in the cucumber. The knife was better than Saddam and Gaddafi. He was almost a Laden. I pulled out my cellphone just in case troops need to enter Pakistan.
She didn't want to keep us waiting. We must take uncut veggies.
For sambar: 1 large carrot, 1 short long-gourd, 1 drumstick, 2 small brinjals, half of the cucumber whose cutting was the last act the knife had managed before its vanishing, 2 small colacassia roots.
In the absence of the cutter, we decided to forgo the pumpkin.
Suddenly the other woman discovered the knife. It was in the money tray.
Why she was looking in the money while the shop lady was busy serving us was never discussed in the sharp euphoria!
Knife meant pumpkin carving.
7 ingredients for sambar ready. Rs. 30. Cheap indeed.
For Rs. 2 more, she threw in a handful of green chilis. A generous handful since she was happy about the revenant knife. It, however, reacted like a discovered stowaway and tried to end his imbalanced life on the edge by plunging from the table to the floor, the attempted suicide mission missing the lady's feet by just an inch.
*******************************************************************
At home, I tell Tara on Gtalk about the issue. She informs Amma. Amma calls.
"No more sweets for you!" she declares.
I hadn't expected anything less.
The sweetness from my life is disappearing.
Unniyappangale vida!
She goes on to provide a list of things I will not be allowed to eat, as if to rub it in.
While we talk on the phone, unprecedented, a cotton candy man walks on the street outside our house, musically ringing a hand-held bell.
Universe has an unbeatable sense of humor!
********************************************************************
The frontpage of Malayala Manora newspaper today carried the photograph of one mother landing a superb technically sound right straight cross punch on another mother during the Parent-Teacher association election meeting at the Kerala School in Delhi. I hope the children learn!
The Hindu newspaper carried a report on a small temple in Thiruvananthapuram that has become wildly popular after it introduced a garden with the astrologically matching trees for each of the 27 birth stars of the Indian calendar. Now for Rs.25 each, devotees are flocking to the temple to offer sacred ash and water to their specific trees. The ecotourism department of Thenmala had also tried this technique earlier to popularise tree-planting. If this superstition can be used to get people to plant more trees, so be it. I am going to memorize this list of trees. Next time I walk into a house with a yard or garden, I will strike a concerned, thoughtful pose and ask, "Why are you putting your family's life under risk?" and then explain to the bewildered family that at least the husband's or an ancestor's star sign corresponding tree must be present around the house. "Don't you care about their children's health?!" I will wonder loudly! And I would be happy to tell them which astrologically appropriate tree saplings they should soon get for their own yards or at least sponsor in an afforestation project.
******************************************************************
Gentle drizzle all afternoon. Sound of water dripping from the leaves. Terrace drains plunge creating a discordant water chorus. The pleasure of natural chaos. The drain that drops into our front garden, hits miniature palm leaves making the sound of rustling paper.
Poems arise and are washed away quickly within.
Continuous rumble of thunder in the distance. Diwali in the heavens.
By early evening, it is dark. Not gloomy.
This darkness feels secure, invokes nourishment.
It feeds the nostalgia of a life lived several lives ago.
The grey sky dome becomes my cave.
Safe. Alive. Embraced.
On a day that has set in motion the gradual sucking away of all edible sweetness from my life, I am profoundly grateful for the blessing of the company of the sweetest souls, those already known and those yet unmet!
