(continued from 'Slap your cheeks at Dr.V - Part 1')
At last Mr.G closes the door behind the day’s first group of patients and those in the waiting room with the next 3 token numbers finally allow themselves to feel a flicker of hope. It looks like their trip isn’t going to be a waste after all. Their turn to stand on the hallowed ground is coming in a few hours. God is great indeed! Clutching their tokens inside a tight fist, they lean back on the hard stone bench with a sigh and will themselves to drift into a dream of Dettol, thermometer and Dr.V until Mr.G opens the door again to summon them.
Leaving them to their happy dreams, let’s join those on the other side of that door in Dr.V’s room. If I were you, I will hold on to something solid soon after you enter his room. Confused? Look below and you will notice that the floor has caved in (this building is a tribute to Chennai’s architecture) to form a nice little pit in the center of the room where Dr.V is sitting. What this means to you is unless you hold on to something for support, you will find yourself rolling on the floor to Dr.V’s feet whether you mean to kiss them or not. Fighting gravity on top of a cold and a fever is beyond the skill of most people so they usually dive for the bars on the window soon after they enter the room. When I was in that room during my recent trip, I remember holding onto a hook on the wall for dear life and looking down my nose adoringly at Dr.V.
Situated happily in the middle of the pit, Dr.V’s desk dominates the room and is populated by 2 palm-sized prescription pads, a manual blood pressure monitor and a torch that has surely seen better days. The rumor mill has it that curators from museums around the world have shown more than a passing interest in bidding for Dr.V’s torch and blood pressure monitor. This leads me to believe that they have not yet seen his hand washing bowl.
This is as good a work of art as I have ever seen. It is a big round white (I am 90% sure that it is white) porcelain bowl that Mr. B takes great pain in filling with fresh water every morning so that the Doc can wash his hands between his trips to the Injection room. You can see several black markings on the inside of the bowl giving it a nice eerie look. I hope Dr.V has the inner strength to turn down the fortune that I am positive he will get for this bowl should he ever decide to auction it. It will be a dark day indeed when the clinic will be left bereft without its icon of cleanliness. My father has a smaller version of this bowl that he uses even to this day in his daily shaving ritual. So far we have managed to keep the curators away from his door but I wonder if my Dad knows that he is sitting on a golden goose?
Coming back to Dr.V’s room, watch the first patient swing her way to the chair next to Dr.V. This chair is said to have medicinal qualities of its own because many patients, like my mom, start feeling better the minute they sit here. For ease of narration, let us assume that my Mom is the patient on that chair now and to preserve her identity, I shall refer to her as ‘Ambujam’ from here on out.
Dr.V – Come Ambujam. Is your leg bothering you again?
Mom – Oh, I wish it were that simple Doc. You know how the children have all come for vacation and how much work there is at home. I am not as strong as I used to be. The servant maid has not come for 2 days. Apparently there was a death in her family and she had to go to the village. Poor girl, what can she do? Sometimes, if you have to go, you just have to go.
Dr.V – Alright Ambujam, what is the problem today?
Mom – When I wake up in the morning, I have such palpitations and feel so weak. My leg feels like wood and my hip hurts all the time. Sometimes, I feel dizzy and not feel like getting out of bed. Can you give me some pills to quickly fix these problems? As you know, I have so much work to do at home. Oh, I almost forgot. 3 days ago, I ate some mangoes…I know, I know that I should not eat mangoes with my diabetes but you know how people bring mangoes when they come to visit you. Children these days don’t eat as well as we used to, Doc. I can’t really let all those mangoes go to waste now, can I? But don’t worry. I immediately made some bitterguard curry and compensated for all that sugar. I pray to God everyday for good health but I guess He is busy with other things.
Dr.V – There is nothing wrong with you Ambujam. You are aging, that’s all. I will give you an injection to stop the palpitations and give you some pills to help with your body aches and pain. Just tell your guests not to buy so many mangoes next time. Here is your prescription. Give it to G, he will get your pills ready and you go wait in the injection room for me. I will be there soon. (soon???? Yeah, right Doc.)
Mom – oh, thank you Doc. I knew I would feel better just talking to you. While I am here, can you talk some sense into our Meena here? She doesn’t eat anything healthy. No good vegetables or fruits. Can a person really live on potatoes alone? I am making myself sick worrying about her all the time.
Dr.V simply smiles and nods at the next patient to take the chair that my Mom just vacated but if you think that my Mom is done with Dr.V, you are naive indeed. Patients like my Mom believe in making full use of the consulting fee that they pay the Doctor. My Mom gives the chair to the next patient willingly enough and stands on the side continuing her conversation(??) with Dr.V. She wants to know if she should eat the pills before food or after food; she wants to know if drinking Oats with buttermilk first thing in the morning will cure her diabetes; she wants to know if it is alright to walk only 10 minutes a day instead of the 30 minutes that Dr.V suggested to her before; she wants to know how to reduce weight without having to give up on any of her eating pleasures.
Dr.V spends 8 hours a day treating patients like my Mom. Dr.V’s baldness may not be genetic after all.
Two doors lead away from Dr.V’s room – one to the Injection room and the other to what can be loosely termed as a 'Pharmacy'. The compounders Mr. G and B are the kings of this little kingdom where they cook up their magic to deliver the medicines to the patients. Potions are lovingly packed in little glass bottles and pills are wrapped up in newspapers of yesteryears. After collecting your bundle of miracle from Mr.G, move through the door on your right to the Injection room.
Dr.V’s Injection room is a small rectangular room with one long wooden bench and one straw chair - all for the comfort of his dedicated patients. A shelf mounted on the wall houses a gasoline stove over which an old pot sits. Mr. B periodically boils water in this pot to sterilize the syringes and other things. As you sit on the wooden bench there to begin the long wait for Dr.V, Mr. B will promptly come and collect your prescription and prepare the syringe with medicine that is to be administered by Dr.V. You can't help but admire the way Mr. B makes the whole business of preparing syringes look so easy. A dozen or so shoe boxes filled with different medicines decorate the cabinet at the corner of the room and guess who has the key to this cabinet? Mr.B, that's who. Talk about power!
The wait for the Doc. continues in the Injection room. You can safely take a nap and a half before Dr.V will walk through this door to administer the shots. By that time, you will find yourself literally rubbing elbows with other patients who are crammed up in the small Injection room with you waiting for their chance at a shot by Dr.V's hands. As the door swings open finally to let Dr.V in, patients stand up as much to show respect as to stretch their stiff joints. Folks start to roll up their shirts/blouses even before Dr.V begins to call out their names to step forward. Dr.V's injection is not for the frail-hearted, let me warn you. The big fat syringe looks intimidating enough to make Superman call out for his mommy so don't feel bad if you do the same.
When at long last, you stretch your arm in front of Dr.V and he pulls out the big needle out of you, the Sun is already making his way down West. The epic journey is finally over and rubbing your arm with the cotton swab that the Doc gives you, you can walk out of the clinic to greet the outside world that is eagerly waiting for you.
(the end)
Monday, August 15, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Slap your cheeks at Dr.V!
Over 2 weeks ago, Chennai spread her hot and humid arms wide open to welcome me warmly through her doors and just like with all my previous visits to India, I found myself in a hurry to visit Dr.V, our family physician. It is a time-honored tradition for me to go pay Dr.V a visit as soon as I get into town. I think of it as sort of like going in for a quick oil-change. One big, fat injection,a handful of pills and I usually find myself back in smooth, working condition.
Dr.V and our family go way back. He has known me ever since oral spurting became the most important daily ritual for me from the age of 3(somehow the word 'vomiting' sounds like a dirty word in a public forum). I know the black and white 'Welcome' portrait in his clinic's waiting room, not to mention the long whip of a lizard gracing its walls, as well as I know my two sisters.
For as long as I have known him, Dr.V has sported the most wonderful bald head that I have ever known. It has always gleamed like a polished granite countertop and when seen along with the thin-rimmed spectacles that is always perched high on his nose, it gives him an air of such supreme intellect. To this intellect, add a regal form of over 6 feet with a build to match that towering height and voila, you have a doctor who exudes competence, confidence and charm in equitable proportions . Just as I know that the Sun never rises in the West, I am positive that Dr.V never comes to his clinic in anything but a pair of smartly tailored slacks, a crisp full-hand shirt and a solemn tie.
A day out to Dr.V's clinic is anything but ordinary but without giving you a virtual tour of the clinic at this time, it is hard to explain why. Located just off a busy main road, Dr.V's clinic looks just like any other building in the street. Stray dogs and nomadic cows compete constantly to assert their supremacy as the uncrowned kings of the neighborhood and do their beastly best to block anyone from going through the gate. If you have the wiles to sneak between them, the long-winding entrance ramp leads to a rectangle waiting room where the norm is hard stone benches and simple cushionless straw chairs. There is no pretense of elegance anywhere in this clinic but you will agree at the end that the obsessive streamlining of the clinic's operations more than makes up for the lack of elegance.
As you climb the ramp to enter the waiting room, it pays to be agile and alert. On your march...get set...now RUN! Run like the wind! Better yet, run like PT Usha! Run to the little hole in the waiting room wall for it holds the magic key to the doc's room - your token. You don't stand a chance of seeing the doc without this token so grab the one from the top of the pile. While running for your token, if you find the mob of patients running alongside you resorting to devious methods to push you aside to reach the token stand first, don't be coy and don't be subtle. Take your elbow and aim for their ribs. After all, it is common knowledge that only the strongest survive in this world.
Ok, now you have your red token (so it doesn't quite look like red but come on, give them a break. For ones that have been in use since 1974, they don't look all that bad, do they?) and it reads 8. What do you do now? Well, if you are willing to give meditation a try, grab a seat and start practising some mind-control techniques because it will be a while before you lay eyes on Dr.V.
If my memory serves right, Dr.V has had two compounders under his payroll forever - Mr.G and Mr. B. I have never known any compounders who can wield such enormous power in a clinic. Take Mr.G. Every once in a while, he will open the door to the waiting room and bellow out 3 token numbers - (for example 1,2,3) and no less than 30 people will trip over themselves to reach him with such gratitude dripping out of their eyes. It never fails to move me to see the tears of joy and gratitude in their eyes. But Mr.G is a stoic one. The many years of working under Dr.V must have given him the maturity to not take all this fawning to heart. You will see him standing firm as a soldier at the door ensuring that no one without a token passes through . As for 30 people rushing in for 3 token numbers, the math has never added up for me but the important thing is it apparently did to Mr.G.
Lucky are these folks who pass through the formidable Mr.G to enter Door#1, for their epic journey has finally started. Through this gate, they get their first glimpse of the great Dr.V. I even have vague childhood memories of folks slapping their cheeks gently in a show of reverence as they stand before Dr.V finally, just like in Thirupathi. It may be a while till they see the outside world again.
(to be continued)
Dr.V and our family go way back. He has known me ever since oral spurting became the most important daily ritual for me from the age of 3(somehow the word 'vomiting' sounds like a dirty word in a public forum). I know the black and white 'Welcome' portrait in his clinic's waiting room, not to mention the long whip of a lizard gracing its walls, as well as I know my two sisters.
For as long as I have known him, Dr.V has sported the most wonderful bald head that I have ever known. It has always gleamed like a polished granite countertop and when seen along with the thin-rimmed spectacles that is always perched high on his nose, it gives him an air of such supreme intellect. To this intellect, add a regal form of over 6 feet with a build to match that towering height and voila, you have a doctor who exudes competence, confidence and charm in equitable proportions . Just as I know that the Sun never rises in the West, I am positive that Dr.V never comes to his clinic in anything but a pair of smartly tailored slacks, a crisp full-hand shirt and a solemn tie.
A day out to Dr.V's clinic is anything but ordinary but without giving you a virtual tour of the clinic at this time, it is hard to explain why. Located just off a busy main road, Dr.V's clinic looks just like any other building in the street. Stray dogs and nomadic cows compete constantly to assert their supremacy as the uncrowned kings of the neighborhood and do their beastly best to block anyone from going through the gate. If you have the wiles to sneak between them, the long-winding entrance ramp leads to a rectangle waiting room where the norm is hard stone benches and simple cushionless straw chairs. There is no pretense of elegance anywhere in this clinic but you will agree at the end that the obsessive streamlining of the clinic's operations more than makes up for the lack of elegance.
As you climb the ramp to enter the waiting room, it pays to be agile and alert. On your march...get set...now RUN! Run like the wind! Better yet, run like PT Usha! Run to the little hole in the waiting room wall for it holds the magic key to the doc's room - your token. You don't stand a chance of seeing the doc without this token so grab the one from the top of the pile. While running for your token, if you find the mob of patients running alongside you resorting to devious methods to push you aside to reach the token stand first, don't be coy and don't be subtle. Take your elbow and aim for their ribs. After all, it is common knowledge that only the strongest survive in this world.
Ok, now you have your red token (so it doesn't quite look like red but come on, give them a break. For ones that have been in use since 1974, they don't look all that bad, do they?) and it reads 8. What do you do now? Well, if you are willing to give meditation a try, grab a seat and start practising some mind-control techniques because it will be a while before you lay eyes on Dr.V.
If my memory serves right, Dr.V has had two compounders under his payroll forever - Mr.G and Mr. B. I have never known any compounders who can wield such enormous power in a clinic. Take Mr.G. Every once in a while, he will open the door to the waiting room and bellow out 3 token numbers - (for example 1,2,3) and no less than 30 people will trip over themselves to reach him with such gratitude dripping out of their eyes. It never fails to move me to see the tears of joy and gratitude in their eyes. But Mr.G is a stoic one. The many years of working under Dr.V must have given him the maturity to not take all this fawning to heart. You will see him standing firm as a soldier at the door ensuring that no one without a token passes through . As for 30 people rushing in for 3 token numbers, the math has never added up for me but the important thing is it apparently did to Mr.G.
Lucky are these folks who pass through the formidable Mr.G to enter Door#1, for their epic journey has finally started. Through this gate, they get their first glimpse of the great Dr.V. I even have vague childhood memories of folks slapping their cheeks gently in a show of reverence as they stand before Dr.V finally, just like in Thirupathi. It may be a while till they see the outside world again.
(to be continued)
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Mommy booth is now open !
One of these days, the inevitable may finally dawn on you that vegetating in front of a television is no guarantee for your happiness and health. Or you may just feel social one evening and get this friendly urge to stop by our house for a nice cup of coffee and snacks with a bit of lively, spirited conversation on the side. Whatever the reason might be, I urge you to please check the calendar first before you knock on our door. If ‘x’ marks the spot on Sunday, I suggest that you reconsider.
Please don’t get me wrong. We love company and have been known to be spirited and lively on occasions. It is just that on a Sunday evening, you may find more cheer in a funeral home. As breakfast gives way to lunch and lunch gives way to snacks on Sundays (btw, the hands on my internal clock always read Breakfast, Lunch, Snack and Dinner as opposed to the usual 3, 6, 9 and 12 on a regular clock), we, the Sankarans, find ourselves transforming from deliriously happy to decidedly depressed and unlike Cinderella, we manage this without the aid of a chubby godmother and an orange pumpkin. If you ever hear us whimpering, you can bet your next meal (sorry, I don’t take any chances on my meals) that Monday is not too far away.
I have come to call this strange phenomenon the ‘Smile-free Sunday’ syndrome. To us, Fridays are for fun, Saturdays are for snoozing and Sundays are for sadness. With my head held high, I proudly declare here that we beat moaning Myrtle fair and square in the battle of the Whimpering Wimps of the weekend.
Past noon on any given Sunday, my children embrace unhappiness like it is their favorite grandmother. When the clock strikes one and the mouse goes down (Hickory Tickory Tock…helllooooo???), a magic spark goes off somewhere inside the deep, dark recesses of their memory and sets them off in a maddening frenzy around the house in search of homework assignments and projects that, they suddenly remember, were due the previous decade. Thoughts of the many forgotten quizzes, tests and project deadlines lined up for the upcoming week pop up just then to haunt my poor kids to profuse sweating if not premature aging. Beautiful dimples start to dissolve in a quagmire of nerves, fear and despair leading to wobbly lips and fresh tears. All through the evening, you can find them alternatively rubbing their stomachs and foreheads in an effort to dislodge that invisible ball of lead that seems to have not only pitched a tent but also applied for a social security number in there.
Believe it or not, my children are convinced of a supreme cosmic conspiracy that deprives them of precious minutes on a Sunday by making all the clocks in our household tick faster than usual. What sounds like the regular rhythmic tick, tock, tick, tock to me somehow sounds like a super fast, furious bull tearing up a Rodeo field to my children. This is the same conspiracy that, according to them, sends the Sun sliding down the horizon in a hurry on that day. Of course, I know better than to dispute such comic (no typo here) conspiracies.
Usually I am all for keeping the lines of communication open with children but Sundays are the sole exception. I never initiate conversations with my kids past noon on Sundays because they always mistake the slightest movement of my lips to be a special invitation to break down and cry their hearts out. Call me a terrible parent if you want but I am tired of getting my good clothes soaked every Sunday under these sad tears. So much so that I am seriously considering buying myself a special Sunday ki Sunday bib that reads ‘Monday is coming and the Mommy booth is now open for your tears’.
At last we cross the twilight time zone that is between snacks and dinner on Sunday and the crescendo spirals up in a steady rhythm going from sniffling to sobbing to sulking and finally erupts into the inevitable resignation when our clock strikes Dinner. An eerie calm settles down on our home at this time. Trembling lips are bitten down, backbones are straightened, chins are jutted out and the inhabitants of the Sankaran land brace themselves to face whatever monster Monday has in store for them.
As the dinner table is cleared, I take my cue to heave a sigh of relief and go in search of Erma Bombeck’s essays to learn how to smile again until the next smile-free Sunday.
Do you still dare to knock on my door on a Sunday evening? Better yet, can I knock on yours?
Please don’t get me wrong. We love company and have been known to be spirited and lively on occasions. It is just that on a Sunday evening, you may find more cheer in a funeral home. As breakfast gives way to lunch and lunch gives way to snacks on Sundays (btw, the hands on my internal clock always read Breakfast, Lunch, Snack and Dinner as opposed to the usual 3, 6, 9 and 12 on a regular clock), we, the Sankarans, find ourselves transforming from deliriously happy to decidedly depressed and unlike Cinderella, we manage this without the aid of a chubby godmother and an orange pumpkin. If you ever hear us whimpering, you can bet your next meal (sorry, I don’t take any chances on my meals) that Monday is not too far away.
I have come to call this strange phenomenon the ‘Smile-free Sunday’ syndrome. To us, Fridays are for fun, Saturdays are for snoozing and Sundays are for sadness. With my head held high, I proudly declare here that we beat moaning Myrtle fair and square in the battle of the Whimpering Wimps of the weekend.
Past noon on any given Sunday, my children embrace unhappiness like it is their favorite grandmother. When the clock strikes one and the mouse goes down (Hickory Tickory Tock…helllooooo???), a magic spark goes off somewhere inside the deep, dark recesses of their memory and sets them off in a maddening frenzy around the house in search of homework assignments and projects that, they suddenly remember, were due the previous decade. Thoughts of the many forgotten quizzes, tests and project deadlines lined up for the upcoming week pop up just then to haunt my poor kids to profuse sweating if not premature aging. Beautiful dimples start to dissolve in a quagmire of nerves, fear and despair leading to wobbly lips and fresh tears. All through the evening, you can find them alternatively rubbing their stomachs and foreheads in an effort to dislodge that invisible ball of lead that seems to have not only pitched a tent but also applied for a social security number in there.
Believe it or not, my children are convinced of a supreme cosmic conspiracy that deprives them of precious minutes on a Sunday by making all the clocks in our household tick faster than usual. What sounds like the regular rhythmic tick, tock, tick, tock to me somehow sounds like a super fast, furious bull tearing up a Rodeo field to my children. This is the same conspiracy that, according to them, sends the Sun sliding down the horizon in a hurry on that day. Of course, I know better than to dispute such comic (no typo here) conspiracies.
Usually I am all for keeping the lines of communication open with children but Sundays are the sole exception. I never initiate conversations with my kids past noon on Sundays because they always mistake the slightest movement of my lips to be a special invitation to break down and cry their hearts out. Call me a terrible parent if you want but I am tired of getting my good clothes soaked every Sunday under these sad tears. So much so that I am seriously considering buying myself a special Sunday ki Sunday bib that reads ‘Monday is coming and the Mommy booth is now open for your tears’.
At last we cross the twilight time zone that is between snacks and dinner on Sunday and the crescendo spirals up in a steady rhythm going from sniffling to sobbing to sulking and finally erupts into the inevitable resignation when our clock strikes Dinner. An eerie calm settles down on our home at this time. Trembling lips are bitten down, backbones are straightened, chins are jutted out and the inhabitants of the Sankaran land brace themselves to face whatever monster Monday has in store for them.
As the dinner table is cleared, I take my cue to heave a sigh of relief and go in search of Erma Bombeck’s essays to learn how to smile again until the next smile-free Sunday.
Do you still dare to knock on my door on a Sunday evening? Better yet, can I knock on yours?
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