Unforgettable Summer Vacation
I am running downhill on a slope. As I am losing altitude I am accelerating effortlessly. My strides are automatically getting longer and longer. I do not know how to stop. Pine trees are fleeting past on either side of the grassy trail, fortunately, free from exposed roots or stones that save me from tripping. My run catches such a speed that if captured by a movie camera and projected on a screen in a manner as to make the sloping trail seem level ground, then I who never in life had taken part in any field or track event would look like a champion sprinter! Suddenly the thought of throwing myself on the ground for rolling down flashes through my mind, but fear of breaking a bone or two deters me. Instead, the very thought of slowing down makes me lean backward instinctively. How nicely these laws of mechanics are programmed inside our head- that while running down a slope, a backward lean would cause the weight of the body to pull it back like a leash and that a forward lean would unleash! My backward lean slows me a bit but that is not going to prevent me knocking over a boulder visible hardly ten feet ahead of me. A deep gorge occurs hardly a yard away to the right of the boulder and to its left almost touching it stands a thick trunked pine tree around which the trail takes a sharp turn. I feel like a motorist driving a car whose brakes have failed. Like a motorist on a head-on collision course, I have only a split-second to decide which way to swerve. Would ‘between the devil and the deep sea’ best describe my dilemma? Adrenaline rushes have soared. Reflexes have peaked. Time seems to have a higher resolution than normal. Even fragments of a split second have become perceptible. Heart pounding, forearms pressed on chest and neck stiffened on shoulders, head tilted back with face turned away, I thud against the tree. That was a terrible jolt! All this happens in the blink of an eye and without thinking. But these were the right things to do. Then a drowsy numbness overtakes my sense; everything darkens and I collapse on the ground…
It is not a dream sequence, but a real event unfolding on Shillong Peak- known as the Scotland of the East.
"Wake up Peter, wake up" I heard Mom's quavering voice on regaining sense after how long I did not know. Even through my hazy eyes, I could discern that she was shaken up. It was so intense. I was the reason and I felt sorry about it. Anxiously she kept on rubbing her palms on my chest.
Then as the haze cleared a bit, I could figure out my little sister innocently wiping my face with blades of grass soaked with morning dew- the coolest wipes on Earth imaginable! My younger brother came into view who in a state of shock tried to check my pulse.
"When shall you grow up? When shall you stop doing weird things without realizing what you are doing ... Like you did while dancing on the railway tracks" she reproached lovingly digging out a ten-year-old incident. That level of agony was something she never wanted to go through again. Yet she had to because of me.
“And he came out with some odd theory. You missed that mom” brother reminded.
“This time I felt like driving a car. I had a strange realization as though forward and backward leans are like the accelerator and brake pedal of a car during downhill running. But you won’t understand that Mom” I said struggling not to make an outward show of the pain searing through my arms which bore the brunt of the collision. But I couldn’t hide that fully.
“To hell with that! One who reads and writes, rides in his car later on” Mom rebuked throwing out a Bengali proverb reflecting a pretty middle-class aspiration.
Priscilla, seated at a little distance, was all praise “You are so brave, that you were not even afraid to risk your life and limb to illustrate the principles of Mechanics on yourself. For me, that would be akin to facing a tiger or crocodile for the sake of a better understanding of my subject.”
“Don’t worry Mom. Nothing has happened to me. God is with me!" I jumped up with euphoria surging within me. This was the third time that Priscilla had mistaken my weakness for my strength. When the first two such occurrences in succession seemed to defy logic, this third one seemed a Godsend. That also stalled my downslide on a path of glumness the way that tree halted my mindless downhill run.
“Thank heavens, you were spared from disaster. Truly, God is with you” Priscilla said making the sign of the cross, though she had no idea why I had spoken as I did.
Priscilla was born in the same Military Hospital as me but two months earlier, which otherwise would fall around the same time, had I not prematurely peeked into this world two months earlier.
In a military life where transfers or postings occur at regular intervals of three to four years, it is not uncommon for cantonment kids to get separated and reunited randomly at different stages of life ranging from infancy to early adulthood.
Living through infancy in family units under the same row of barracks unaware of each other, two toddlers got separated by a posting even before awareness began to form. Then another chance posting made our roads cross again at that stage of life which can be best described as ‘on the verge of adulthood’ after bypassing the stages that lie in between. I had just completed my first year in Engineering and she was studying Science at a premier college in the hill station as a day scholar. I had come here from my hostel to spend summer vacation and she would have to move into one upon her dad's eventual posting. Such mobile was the life of military kids even. However, the exponential growth rate of adolescence would often bring about a change in the way cantonment kids looked at each other if reunited all of a sudden in that mysterious stage of life during the later postings; credit: estrogen and testosterone. Though I didn't understand how exactly Priscilla looked at me even halfway through the vacation, I looked at her 'differently'.
I had been struggling for words with Priscilla who had morphed from a cute baby into a beautiful babe during the phases of life we bypassed until our second meet. Had we grown up naturally side by side until then as our kids did like 'industrial cousins', living an immobile life within the confines of an industrial township then would things would be any different for a dude like me?
When I tried to talk to her for the first time, the words seemed stuck in my throat.
I just couldn’t be myself. That ‘first time’ in those settings has been something difficult to forget ever afterward…
The Indian Airline Fokker-Friendship morning flight from Dum Dum airport Calcutta, soaring through the skies had just touched the grounds of Borjahar Airport Guwahati. As I exited the ‘aeronautical womb’ and descended the stairs, I saw Mother waiting behind the railings of the visitor’s gallery at the edge of the runway. I felt a surge of joy and gratitude with a tinge of sadness though. Sadness for the time we spent apart for the first time in life; joy for getting together again; gratitude for those pains she had endured during the second phase of our life that had ushered in this third phase much in the manner the pains and sufferings she underwent during my birth had brought me into existence in the first phase.
The life of a cantonment kid is generally divided into phases. The first phase is infancy to junior school when kids can move with their parents on postings and switch schools and even mediums. The second phase begins in higher classes when kids have to stay behind for studies while their father is posted elsewhere. It happened to us during the late sixties. I had just moved into the final year of school then. Father was abruptly transferred from Kalaikunda AF Station to Shillong Peak where he moved away alone. Mother along with me, a brother who was a year younger than me, and a little sister who was still in primary shifted to a small rental house on the outskirts of Kharagpur town.
My Mother took on all the family’s responsibilities when we moved to a new place. She did all the household work by herself so that we could focus on our studies. We also struggled financially, as my father had to support two households in different locations. I gave up private tuition and relied on self-study instead. We were not exempt from episodes of illness, nor was Mother entirely unsusceptible to ailments. Rather, her awareness of the reality that she was like the central pole supporting the canopy that protected our future, made her resilient. She was overwhelmed by the burden of responsibility and isolation. She spoke very little. Her low mood kept her from enjoying anything enjoyable. She lost interest in pastimes that she used to enjoy previously. We could sense her slipping into a state of depression.
About a year and a half of hardships finally paid off. I aced both the board exams and the IIT-JEE. Also, my board exam results entitled me to a scholarship that would give some respite to my father’s financial burden. Brother did well and moved on to the final year of school. The family now stood at a crucial juncture with three cantonment kids in three different phases of their respective lives. I had just gained entry to the third phase and was free to pursue a fully residential professional course, with periodic visits to parents during vacations. Brother was still stuck in his second phase and sister a free bird still in her first phase. But Mother had become the source of anxiety for all of us. Her depression didn’t justify staying back for another year till my brother’s board exams. Father came down all the way to settle the uncertainties.
At first, Mother was hesitant to leave us behind, but we finally decided that I would move to the institute’s hostel. The situation at home was not suitable for me to study for a career as a day scholar. My brother, who was more independent and self-sufficient, would stay with a distant relative as a paying guest until he finished his board exams a year later. Mother and sister would accompany father to Shillong. The military man’s small family of five already fragmented into two split further into three separate units. We all disliked this arrangement but felt that there was no better option.
The evening was rainy and gloomy, the last one before their departure to Shillong. Mother sobbed while she packed my bag and hold-all.
“So, you are also entering life as I did at a very younger age,” Father told staring at my luggage intently. Though he appeared sad, I could see the pride in his eyes. He accompanied me to the college hostel, which was just about half an hour away by cycle-rickshaw. By the time we reached the hostel gate, he had finished narrating to me his version of my miraculous birth story to cheer me up when my spirits were sinking low.
“Remember you were pronounced dead before you are born. Yet you have come up this far. So you have got nothing to be afraid of. Don’t worry too much about your mother, she’ll be fine. College is the best time of one’s life which I missed out on for family reasons. Make the most of it” he said as he waved an encouraging goodbye with a smile. As I saw him leave I told myself that this was not a farewell, but a new beginning…
A year passed filled with fun, agony, new friendships, studies, and learning experiences on how to be independent. I completed the first year of my five-year engineering course. I longed to see my parents and landed at the airport nearest to Shillong situated at Guwahati, its twin town on the foot of the hills. Brother was already holidaying at Shillong Peak after board exams. So the family unit was reverting to one. Happy times once again.
As I approached the visitor’s gallery, she spotted me among the crowd and waved her hand with a bright smile. I walked towards her and observed a transformation in her countenance. The furrows of anxiety and doubt that had formerly etched her features were supplanted by an air of relief and repose. Her mood seemed to transition from depression to elation. I bowed down to touch her feet. To me at that very moment, she seemed to be like a Goddess- radiant, lively, and graceful.
“This day has come because of you Maa” I felt my voice choking.
She held my shoulders and looked at me with concern, “Peter you look so thin and pale. Are you eating well in the hostel? Do they give you good food there? And what about the ragging? Did your seniors torture you a lot? You never told me anything in your letters. But I can see that in your eyes. Don’t worry. You are home now. I will make you your favorite dishes and take care of you. You will regain your health and strength in two months.”
“But how at all did you reach here so early in the morning from Shillong Peak?” I asked out of curiosity ignoring what she had just uttered. In the eyes of a mother her son never looks healthy and strong.
“Just wait. There is a big surprise waiting for you outside” she led me towards the exit “I simply couldn’t wait any more to see you after this long. Of late your dad has been too busy with the erection work of two new wireless transmission towers on the peak. So he has no time”.
“But tell me what the big surprise is?” I was growing impatient.
“It is Priscilla waiting outside to see you. She offered me a lift on the van that was taking her zoology class on a field trip to the Guwahati Zoo when I had no means of reaching the airport so early and was longing to see you. I thanked her and got on the van that with some diversion brought me close to you on time.”
“Wow! Could it be Priscilla, the same one whose photo is tucked away in our family album? The baby who is seen sunbathing beside me in the courtyard facing our barracks? Is it that same baby born at around the same time as me under the watchful eyes of the same matron as I was told?” I felt a surge of excitement.
“Yes, that’s her. But we had left that place on posting when you were too small to form any lasting memories, and you would never get to see her again, had another posting not placed her family here” Mother said interrupting.
“Where is Priscilla?” I asked as we exited and stepped onto the wide terminal facade facing the driveway.
“There she is,” she said, pointing towards a passenger van standing beyond the edge of the wide taxi parking lot, “But I’m afraid my legs won’t enable me to walk that far. So you’d better walk down there to say hello. But be quick. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
She sat down on a bench on the facade. I had butterflies in my stomach. It was like taking the up the challenge of approaching a girl of my age whom I didn’t know. That was not my cup of tea at the least.
‘You never get a second chance to create a first impression’- An old tagline
I dashed across the driveway and the wide car parking area and headed towards the green passenger van. There, stood a young girl seeming to be on the lookout for someone and that was me! Her beauty and grace contrasted with the jaunty vehicle behind her bearing a placard marked ‘Zoological Field Trip’. She was the only one outside, while the rest of the boys and girls were inside the van, making a racket of grumbles and crap. They seemed impatient with the delay caused by Priscilla’s whims.
As I approached her with a nervous smile, I felt my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to say something smart and witty but didn’t know what to say. She looked at me with a curious expression, as if trying to figure me out. Her eyes sparkled and I felt a surge of panic.
“Is that you, Peter?” she asked. I am Priscilla” She took the lead with a gentle smile. She seemed to be more confident and forward than me.
I tried to force a smile and say something, but words got stuck in my throat like a lump of coal. ‘Don’t let the silence ruin the first impression, come on Peter, speak up’ I urged myself and blurted out “You’ve grown so much since I saw you last time Priscilla”. I instantly regretted my words. They made no sense at all since we had parted as infants. I was so nervous and flustered that I had said something foolish.
Priscilla burst into laughter. I felt like a clown who had tripped on his shoes. What a frustrating encounter this was turning out to be!
“Oh! That was a good one… You have a good sense of humour Peter” Priscilla said laughingly.
‘Did I hear that right? What was she trying to say? Was she genuine or mocking?’ I was at my wit’s end.
“I wish we had you with us on this field trip to get over any boredom” Priscilla seemed to be impressed.
What? Me in a field trip with half a dozen gals and about an equal number of guys! I knew she didn’t mean it- just empty words as a mere expression of appreciation, or else I would have simply run away from that place. However, I was more than sure now that she had mistaken my 'stupid utterance' for a ‘sense of humour'. I did not want to break her delusion about me by uttering another stupid thing and fall in her estimation. I waved her goodbye and turned back without losing time. The old van sputtered to life and was on the run.
On my way back to the terminal, I was filled with mixed feelings of delight, fear, and dejection:
I felt a surge of delight at being able to create a ‘good first impression’, be it by a fluke or whatsoever. That was a lucky stroke- like a nervous footballer accidentally kicking the ball into the goal with an awkward shoot. Nevertheless, at the end of the day only the goal matters. But such a thing does not happen every time. I feared that in my next meeting with Priscilla, my nervousness would get exposed and bring about her disillusionment. Dejection oppressed me as I introspected on my inability to connect with young maidens.
“Didn’t the meet go well?” Mother asked at seeing my face downcast and gloomy. There was no point in hiding my feelings or pretending otherwise; she could read me inside out.
“Did you have anything for breakfast? I had enough in the airplane” I avoided her question.
“Yes, I did. Now we have got to hurry to the bus terminus for Shillong” She got up and we made a move.
But by the time we arrived at the bus terminus, the seats of the starting bus were full, leaving us with a few minutes to wait for the next bus with open bookings.
“Don’t be disheartened. It’s natural to feel down sometimes at this stage of growing up. I can sense what’s troubling you right now. It is a passing phase. But you have not answered the question, the more serious one, the one I asked you just upon seeing you at the airport.” Mother said, her voice gentle and soothing, as we stood for the next bus.
“I am often made the target of their teasing and it’s not just the usual kind of freshman’s ragging whose unwritten tenure has been long over. I have to bear it all in silence, without a word of protest or defiance. I feel scared to speak up or assert myself” I admitted, feeling a surge of shame and resentment.
With her gaze full of empathy, she said “My dear son, you were born as a miracle. One doesn’t have to be ashamed of certain shortcomings one is born with. They torment at a younger age but disappear as one grows. One must have the willingness to get rid of them instead of regretting them.”
“I am curious to hear more,” I said presuming she would be coming out with her version of my incredible birth story as we boarded the bus. As the bus wound its way up the hill Mother unwound the reels of the touching story from the depths of the past.
As we spiraled up the hill we were greeted with a breathtaking view of the landscape. The green slopes were adorned with vibrant flowers, pine trees, and cottages. The sky was a clear blue, with fluffy clouds drifting by. The sun shone warmly on the earth, and the air was fresh. The bus followed the winding road, offering changing perspectives of the scenery, including waterfalls, valleys, and lakes. One such lake was Umiam or Barapani, a serene and sparkling blue gem that mirrored the sky in a manner mother’s narration mirrored our common past:
“As I saw you descending the stairs from the airplane this morning, a strange feeling overcame me” Mother continued, “You were still the same tiny bundle that I had first seen in disbelief in the hospital. For four days, I lay unconscious, unaware of the miracle that had occurred. You were so fragile and underweight due to the early advent that you had been fighting for survival in an incubator. But even that seemed unequal to the task. So Mrs Parker, the matron would hold you with nothing on in an upright position against her bare chest giving skin-to-skin contact under the cover of a hospital gown. She would go on doing this for long hours sitting on a chair while her watchful eyes would monitor the flurry of activities of the nurses in the ward. Her act stimulated your body functions or else you would not live” Her voice faded away.
“I can see now that this type of caregiving existed in the past without a name, though it was only recently named ‘Kangaroo Care’. I read in a magazine in our common room that the name comes from the way a mother kangaroo holds her baby in her pouch, similar to how an infant is wrapped against the caregiver’s chest” I said this to coax her, rather than to display what I knew, “What happened after that Maa?”
“When I regained consciousness, I saw the matron standing beside my bed, holding a tiny creature wrapped with a bundle of cotton in her arms. She gently placed the bundle on my chest and said that it was my baby and was alive. I looked down and saw a tiny face peeking out of the cotton wrap. A faint cry escaped its lips as if to say, ‘Hello, mother. I gasped and touched its cheek with trembling fingers to believe what I was seeing. It was so small, so delicate, and so precious new to this wide world. It was you.
The matron then told me everything that had transpired; how she had defied the doctors’ pronouncement; how you had been born too soon against all odds. I listened with tears in my eyes, feeling a surge of gratitude and love” Mother looked out of the window, her gaze fixed on something distant. A silence fell.
“But how long did you stay in the hospital?”I asked for the sake of breaking the silence.
“Both of us had recovered considerably in about four weeks and the day of discharge arrived, though with a shade of sadness” she sighed.
“It must be the parting scene” I guessed.
“Yes, you are right. The matron looked at the baby in her arms, feeling a surge of sadness. She had spent the last few weeks caring for this tiny miracle. She had felt his heartbeat against her chest, his breath on her skin, his warmth in her embrace. She had seen him open his eyes, smiling at her voice. She had become his mother in every way but one. She knew she had to eventually let him go. He belonged to the woman who had given him birth and was now sitting in a wheelchair, holding out her arms to receive her son. The man standing beside her was smiling joyously, eager to take his child. They were a happy family, ready to start a new life. The matron hesitated, clutching the baby closer to her heart. Tears rolled down her cheek. She wanted to keep him, to protect him, to love him. But she knew that was being irrational. She had no right to take him away from his real parents. She had only done her duty, and now it was time to say goodbye. She took a deep breath and walked towards us. She smiled and handed over the baby, gently placing him in my arms. Then she uttered some words of advice and stepped back. We thanked her profusely, telling her how grateful we were for everything she had done. She silently turned around and walked away, feeling a pang of emptiness in her chest. I could see her sobbing as she turned her head and cast a last look before entering her room at the end of the ward. We never saw her again; not even during our follow-up visits. Perhaps she was deliberately distancing herself to prevent the resurgence of old emotions, and your father’s subsequent relocation removed the possibility of coming across her once more.”
“She is my Godmother! What were her words of advice?” I grew curious.
“The main purpose of my lengthy narrative was to impart those words of advice to you. It pertains to the way you see yourself and the things that unsettle or frighten you and your self-development” she started revealing the crux of the story.
“Yes Mom, I have read that children born preterm or are at a higher risk of developing mental and social phobias. They may struggle to interact with others, and as adults, may exhibit more inhibitions, less assertiveness, and, introversion than their full-term peers. I am aware of my shortcomings Mom, yet I feel powerless to do anything about it. Did Godmother tell you anything new to you?”I exclaimed in a voice tinged with frustration that turned many heads.
“Indeed. She spoke of something that you won’t find in any book or magazine” Mother continued “The very fact that you were born alive in impossible conditions while she was praying before a crucifix, made her believe that you were a miracle, that you were the same Peter reborn, who was a member of her family, a near and dear one, a strong, bright, and loveable young man who had left this world too early and for whose return she prayed every day.”
I could only manage an “Interesting” in response, my mind reeling from her words.
Mother’s voice trembled as she went on, “Your godmother advised us to let you develop faith in yourself, but to always remember that ‘GOD IS WITH ME.’ With this mantra, she said, you would regain your original strength and even surpass it one day. And she implored us to keep a crucifix on the wall wherever we reside. Lastly, with tears in her eyes, she pleaded with us to name you Peter. We could not ignore her request and so we chose it as your pet name.”
“But why didn’t you tell me all this so long?” I asked in wonder.
“There is a right time for everything Peter. But have you brought any woolens with you?” she inquired, concern etched on her face as the bus climbed higher and the air grew colder.
“Oh yes!” I replied, rummaging through my small kit bag to produce the sweater. “Look here - it’s the very one you knitted and sent to me.”
“And what of the sweets and dry fruits that were packed in the same parcel?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted guiltily “They were snatched away and devoured by them before I could even taste them.”
She threw back her head and laughed heartily. “So it was the same ragging, the same leg-pulling with those sweets as well,” she said, still chuckling. Time ticked away.
The military transport that we boarded after alighting from the bus at the city bus stand spiraled up the final stretch of the hill and delivered us to our ‘sweet little home’.
The happy reunion was also a moment of realization that, had we not been separated into three units for a year, we wouldn’t have experienced the euphoria of reuniting as one unit again. The delicious meal was also a moment of realization that, had I not endured a year of tasteless hostel food, homemade food wouldn’t have tasted so tastier. The hardships of the past year seemed to fade away as we sat together in the living room of our temporary new home, sharing stories in animated voices. The conversation drifted from one place of a visit to another. Names of at least a dozen of waterfalls poured out with the force of a waterfall, followed by names of lakes, viewpoints and even names of several Churches came out as points to visit.
Mother interrupted at this point “Sightseeing visits apart, at least one Catholic Church needs to be visited once forgetting a St. Benedict Crucifix for the house. Not just any other crucifix from any curio shop which serves as home décor will do. The St. Benedict Crucifix is unique in that it features a St. Benedict Medal at the back of Jesus’ head on the cross and it is believed to provide spiritual protection and ward off evil spirits when blessed by a priest. I have explained it to Peter on the way. Priscilla will guide you along the trail to St Joseph’s Parish. I came to know this from them when our families met for a second time here in this cantonment.”
“Are you not being too liberal Maa?” my brother asked.
“Never. A mother can knock at anybody’s door breaking all religious barriers for the sake of her children” We saw the same resolve in her eyes when she decided to stay back with us while Father was moving out alone on transfer.
But to me, the very idea of trekking along a trail with Priscilla seemed very unsettling.
The next day, I bumped into Priscilla while entering the Canteen (a grocery and stationery store in the cantonment), as she was leaving with her bags full. All I could muster was a muffled hello to which she did not respond. Possibly that didn’t reach her. ‘Don’t let this awkwardness kill the first good impression you have already created Peter’ I urged myself and blurted out “Did you see Kangaroos in the zoo? I instantly bit my lips. That was a silly question I asked just for the sake of opening my mouth first. Kangaroo was uppermost in my mind as I had been reflecting on Mother’s narration on my way to the canteen. I looked at her face fearing rejection but her reaction surprised me.
“Wow! You have an amazing intuition Peter” She stared at me with wide-eyed amazement “Amazing! How of all things, Kangaroo comes to your mind first?”
I stood dumbfounded. How lucky! I had kicked the ball inside the goalpost merely by fluke in the first meet, and I had hit a sixer by chance with a blind swing of the bat in the second!
“But how?” I softly asked expecting her to do most of the talking.
“That was uppermost in my mind. I was curious to see a Kangaroo acclimating itself to our weather conditions. You must be aware that this creature is native to Australia where the dry climate and arid terrain suit them. This creature won’t survive the humid clime of India without conditioning. This poor creature was bred by illegal breeders somewhere in the southeast and smuggled into Assam. There are illegal traffickers of non-native exotic animals. Rescued from their clutches, it now resides in the zoo, tuning itself to its new surroundings” She lectured to which I nodded and then looked at my watch.
“Sorry, I won’t hold you up” she regretted and left while I entered the stores.
“On my way back, I pondered, ‘How could this be? Once again, Priscilla mistook my inaptness with young girls for the opposite. Had it happened only once, it could have been dismissed as a coincidence. But how do you interpret twice in succession? They seem improbable unless meaningfully intertwined. But it was still too early to perceive spiritual signs such as ‘God is with me,’ as my mother had tried to convince me on the way.”
Days passed in joyful bliss, surrounded by nature’s rampant beauty. We visited almost all the places on our list. Midway through my vacation, Mother reminded me about the crucifix. So, we decided to trek down on a trail issuing out from the rear side of our camp to a nearby Catholic Parish taking along Priscilla as our guide. A few meetings with Priscilla had somewhat eased my stiffness towards her, but not easy enough to reveal my innermost thoughts. On a beautiful, cloudless, and shiny morning, we set out on our trek. I was determined to reveal what lay deepest in my heart…
As we trekked down the hill, Mother lagged, her hand clasped tightly in my brother’s. Together with my sister, they trailed in our wake while Priscilla and I led the way.
Trekking through the lush greenery, I couldn’t help but steal glances at Priscilla. She seemed so confident and at ease, while I was a bundle of nerves. A part of me wanted to open up, but another part just wasn’t so sure. I felt my mind racing, frantically trying to come out with something from deep within, but all that escaped my lips was breathless ‘I am racing’ as I took off running which culminated in the third fluke. If the first fluke had been like kicking the ball inside the goalpost by a mindless nervous kick in a game of football and the second like hitting a sixer by a mindless blind swing of the bat in a game of cricket, then what was this third fluke like? Was it like a lucky moment when a boy’s mindless, foolish action miraculously wins the heart of his crush in a game of love?
Or perhaps something deeper still- an infusion of faith that ‘God is with me’ and instilling self-belief following my Godmother’s wishes through Priscilla as a medium, for she was not one to be swayed by cheap jokes or shallow impressions. What transpired during those three encounters? As summer vacation came to an end, we parted ways for a second time but as grown-up cantonment kids this time. Our paths never crossed again.
Showing posts with label Tarun Chakraborty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tarun Chakraborty. Show all posts
Wednesday, 25 October 2023
Thursday, 24 November 2022
Tarun Chakraborty, Short Story 2022 Shortlist
His Bullying Stops
“Self-Defence is nature’s eldest law”- John Dryden
The playground located in the middle of the high school premises is small for the number of children. Lines drawn with lime powder demarcate separate play spaces for different age groups. The space earmarked for 9-12 years, to which I belong, is not spacious enough for playing anything beyond 6- a side football comfortably. Yet, 22 mini footballers cramped within its boundaries are engaged in playing the regular version of the game, enjoying every move of the sport. I am weak in sports. I am that typical non-athletic type of kid, who is prone to stumbling on the ground. Whenever it comes to doing a physical activity combined with skill, I am lacking in something. Yet I am not lacking in enthusiasm. I tried hard but I couldn't get better at playing outdoor games. That made me different from the others on the playground. And that also made bullies look for a weakling like me to pick on.
There is a boy who always bullies me irrespective of whether I am on his side or the opposite. He is physically well built, strong, and taller than me by at least six inches and has a loud voice. In short, he is made up of all that captain material. He kicks me or pushes me for no reason and I fall flat on the ground. I feel helpless. I am called by all sorts of names matching my inaptness. I am a laughing stock to my playmates. I try to protest but my voice never comes out. I am not only the weakest but also the meekest on the field. In a state of despair, I wonder whether this torment would at all come to an end. But despite all that weakness in sports, I possess one capability at least- to anticipate moves. Irrespective of being aware or unaware of it, everybody on earth is endowed with an inbuilt warning system. Otherwise, no one would have survived.
It is just like any other day on the playground. But I know from his moves that today he has targeted the right place on my body to fall into his trap. Once, while playing with my younger brother, his foot had almost touched my testicles inadvertently. I remember my mother panicked- “Never do it again, a boy can even get killed if hit there.” Luckily brother’s foot missed it very narrowly. I never forgot what mom had said. A mischievous game-plan suddenly strikes me...
I move out of the field and pretend to be relieving myself by facing a bush. But what I am doing is squeezing one of my testes as hard as I can bear the pain. With closed eyes and rows of teeth clasped as hard as I can, I bear the excruciating pain of inflicting self-injury. Yet that seems to be a better option than failing to cope with the agony, the humiliation, the feeling of inferiority from the daily dose of bullying from a guy ‘conventionally’ smarter than me.
I try with all my might to cope with the physical pain and re-enter the field without limping, without making an outward show of any strain on my face. Anything awkward going inside me is undetectable. I keep standing quietly at one edge waiting for his kick- a lot worried whether that would at all come by the end of today’s play. If it didn’t, then I would be left to myself, groaning in the misery of a self-inflicted injury- a shameful thing to happen. No, I am not all that ‘unfortunate’. I sense this terrible spasm will not go waste as I see that the bully has marked me and is approaching his trap. I am happy.
“Hey, Dude! What are you standing here for? You, lazy bum!” he yells and swings his right leg in an attempt to kick my testes. I turn away somehow and stumble on the ground. His foot misses it barely by an inch that could have otherwise been much more severe in its consequence than my simply squeezing it.
“Ouch! Aah! Aah!” I scream ‘genuinely’, venting out what I had been so painstakingly holding back for that long. To me, even the sign of my discomfort on my puckered face becomes an expression of my exultation! My groans of pain become the cries of my joy! I lie down on the ground fidgeting, writhing, and tossing about. A rub with my palms gives me some idea of the extent of its swelling. Play in the entire ground has come to a standstill. All have gathered around me. I know my good day is going to be a bad day for the bully. I am lifted and carried away from the field and then directly to the hospital. Dad has come there running, accompanied by some playmates. I am treated with injections and ointments and advised complete rest for a week. Subhas, the bully looks perplexed, his face turns pale in anguish, not entirely for me but for the consequences he would have to face. He gets a severe beating from his father. He is vilified by playmates. All accusing fingers are at him. Dad says that he will lodge a complaint against him at school and can even get him rusticated. Things are getting serious. But I don’t want all that to happen. All I wanted for was his bullying should stop. Subhas hangs around me, together with his parents. All of them wear hung faces with a feeling of deep guilt- but that was something for me to wear! Seven days pass away and I am once again on the playground with Subhas.
His bullying stops.
Fifteen years later...
With a degree in Mech Engg followed by two year’s Industrial training in a Midcap, I have smartly cleared three rounds of interviews and joined a large Steel Mill as a Jr. Manager. My boss, the six-footer, loud-mouthed, foul-tongued, with a robust physique, rugged and stern-looking reminds me of Subhas the bully of my childhood days. I am never comfortable with such people. Maybe this phobia is linked to that childhood trauma. The subconscious looks at things differently- the production floor becomes the playground and my boss- the person in authority becomes captain Subhas. And as ill-luck would have it, it turns out that this guy also has got a fondness for bullying the docile, subdued, and over-obedient types. He slaps my head for no reason. He pats my back seeming to be appreciative but it comes down as hard as a painful smack. He shouts slang for reasons best known to him only. He says that is the language of the shop floor. I can do nothing more than stare at him gawkily. That I cannot tackle him even politely, prompts him further. Still, I cannot do anything about it. He happens to be my boss and so I have put him on a pedestal. That inhibition is ingrained in us from childhood. We are indoctrinated into unquestioning obedience. He is misusing my inability to show him the limit beyond which I am going to react. Self-doubts keep on tormenting me:
Have I stepped into the wrong profession then? But then, it was my proficiency in PCM alone that had got me through one of the toughest entrance exams with a rank fetching me one of the most coveted branches going by the trend in those days. But nothing of this sort had been foreseen. Nor there had been any counselling about dealing with such toxic people in authority. Topics like ‘Boss Management’ were unheard of. Would all the places in the world be the same for me? Do bullies I cannot cope with are there everywhere and in all professions? Despite possessing the requisite knowledge and skill, my gentle manners have become my biggest handicap in that harsh work situation. Had I been ill-bred so as to become ill-mannered, perhaps I would be better suited for such uncouth people- I reflect in utter frustration. The scope for ‘hardcore engineers’ to slip off into softer white-collar functions within the same organization were not ample as of now. Smarter guys or the fortunate few with connections usually took away those scanty softer options. Even complaints to his one or two-step higher-ups fall on deaf ears. No one would bell the cat for me. Am I digging my own grave here? My mind gets clouded with negative emotions.
There is no way an across-the-table technical interview or personality test can uncover such a crippling drawback manifested in a specific work situation, unless he or she, who is otherwise not socially awkward, honestly reveals it. But then, why should one act such foolishly when the objective is to ‘win a job’ in an extremely scarce job market. So, when it is a question of survival, there’s nothing wrong with presenting an exaggerated account of self. I am not all that bad at table talk and I have done exactly that. The onus lies on the hirer to detect my hidden shortcomings and it is none of the interviewee’s business to truthfully expose them. One has simply no choice in a world where jargon like- ‘follow your dreams’ or ‘listen to your inner voice’ get lost in the crowd with the average types in a given field. I am also no exception. The only choice in our conditions is to change oneself, which seems to be unworkable without causing harm to one’s inner psyche.
Once again that old feeling of despair on the playground grips me. I am anxious whether his bullying, from which he derives a sadistic pleasure, is at all going to stop. He is dragging me into a bottomless pit. I am going into a state of mental depression. This emotional abuse has started taking its toll on our otherwise peaceful life at home where my work-related stress is seeping in. I am losing appetite. My irritability or moodiness often gets revealed by way of finding faults with or howling at Dorothy apparently for no reason. At times she reverts and we start bickering over trifles. Even watching movies together becomes difficult as I am unable to concentrate and I force her to leave the auditorium along with me giving some excuse or other. Squabbles mount further. Things are getting worse. One night I wake up screaming from a nightmare. A dream giving out intense feelings of stress or terror to startle the dreamer awake becomes a nightmare. Short of breath and sweating, I remember my dream- I am shouting at the bully at the top of my voice. But my scream in reality awakens Dorothy and she grumbles about disturbing her sleep. Yet when she asks whether anything has gone wrong, I evade. Sleep evades me for the rest of the night and I get out of bed early in the morning taking a vow that I will do something about it.
The following evening perturbed as usual, while I am on my way back to quarters in the Steel-Township, my scooter takes a turn targeting a doctor’s chamber a little away from the town. I have purposely avoided the nearby ones. I don’t want to get noticed by anybody from the township. It is a small town where words spread fast which I don’t want Dorothy to ‘hear through the grapevine’. From my story, they would be interpreted as cowardice, a lack of manliness to which our society attaches a lot of stigmas. All rubbish. But you cannot stop people from thinking what they are thinking about you. I am also becoming self-critical and conscious about ‘what others may think about me’. The company does not have any ‘grievance procedure’ and so I have to get rid of that guy’s bullying ‘in my unique way’ as I did to Subhas the bully on the playground fifteen years ago …
As I wait my turn outside the doctor’s chamber, I am at a loss as to what to say or how at all to make a start. It’s not like complaining about cough & cold or loose motion. I feel nervous. This God in the white coat, though a physician, had a penchant for psychiatry, I was told by a friend who had fixed up the appointment.
“Young man you look worried. How can I help you?” the physician appearing to be in his mid-forties, lanky and chiselled-faced, scans me with his sharp eyes behind thick-framed spectacles as I sit on the patient chair placed sideways to his.
That puts me at ease and I start venting out my woes.
“You are suppressed!” That stunning remark acts like a ‘force-stop button’ on my spontaneous narration. How nicely he has summed up it all with a single word!
“I have given you a patient hearing for more than half an hour when others are waiting outside,” he says while doing the customary BP and PR tests, “only because venting your feelings was the first step towards reducing stress. To let it all out was like First-Aid. Medication or anything else comes later on. Don’t you feel lighter now?”
“Yes, something like venting out pressurized air from water pipes and allowing a centrifugal pump to start up”, I feel absolutely at ease with him.
“Very nicely said” he appreciates me, “but you are this fine as long as the person you are facing here- that is me, does not happen to be your boss, right?”
“Yes”, I reply. He is going to lay me bare I feel.
“But just for a while imagine that I am your boss then?” he asks.
“Then I would freeze” I blurt out with a smile.
“It is your shortcoming that you become a child before anyone with some authority over you. You must come out of that. Your naivety prevents you from seeing him as a human being just like any other. Bring out the adult in you”, he remarks.
As I stare at him blankly, our psychology professor’s lectures on ‘The Parent-Adult-Child Model’ ring in my ears-
“According to the PAC Model, we all have an inherent ‘Parent, Adult and Child’ in us, each of which manifests itself in varying degrees at any given moment and given situation, depending on the personality type…”
Hazily understood stuff popping out from the past has now become as clear as crystal from my example!
“Oh! Where are you?” he quipped jolting me out of my reverie. The waiting area now seemed to hum with impatience.
“Young man, as a measure of temporary relief only, I am prescribing some Nerve-soothers and Antidepressants. That is all I can do for you once only as a physician. But remember that the permanent cure lies in you and you only- on your conscious effort and determination to overcome that. It will be long drawn. But have patience. No mantras, no gemstones, no Gurus, no self-help books, no shortcuts can help. It is you and only you who can help yourself. You are your best friend. So, believe in yourself. And also remember that if you do not shake it off now, then this is bound to erupt some day or other, in the form of distorted manners like- unnecessary rudeness or aggressiveness”. He hands over the prescription after finishing what he believes to be a piece of ‘sound advice’. But I am not convinced. I thank him ceremoniously and turn towards the exit door.
“And Listen” he calls me when I am just about to leave, “the most important point has just slipped my mind.”
“What is that doctor?” I ask uneasily fearing more of his daunting counsel.
“No alcoholic drinks while you are on these prescription drugs. The reactions can be dangerous- from dizziness and nausea to loss of consciousness and fainting. Don’t do that” he cautions me.
My eyes light up. A mischievous game-plan strikes me once again- as the one did on the playground fifteen years back! His don’ts would be at the top of my list of Dos! How true- The solution lies on me only and in my unique way! Indeed, I am my best friend. I have myself only to thank or blame and nobody else…
I get those medicines from the adjoining pharmacy and carefully store them inside the tools bag of my scooter- the safest place to hide them. To me they are not just ‘tablets’- rather each one of them is a ‘gemstone’ capable of changing my ill fate. I know that these tranquilizers are addiction drugs but I am in no hurry to consume them immediately. I will wait for the appropriate time and work situation to gulp them. I am going to compose my mantras… I am going to write my self-help book... I am going to create my shortcuts. I am going to hit the bull’s eye. Once again I recall a wonderful tip that I had come across in some magazine (Imprint or Mirror) long back:
“In shooting, when the shooter’s eye focuses on the target only, his arms and hands align automatically without even his knowing it. Similarly, when the mind is focused solely on the objective, the subconscious spontaneously prompts one into a set of cascading actions leading to the objective...”
My single objective is- ‘His bullying should stop’.
Vishwakarma Puja arrives. It is a day that falls on the 17th of September every year- the day of the year on which the respective dates on the Gregorian calendar and the lunar calendar (on which Hindu festivals are based) coincide. On this day idol of Vishwakarma the Technical God of Hindus- believed to be the divine engineer and architect of this universe, is worshiped primarily in Eastern India, in factories and technical establishments like garages, waterworks, construction sites, etc by the technical workforce irrespective of religion, along with engineers and supervisors joining in at their invitation. This is perhaps the only ‘secular’ Puja (worship) in our country. Such is the spirit that Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and Christians stand together before the Universal Technical Lord and offer Pushpanjali (flower offerings) to the chanting of Mantra (sacred utterance) voiced by the priest. It is a spectacle to behold!
Worship or Puja apart, some places also turn into a day of festivities within the factory premises with decorations, artwork, dance, music, and feasting. Traditionally on this day of the year, employees- engineers as well as staff and union leaders sit together at one place within the running plant and indulge in boozing together. Barriers are forgotten. The juniors feel honoured. It is believed such a boozy affair within the works promotes teamwork and builds camaraderie.
My boss, that great bully is hosting a Vishwakarma Puja party in his office where I am invited. But I don’t believe in such superficiality from a crank who defies every code of conduct.
I free myself from the morning chores and start walking toward the bully’s office. But by then I have already charged two pills and the third one is stealthily held between the gap of my index and middle fingers for the opportune moment. This is the first time that I have taken any sedative. I am feeling relaxed. I am at peace with the entire world- no mental perturbations, upsets, or uneasiness, a bit drowsy though. A few more steps and I realize I am staggering. Yet I try consciously not to make an outward show of it, the way I had done while walking back towards the playground after squeezing my testis fifteen years back.
I knock at the door and enter the festive office feeling like a sleepwalker. His office wears a different look- the walls, ceiling fans, and lamp shades have been rinsed to remove stains of soot and grit. Additional fluorescent lights provide extra illumination. Long crowbars and tongues usually kept leaning against walls at the corners have been removed. Two extra tables have been added lengthwise to his office table giving it the look of a long conference table under the cover of the tablecloth. Flower vases with flowers add to the aesthetics. Decorations momentarily grace the ambiance of the otherwise lousy shop-floor office.
He is sitting at the head of the long table and the rest of the chairs- about twenty of them are almost occupied. The booze fest has just begun. A bonanza of mouth-watering snacks has been offered on platters.
“Always late, never on time!” this is how he greets me fully knowing what I had been up to. All heads turn at me. I feel embarrassed.
“Come and sit here” he shouts pointing to a vacant chair lying crosswise next to his, reminding me of my sitting position with the doctor.
The office-boy turned bartender ceremoniously places before me a drink- a strong cocktail in a glass which I instantly cover with my right palm with my left palm placed over it. I loosen the grip between my middle and index fingers and earth’s gravity does the rest. Saying to myself- ‘Come, Peter if not on the shop floor, at least here and now you must perform, or else suffer bullying and cry silently forever’, I gulp the entire content of the glass in one single guzzle.
“Oh! That’s brilliant” his pat of appreciation feels too heavy on my back and he gestures to the bartender to serve me one more drink.
“Cheers”, the entire assemblage expresses good wishes with their glasses raised before drinking. The party has got into full swing and so has the Rolling Mill which rumbles in a continuous rhythm...
I gulp down two more servings and the fourth helping arrives. But I am deliberately hesitant this time. I am feeling dizzy. My eyelids are heavy. I am resisting dozing off on the table itself and becoming a laughing stock in their eyes for going on a binge too early.
“Don’t sit idle. Just drink that” he shouts in his ‘feudal lord’ style, in a manner the lord would have thundered at one of his tolerant subjects. I sit still pretending a nervous look. I know what he is going to do next. I am inviting that, in fact, a lot ‘worried’ whether his next move is going to come at all, the way I was ‘worried’ whether Subhas’s attempted kick on my testes would come at all some fifteen years ago. My heart is pounding.
“Are you kidding? He lunges towards me and slaps my head. He has offered me what I had been craving. He has fallen into his trap.
I give in to the drowsiness; succumb to the dizziness that I had been painstakingly resisting all this while. I drop down my head on the table, eyes closed, breathing feebly. It is ‘genuine’. No pretensions. I do not have to feign semi-consciousness that is now progressing into unconsciousness, imparting a near-death feeling. Yet, to me it feels much better than the feeling of swallowing indignation every day.
“Sir, what you have done, he has suffered a nervous breakdown”, voices reach my ears feebly in my dazed state. The drug is working its psychedelic effects on me. Faintly audible talks weave into a mix of low-pitched murmurs until I know nothing…
I open my eyes to find myself lying on an emergency bed at the ‘Works Clinic’ located inside the factory premises. I am unaware of how I reached there. The wall clock shows it has been about two hours since the party wrapped up too early because of me. I am feeling lighter with a bit of headache though.
“Couldn’t you drink more responsibly?” the doctor on duty rebukes me. I am relieved. He has no inkling of my guile.
“Sorry, it won’t happen again”, I say reflecting remorse.
I am informed that suspecting alcohol poisoning, the contents of my stomach have been pumped out through a tube inserted down my Esophagus and I am safe now. But facilities for testing the extract do not exist here he regrets. How lucky- it was not there! I thank my stars! I am diagnosed as suffering from severe trauma and advised to take rest for the next four days; No medications. But I do not need all that anymore. Feeling ecstatic after coming out unscathed, I simply want to run away from the spot.
Back home as a pillion rider on my scooter which a co-worker drives, I find Dorothy pacing up and down in anguish.
“Why do you drink that nectar, when you cannot endure it?” she reprimands not knowing the full story. I feel relieved once again.
“This tastes like real nectar”, I say sipping black tea which she has served chattering something which does not enter my ears. I plummet into slumber.
A flow of visitors follows. They are deeply concerned about me and bluntly say that the crook’s bullying has taken its toll on me. He is vilified by them the way Subhas was. They are all sympathetic towards me and full of disgust for him. The small township is rife with hushing. He is on his way to becoming ‘infamous’. I know that ‘egoistic’ man is going to come to my house, if not to see me, at least to stop the bad name that is looming large over him. After all, we all are afraid of getting a bad name. I am expecting his visit any day. Two days later there’s a knock on the door. I get up and open it. He looks skittish.
“Don’t disclose it to anyone”, he enters my house his voice somewhat subdued.
“Are you afraid?” I ask him looking straight into his eyes.
He is stunned beyond words and says nothing. I don’t know if he has suspected some foul play.
“So, kind of you Sir, you have come to see me”, I change my tone. I am mature enough to realize that here he is my guest and so I play a traditional host’s role.
“Don’t be so soft as not to be able to withstand blows like this. Mind you, we are working in a Steel factory”, he still plays the egoistic boss (Parent) and I the helpless junior (Child) listening intently, staring gawkily. I still do not know whether he has suspected any foul play and even if he did, has my indifferent reaction been able to remove that? I am not sure. All that my conscious mind desired for was his bullying to stop. But given my strength and weakness, my subconscious (a slave of the conscious), has triggered off such stealthy acts. I feel sorry, but with my limitations, there was no better way to tackle this man.
He thanks Dorothy for the tea and sweets she has offered and leaves. As he walks back I hear him muttering feebly- “I have learned the lesson of my life”. Yes, indeed he has detected the foul play, but can’t do anything about it. How sad! He has fallen into his trap the way Subhas did.
Advice like- you should be strong, you should be confident, you should know how to tackle people, and you should know how to handle stress, pour in free of cost from visitors. However, only if someone among them had simply whispered- ‘You should know how to be stealthy instead’, then to my ears the same would sound like- ‘You should know how to hit the nail on the head’. But no one does so.
I join duties. His bullying stops.
“Self-Defence is nature’s eldest law”- John Dryden
The playground located in the middle of the high school premises is small for the number of children. Lines drawn with lime powder demarcate separate play spaces for different age groups. The space earmarked for 9-12 years, to which I belong, is not spacious enough for playing anything beyond 6- a side football comfortably. Yet, 22 mini footballers cramped within its boundaries are engaged in playing the regular version of the game, enjoying every move of the sport. I am weak in sports. I am that typical non-athletic type of kid, who is prone to stumbling on the ground. Whenever it comes to doing a physical activity combined with skill, I am lacking in something. Yet I am not lacking in enthusiasm. I tried hard but I couldn't get better at playing outdoor games. That made me different from the others on the playground. And that also made bullies look for a weakling like me to pick on.
There is a boy who always bullies me irrespective of whether I am on his side or the opposite. He is physically well built, strong, and taller than me by at least six inches and has a loud voice. In short, he is made up of all that captain material. He kicks me or pushes me for no reason and I fall flat on the ground. I feel helpless. I am called by all sorts of names matching my inaptness. I am a laughing stock to my playmates. I try to protest but my voice never comes out. I am not only the weakest but also the meekest on the field. In a state of despair, I wonder whether this torment would at all come to an end. But despite all that weakness in sports, I possess one capability at least- to anticipate moves. Irrespective of being aware or unaware of it, everybody on earth is endowed with an inbuilt warning system. Otherwise, no one would have survived.
It is just like any other day on the playground. But I know from his moves that today he has targeted the right place on my body to fall into his trap. Once, while playing with my younger brother, his foot had almost touched my testicles inadvertently. I remember my mother panicked- “Never do it again, a boy can even get killed if hit there.” Luckily brother’s foot missed it very narrowly. I never forgot what mom had said. A mischievous game-plan suddenly strikes me...
I move out of the field and pretend to be relieving myself by facing a bush. But what I am doing is squeezing one of my testes as hard as I can bear the pain. With closed eyes and rows of teeth clasped as hard as I can, I bear the excruciating pain of inflicting self-injury. Yet that seems to be a better option than failing to cope with the agony, the humiliation, the feeling of inferiority from the daily dose of bullying from a guy ‘conventionally’ smarter than me.
I try with all my might to cope with the physical pain and re-enter the field without limping, without making an outward show of any strain on my face. Anything awkward going inside me is undetectable. I keep standing quietly at one edge waiting for his kick- a lot worried whether that would at all come by the end of today’s play. If it didn’t, then I would be left to myself, groaning in the misery of a self-inflicted injury- a shameful thing to happen. No, I am not all that ‘unfortunate’. I sense this terrible spasm will not go waste as I see that the bully has marked me and is approaching his trap. I am happy.
“Hey, Dude! What are you standing here for? You, lazy bum!” he yells and swings his right leg in an attempt to kick my testes. I turn away somehow and stumble on the ground. His foot misses it barely by an inch that could have otherwise been much more severe in its consequence than my simply squeezing it.
“Ouch! Aah! Aah!” I scream ‘genuinely’, venting out what I had been so painstakingly holding back for that long. To me, even the sign of my discomfort on my puckered face becomes an expression of my exultation! My groans of pain become the cries of my joy! I lie down on the ground fidgeting, writhing, and tossing about. A rub with my palms gives me some idea of the extent of its swelling. Play in the entire ground has come to a standstill. All have gathered around me. I know my good day is going to be a bad day for the bully. I am lifted and carried away from the field and then directly to the hospital. Dad has come there running, accompanied by some playmates. I am treated with injections and ointments and advised complete rest for a week. Subhas, the bully looks perplexed, his face turns pale in anguish, not entirely for me but for the consequences he would have to face. He gets a severe beating from his father. He is vilified by playmates. All accusing fingers are at him. Dad says that he will lodge a complaint against him at school and can even get him rusticated. Things are getting serious. But I don’t want all that to happen. All I wanted for was his bullying should stop. Subhas hangs around me, together with his parents. All of them wear hung faces with a feeling of deep guilt- but that was something for me to wear! Seven days pass away and I am once again on the playground with Subhas.
His bullying stops.
Fifteen years later...
With a degree in Mech Engg followed by two year’s Industrial training in a Midcap, I have smartly cleared three rounds of interviews and joined a large Steel Mill as a Jr. Manager. My boss, the six-footer, loud-mouthed, foul-tongued, with a robust physique, rugged and stern-looking reminds me of Subhas the bully of my childhood days. I am never comfortable with such people. Maybe this phobia is linked to that childhood trauma. The subconscious looks at things differently- the production floor becomes the playground and my boss- the person in authority becomes captain Subhas. And as ill-luck would have it, it turns out that this guy also has got a fondness for bullying the docile, subdued, and over-obedient types. He slaps my head for no reason. He pats my back seeming to be appreciative but it comes down as hard as a painful smack. He shouts slang for reasons best known to him only. He says that is the language of the shop floor. I can do nothing more than stare at him gawkily. That I cannot tackle him even politely, prompts him further. Still, I cannot do anything about it. He happens to be my boss and so I have put him on a pedestal. That inhibition is ingrained in us from childhood. We are indoctrinated into unquestioning obedience. He is misusing my inability to show him the limit beyond which I am going to react. Self-doubts keep on tormenting me:
Have I stepped into the wrong profession then? But then, it was my proficiency in PCM alone that had got me through one of the toughest entrance exams with a rank fetching me one of the most coveted branches going by the trend in those days. But nothing of this sort had been foreseen. Nor there had been any counselling about dealing with such toxic people in authority. Topics like ‘Boss Management’ were unheard of. Would all the places in the world be the same for me? Do bullies I cannot cope with are there everywhere and in all professions? Despite possessing the requisite knowledge and skill, my gentle manners have become my biggest handicap in that harsh work situation. Had I been ill-bred so as to become ill-mannered, perhaps I would be better suited for such uncouth people- I reflect in utter frustration. The scope for ‘hardcore engineers’ to slip off into softer white-collar functions within the same organization were not ample as of now. Smarter guys or the fortunate few with connections usually took away those scanty softer options. Even complaints to his one or two-step higher-ups fall on deaf ears. No one would bell the cat for me. Am I digging my own grave here? My mind gets clouded with negative emotions.
There is no way an across-the-table technical interview or personality test can uncover such a crippling drawback manifested in a specific work situation, unless he or she, who is otherwise not socially awkward, honestly reveals it. But then, why should one act such foolishly when the objective is to ‘win a job’ in an extremely scarce job market. So, when it is a question of survival, there’s nothing wrong with presenting an exaggerated account of self. I am not all that bad at table talk and I have done exactly that. The onus lies on the hirer to detect my hidden shortcomings and it is none of the interviewee’s business to truthfully expose them. One has simply no choice in a world where jargon like- ‘follow your dreams’ or ‘listen to your inner voice’ get lost in the crowd with the average types in a given field. I am also no exception. The only choice in our conditions is to change oneself, which seems to be unworkable without causing harm to one’s inner psyche.
Once again that old feeling of despair on the playground grips me. I am anxious whether his bullying, from which he derives a sadistic pleasure, is at all going to stop. He is dragging me into a bottomless pit. I am going into a state of mental depression. This emotional abuse has started taking its toll on our otherwise peaceful life at home where my work-related stress is seeping in. I am losing appetite. My irritability or moodiness often gets revealed by way of finding faults with or howling at Dorothy apparently for no reason. At times she reverts and we start bickering over trifles. Even watching movies together becomes difficult as I am unable to concentrate and I force her to leave the auditorium along with me giving some excuse or other. Squabbles mount further. Things are getting worse. One night I wake up screaming from a nightmare. A dream giving out intense feelings of stress or terror to startle the dreamer awake becomes a nightmare. Short of breath and sweating, I remember my dream- I am shouting at the bully at the top of my voice. But my scream in reality awakens Dorothy and she grumbles about disturbing her sleep. Yet when she asks whether anything has gone wrong, I evade. Sleep evades me for the rest of the night and I get out of bed early in the morning taking a vow that I will do something about it.
The following evening perturbed as usual, while I am on my way back to quarters in the Steel-Township, my scooter takes a turn targeting a doctor’s chamber a little away from the town. I have purposely avoided the nearby ones. I don’t want to get noticed by anybody from the township. It is a small town where words spread fast which I don’t want Dorothy to ‘hear through the grapevine’. From my story, they would be interpreted as cowardice, a lack of manliness to which our society attaches a lot of stigmas. All rubbish. But you cannot stop people from thinking what they are thinking about you. I am also becoming self-critical and conscious about ‘what others may think about me’. The company does not have any ‘grievance procedure’ and so I have to get rid of that guy’s bullying ‘in my unique way’ as I did to Subhas the bully on the playground fifteen years ago …
As I wait my turn outside the doctor’s chamber, I am at a loss as to what to say or how at all to make a start. It’s not like complaining about cough & cold or loose motion. I feel nervous. This God in the white coat, though a physician, had a penchant for psychiatry, I was told by a friend who had fixed up the appointment.
“Young man you look worried. How can I help you?” the physician appearing to be in his mid-forties, lanky and chiselled-faced, scans me with his sharp eyes behind thick-framed spectacles as I sit on the patient chair placed sideways to his.
That puts me at ease and I start venting out my woes.
“You are suppressed!” That stunning remark acts like a ‘force-stop button’ on my spontaneous narration. How nicely he has summed up it all with a single word!
“I have given you a patient hearing for more than half an hour when others are waiting outside,” he says while doing the customary BP and PR tests, “only because venting your feelings was the first step towards reducing stress. To let it all out was like First-Aid. Medication or anything else comes later on. Don’t you feel lighter now?”
“Yes, something like venting out pressurized air from water pipes and allowing a centrifugal pump to start up”, I feel absolutely at ease with him.
“Very nicely said” he appreciates me, “but you are this fine as long as the person you are facing here- that is me, does not happen to be your boss, right?”
“Yes”, I reply. He is going to lay me bare I feel.
“But just for a while imagine that I am your boss then?” he asks.
“Then I would freeze” I blurt out with a smile.
“It is your shortcoming that you become a child before anyone with some authority over you. You must come out of that. Your naivety prevents you from seeing him as a human being just like any other. Bring out the adult in you”, he remarks.
As I stare at him blankly, our psychology professor’s lectures on ‘The Parent-Adult-Child Model’ ring in my ears-
“According to the PAC Model, we all have an inherent ‘Parent, Adult and Child’ in us, each of which manifests itself in varying degrees at any given moment and given situation, depending on the personality type…”
Hazily understood stuff popping out from the past has now become as clear as crystal from my example!
“Oh! Where are you?” he quipped jolting me out of my reverie. The waiting area now seemed to hum with impatience.
“Young man, as a measure of temporary relief only, I am prescribing some Nerve-soothers and Antidepressants. That is all I can do for you once only as a physician. But remember that the permanent cure lies in you and you only- on your conscious effort and determination to overcome that. It will be long drawn. But have patience. No mantras, no gemstones, no Gurus, no self-help books, no shortcuts can help. It is you and only you who can help yourself. You are your best friend. So, believe in yourself. And also remember that if you do not shake it off now, then this is bound to erupt some day or other, in the form of distorted manners like- unnecessary rudeness or aggressiveness”. He hands over the prescription after finishing what he believes to be a piece of ‘sound advice’. But I am not convinced. I thank him ceremoniously and turn towards the exit door.
“And Listen” he calls me when I am just about to leave, “the most important point has just slipped my mind.”
“What is that doctor?” I ask uneasily fearing more of his daunting counsel.
“No alcoholic drinks while you are on these prescription drugs. The reactions can be dangerous- from dizziness and nausea to loss of consciousness and fainting. Don’t do that” he cautions me.
My eyes light up. A mischievous game-plan strikes me once again- as the one did on the playground fifteen years back! His don’ts would be at the top of my list of Dos! How true- The solution lies on me only and in my unique way! Indeed, I am my best friend. I have myself only to thank or blame and nobody else…
I get those medicines from the adjoining pharmacy and carefully store them inside the tools bag of my scooter- the safest place to hide them. To me they are not just ‘tablets’- rather each one of them is a ‘gemstone’ capable of changing my ill fate. I know that these tranquilizers are addiction drugs but I am in no hurry to consume them immediately. I will wait for the appropriate time and work situation to gulp them. I am going to compose my mantras… I am going to write my self-help book... I am going to create my shortcuts. I am going to hit the bull’s eye. Once again I recall a wonderful tip that I had come across in some magazine (Imprint or Mirror) long back:
“In shooting, when the shooter’s eye focuses on the target only, his arms and hands align automatically without even his knowing it. Similarly, when the mind is focused solely on the objective, the subconscious spontaneously prompts one into a set of cascading actions leading to the objective...”
My single objective is- ‘His bullying should stop’.
Vishwakarma Puja arrives. It is a day that falls on the 17th of September every year- the day of the year on which the respective dates on the Gregorian calendar and the lunar calendar (on which Hindu festivals are based) coincide. On this day idol of Vishwakarma the Technical God of Hindus- believed to be the divine engineer and architect of this universe, is worshiped primarily in Eastern India, in factories and technical establishments like garages, waterworks, construction sites, etc by the technical workforce irrespective of religion, along with engineers and supervisors joining in at their invitation. This is perhaps the only ‘secular’ Puja (worship) in our country. Such is the spirit that Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and Christians stand together before the Universal Technical Lord and offer Pushpanjali (flower offerings) to the chanting of Mantra (sacred utterance) voiced by the priest. It is a spectacle to behold!
Worship or Puja apart, some places also turn into a day of festivities within the factory premises with decorations, artwork, dance, music, and feasting. Traditionally on this day of the year, employees- engineers as well as staff and union leaders sit together at one place within the running plant and indulge in boozing together. Barriers are forgotten. The juniors feel honoured. It is believed such a boozy affair within the works promotes teamwork and builds camaraderie.
My boss, that great bully is hosting a Vishwakarma Puja party in his office where I am invited. But I don’t believe in such superficiality from a crank who defies every code of conduct.
I free myself from the morning chores and start walking toward the bully’s office. But by then I have already charged two pills and the third one is stealthily held between the gap of my index and middle fingers for the opportune moment. This is the first time that I have taken any sedative. I am feeling relaxed. I am at peace with the entire world- no mental perturbations, upsets, or uneasiness, a bit drowsy though. A few more steps and I realize I am staggering. Yet I try consciously not to make an outward show of it, the way I had done while walking back towards the playground after squeezing my testis fifteen years back.
I knock at the door and enter the festive office feeling like a sleepwalker. His office wears a different look- the walls, ceiling fans, and lamp shades have been rinsed to remove stains of soot and grit. Additional fluorescent lights provide extra illumination. Long crowbars and tongues usually kept leaning against walls at the corners have been removed. Two extra tables have been added lengthwise to his office table giving it the look of a long conference table under the cover of the tablecloth. Flower vases with flowers add to the aesthetics. Decorations momentarily grace the ambiance of the otherwise lousy shop-floor office.
He is sitting at the head of the long table and the rest of the chairs- about twenty of them are almost occupied. The booze fest has just begun. A bonanza of mouth-watering snacks has been offered on platters.
“Always late, never on time!” this is how he greets me fully knowing what I had been up to. All heads turn at me. I feel embarrassed.
“Come and sit here” he shouts pointing to a vacant chair lying crosswise next to his, reminding me of my sitting position with the doctor.
The office-boy turned bartender ceremoniously places before me a drink- a strong cocktail in a glass which I instantly cover with my right palm with my left palm placed over it. I loosen the grip between my middle and index fingers and earth’s gravity does the rest. Saying to myself- ‘Come, Peter if not on the shop floor, at least here and now you must perform, or else suffer bullying and cry silently forever’, I gulp the entire content of the glass in one single guzzle.
“Oh! That’s brilliant” his pat of appreciation feels too heavy on my back and he gestures to the bartender to serve me one more drink.
“Cheers”, the entire assemblage expresses good wishes with their glasses raised before drinking. The party has got into full swing and so has the Rolling Mill which rumbles in a continuous rhythm...
I gulp down two more servings and the fourth helping arrives. But I am deliberately hesitant this time. I am feeling dizzy. My eyelids are heavy. I am resisting dozing off on the table itself and becoming a laughing stock in their eyes for going on a binge too early.
“Don’t sit idle. Just drink that” he shouts in his ‘feudal lord’ style, in a manner the lord would have thundered at one of his tolerant subjects. I sit still pretending a nervous look. I know what he is going to do next. I am inviting that, in fact, a lot ‘worried’ whether his next move is going to come at all, the way I was ‘worried’ whether Subhas’s attempted kick on my testes would come at all some fifteen years ago. My heart is pounding.
“Are you kidding? He lunges towards me and slaps my head. He has offered me what I had been craving. He has fallen into his trap.
I give in to the drowsiness; succumb to the dizziness that I had been painstakingly resisting all this while. I drop down my head on the table, eyes closed, breathing feebly. It is ‘genuine’. No pretensions. I do not have to feign semi-consciousness that is now progressing into unconsciousness, imparting a near-death feeling. Yet, to me it feels much better than the feeling of swallowing indignation every day.
“Sir, what you have done, he has suffered a nervous breakdown”, voices reach my ears feebly in my dazed state. The drug is working its psychedelic effects on me. Faintly audible talks weave into a mix of low-pitched murmurs until I know nothing…
I open my eyes to find myself lying on an emergency bed at the ‘Works Clinic’ located inside the factory premises. I am unaware of how I reached there. The wall clock shows it has been about two hours since the party wrapped up too early because of me. I am feeling lighter with a bit of headache though.
“Couldn’t you drink more responsibly?” the doctor on duty rebukes me. I am relieved. He has no inkling of my guile.
“Sorry, it won’t happen again”, I say reflecting remorse.
I am informed that suspecting alcohol poisoning, the contents of my stomach have been pumped out through a tube inserted down my Esophagus and I am safe now. But facilities for testing the extract do not exist here he regrets. How lucky- it was not there! I thank my stars! I am diagnosed as suffering from severe trauma and advised to take rest for the next four days; No medications. But I do not need all that anymore. Feeling ecstatic after coming out unscathed, I simply want to run away from the spot.
Back home as a pillion rider on my scooter which a co-worker drives, I find Dorothy pacing up and down in anguish.
“Why do you drink that nectar, when you cannot endure it?” she reprimands not knowing the full story. I feel relieved once again.
“This tastes like real nectar”, I say sipping black tea which she has served chattering something which does not enter my ears. I plummet into slumber.
A flow of visitors follows. They are deeply concerned about me and bluntly say that the crook’s bullying has taken its toll on me. He is vilified by them the way Subhas was. They are all sympathetic towards me and full of disgust for him. The small township is rife with hushing. He is on his way to becoming ‘infamous’. I know that ‘egoistic’ man is going to come to my house, if not to see me, at least to stop the bad name that is looming large over him. After all, we all are afraid of getting a bad name. I am expecting his visit any day. Two days later there’s a knock on the door. I get up and open it. He looks skittish.
“Don’t disclose it to anyone”, he enters my house his voice somewhat subdued.
“Are you afraid?” I ask him looking straight into his eyes.
He is stunned beyond words and says nothing. I don’t know if he has suspected some foul play.
“So, kind of you Sir, you have come to see me”, I change my tone. I am mature enough to realize that here he is my guest and so I play a traditional host’s role.
“Don’t be so soft as not to be able to withstand blows like this. Mind you, we are working in a Steel factory”, he still plays the egoistic boss (Parent) and I the helpless junior (Child) listening intently, staring gawkily. I still do not know whether he has suspected any foul play and even if he did, has my indifferent reaction been able to remove that? I am not sure. All that my conscious mind desired for was his bullying to stop. But given my strength and weakness, my subconscious (a slave of the conscious), has triggered off such stealthy acts. I feel sorry, but with my limitations, there was no better way to tackle this man.
He thanks Dorothy for the tea and sweets she has offered and leaves. As he walks back I hear him muttering feebly- “I have learned the lesson of my life”. Yes, indeed he has detected the foul play, but can’t do anything about it. How sad! He has fallen into his trap the way Subhas did.
Advice like- you should be strong, you should be confident, you should know how to tackle people, and you should know how to handle stress, pour in free of cost from visitors. However, only if someone among them had simply whispered- ‘You should know how to be stealthy instead’, then to my ears the same would sound like- ‘You should know how to hit the nail on the head’. But no one does so.
I join duties. His bullying stops.
Saturday, 15 August 2020
Tarun Chakraborty, Short Story 2020, Featured Writer
Happy Mother's Day
10th May,
2020:
[Maa, you have suffered greatly, endured
greatly which cannot be put into words and so I saw the light of the day. Yet,
I am trying to describe that after such a long time and know that it is
reaching out to you wherever you may be this day. Happy Mother’s Day.]
The
Second Sunday of May, fifty years ago, without knowing that this day of the
year would be called ‘Mother’s Day’:
Surprisingly,
I am the sole passenger inside the belly or the fuselage to be more exact, with
neither a crew member nor an air hostess. For that to happen, it would have to
be either my own private jet or a chartered aircraft exclusively for me. Yet,
why is it depriving me of that fascinating sensation which comes from coasting
in the air for the first time? I am unable to peer out into the breath-taking
beauty of the Earth below as darkness surrounds me. A parachute instead of
being harnessed on my torso in the right manner, encapsulates me within its
membrane as in a balloon. Only the back strap of the harness that is stuck to
my seat’s back-rest prevents detachment and falling off. The airplane is flying
smoothly high above the fairy land of powder puff clouds and gliding through
the thin air like a bird. I can feel it. Then suddenly something goes wrong.
Anti-Aircraft gunshots fired from the ground crack into the air. Shrapnel
whizzing past the aircraft explodes, in a manner a meteorite bursts inside-out
before touching the earth. A flying projectile punches a hole on one of its
wings which also is a fuel tank and other rips through an engine located at the
wing’s thicker front edge. The airplane has been shot at by its own territory’s
anti-aircraft gun. A gun that is meant to protect this aircraft from enemy
invaders has misfired on it, taking it for an enemy intruder— a case of
mistaken identity. Fragments of metallic debris are shooting out from the
wrecked Turboprop engine. Fuel is gushing out from the punctured tank. The
airplane while cruising with only one engine and an oil tank on its unaffected
wing is losing altitude fast and in matter of seconds plunges thousands of feet
below to a level of normal air pressure. The pressure inside the cabin, which
was already pressurised for flying at rarefied air at a high altitude, has shot
up to an unbearable level due to clogging of pressure relief and outflow valves
by fine particles of debris. The airplane is now finding it impossible to stay
afloat even till an emergency landing, without jettisoning or throwing out some
amount of excess load— that like ‘the last straw just going to break the
camel’s back’, happens to be me only. With the damaged wing intermittently
fluttering like that of an injured eagle, the whole body of the imbalanced twin
engine airplane then starts shuddering like a washing machine in between brief
spells of stillness. A severe jolt detaches my balloon rupturing the fastener
strap from the back rest. The floating balloon that terrifyingly keeps on
bumping has to be ripped out of the airplane in pieces, or else nosedive into
the ground to end up everything in flames. Neither the airplane survives nor
its sole passenger. The dilemma of ‘either-one-or-none’ baffles ground staff
conferring in the Air Traffic Control. This hellish plight continues for some
more time and then some miracle happens I know nothing about. All of a sudden I
feel a savage push, as if from a huge squeeze on the fuselage resembling a
toothpaste tube. The whole aircraft rocks like a hurricane for an instant. A
door is flung open in front of me and another brutal thrust ejects me out heads
down facing the airplane. As I start falling freely in the air like a skydiver,
the parachute opens. Wind roars around me. It is a bright sunny day with the
sky as clear as crystal glass. From the open sky, I peer out into my new world
down below. It looks wonderful. I peer back to the aircraft for a brief second
to see it speeding away for a safe emergency landing. Miraculously both are
saved. I descend as slowly as a feather dropping freely in air from a soaring
eagle until I softly touchdown to see mom sitting on the sun-lit, lush-green
meadow in her agonising wait for me.
“Maa,
look at me, I have come down to you from the sky by an airplane just as you had
once told me,” I cry out. Teary eyed she gazes at me and instantly forgets all
her torments. Her soul smiles through her eyes that scatter an inexplicable
glow that any analogy howsoever nonsensical, fails to capture. That is the joy
of motherhood. My daydream ceases…
Indeed,
that was a daydream and not a dream. The one-hour morning flight from Calcutta
airport to Guwahati was too short for falling into such long dreams. That was
my first air travel. My first year final exams at IIT-Kgp just being over, I
was on my way to spend the summer vacation where dad was posted then— AF
station situated on the Shillong peak, which is also the headquarters of Eastern
Air Command. A hill station during summer! I felt thankful to dad for going
there on posting during my first year. I would be seeing mom a year after she
cried buckets while seeing me off, as though to a School’s Boarding-House and
not to any 'Hall of Residence' of an ‘Institute of National Importance’. It is
all the same to a mother. And I would be seeing dad after he last saw me off in
the Hall saying— “Remember that you were pronounced dead before you were born,
yet you have come up thus far. So, you have nothing to be afraid of.” These
parting words concluded that incredible birth story he began narrating to me on
way to Kharagpur, leaving me wondering what kept him from telling all these to
me until the panic of the imminent ragging started showing on my face. Perhaps
I would have grown a bit bolder, a little more forward, rather than turning
into a shy, timid and withdrawn PCM buff. Nevertheless, that feature alone saw
an average like me through the IIT-JEE just in time, rather than missing the
bus in an attempt to become all square too early. Five years at IIT or even the
initial years at a job for that matter were there to take care of all that.
Possibly that was more practical for a feeble ‘preemie’ like me.
As
the airplane rose higher and higher in the air, (now that I am in Engineering,)
roads appeared like strips of black tapes and rivers like thick aluminium wires
to my eyes, looking from the aeronautical womb. And with that, mom’s reply— “You
came down to me flying down from the skies in an airplane,” whenever I asked
her, “Where did I come from?” kept on ringing in my ears. My absurd daydream
went on stretching out further and further to cover whatever that could have
occurred in reality. Mom’s evasive answer was good enough for a child to
swallow, but not anymore for a sophomore like me, who out of curiosity, has dug
out enough tips on this issue.
Now I know that the exact medical term for the homophone- ‘Ek-Lamp-Asia’ going into my ears in a configuration that a child could make any sense of, is in fact, ‘Eclampsia’- a dangerous condition of pregnancy, like the dangerous condition my wild daydream got the airplane into.
Pre-Eclampsia
is a complication more common during the last trimester or the last three
months of pregnancy, with symptoms such as build-up of high Blood Pressure—
like the high cabin pressure of the airplane, together with high Proteinuria—
like fragments of wreckage debris gushing out along with the fuel. But unlike
common Hyper-Tension, Eclamptic high BP is caused when the antibody of mother's
own immune system attacks its own placenta, mistaking it for a Pathogen or a
foreign body, an enemy intruder such as virus and bacteria. That is medically
an ‘autoimmune disorder’ or metaphorically ‘a case of mistaken identity’— like
the territory’s defence force’s anti-aircraft gun shooting at its own airplane
which intends to protect against enemy infiltrators. The only known way to cure
preeclampsia is by prompt delivery of the baby prematurely, either through
induction of labour or C-section— like immediate jettisoning that last straw
from the airplane. But when delayed, Pre-Eclampsia can rapidly progress into
full blown Eclampsia where the complications aggravate further, added by
seizures and convulsions or vigorous shaking of the body occurring in between
erratic gaps of deep coma— like violent shuddering of the airplane in between
erratic spells of stillness. That potentially becomes a life-threatening
situation both for the mother and the unborn child. Further indecision at this
stage pushes it to the worst-case scenario with ‘placental abruption’, when the
placenta gets detached or jerked out from the inner uterine lining before
delivery— like detachment of the ‘balloon’ by rupturing its fastener strap from
the back rest. Abruption results in severe haemorrhage or bleeding from the
torn tissue, to the extent of both ending up in the ‘funeral pyre’— like nose
diving of the airplane into the ground to end up everything in flames, unless
some miracle happens. Flustered medical staff is conferring in the labour room—
like the baffled ground staff conferring in the Air Traffic Control…
That
was exactly the scenario from where dad had begun narrating his version of that
incredible birth story on our way to where would be my first address of staying
on my own away from home. And here is my own version of it, after digging out
the related ‘medical terms and facts,’ seeming bland in his otherwise absorbing
account of the connected events:
On
a clear mid-September morning in the early fifties at Kanpur cantonment,
powder-puff clouds lazily drifted on the autumn sky with no apparent signs of
an untimely wind storm. A new life form throbbing inside her made mom feel
euphoric like gliding high in the air, with no apparent signs of warning that a
storm was brewing within. Nor anything remarkable was detected during the
prenatal check-ups earlier to indicate what was to come. He had been feeling
delirious with the expectancy of soon becoming three from two in the
camp-household far away from the native town. Then suddenly everything seemed
to turn upside down.
That
particular morning she woke up much earlier than usual feeling restless. She
complained of seeing spots in front of her eyes and having a bit of a headache
and nausea. He was worried and wanted to stay at home for some more time. But
she declined, taking these things as normal to occur at this advanced stage,
which would go away if she had another round of sleep after he set off for the
aerodrome. But just when about to leave he saw her wobble dizzily, he sprung
forward in a reflex action and held her before she could hit the ground
disastrously. She fell unconscious in his arms. The apparent depth of her
unconsciousness, the irregular breathing, the bounding heartbeat that he could
feel, told that something very grave had happened. An ambulance rushed from the
nearby Medicare Centre. Yet, by the time the rear panel of the military
ambulance was opened in front maternity ward of the AF Station hospital, she
was already in the ‘worst case scenario’. A flurry of activity burst out as the
medical orderlies whisked her away, finding it hard to retain her on the
stretcher while under seizures and haemorrhage. Stunned at the terrible turn of
events, he paced along with them in desperation till the door of the antenatal
ward was forcibly shut before him.
She
was diagnosed with ‘Eclampsia progressed into its terminal stage,’ in the space
of just an hour or so, without even conceding the least attention time to its
preliminary stage that would have responded to treatment. The only known
prognosis was maternal and prenatal mortality for sure in those days.
She
was immediately put on respiratory support and a mouth wedge inserted to arrest
tongue laceration. She was given anti-hypertensive injections to control blood
pressure. Infusions of Magnesium Sulphate was administered intravenously for
calming convulsions like ‘pouring oil on troubled waters’ by Benjamin Franklin
for quelling sea waves in storm. But even then, she had violent convulsive
seizures and when it subsided, a deep coma would follow, to be followed by
another convulsion, which would be terrifying to see, only if his eyes could
meet all that while he hopelessly peeked through the window pane into the
makeshift darkened enclosure prepared especially for her with partitions at one
end of the eight-bed ward.
Though
just enough to run elective or scheduled surgical procedures by only pre-booked
specialists drawn from a small panel of surgeons shuttling between several
hospitals, this AF station hospital was not as adequately armed for an
unforeseen situation of such intensity.
But
fortunately, not everything over there was as dismal or gloomy. On the brighter
side, a real-life couple of Gynaecologist and Obstetrician (ObGyn), Dr Joshi
and Dr (Mrs) Joshi, both from the Army Medical Corps (AMC) were very much
present there.
Dr
Joshi, by virtue of his posting as the Administrative Chief was rooted there,
unlike other floating doctors. And so was Dr (Mrs) Joshi, who too was grounded
there by the reason of her being the regular ObGyn at the OPD.
All
looked puzzled except Mrs Parker, the middle-aged, Anglo Indian matron, caring
yet firm, tender yet unyielding in her dealings, which made her vulnerable to
recurrent transfers. Destiny seemed to have placed her here at this very moment
for a different cause.
Left
alone entangled with the darkest fears, no message either good or bad came out
from the other side of the swing-door apart from the sound of a scuffle faintly
reaching his ears, whenever nurses holding kidney dishes busily swung it open
or close. What was going on? The uncertainty only served to make the wait seem
even longer. Morning was almost wearing on to noon when the doorknob turned.
“Our
matron is calling you inside,” a nurse hurriedly led him inside the anteroom
that preceded the antenatal ward. He followed prepared to take the worst. His
feverish eyes scanned the room until they fell on the figure of a lady in
hospital uniforms, standing in prayer with folded arms before a wall crucifix
in one corner. He took a few swift steps and stopped as though transfixed on
the ground at hearing her loud whispers, “Save the child, save it from the
butcher”.
What
was happening? Even if it was taken that she was not overdoing her role as a
Matron by praying to God for her patient, what she was muttering struck him as
a terror adding on to the prevailing agony, trauma and suspense. What more was
to come?
The
matron turned towards him. Her demeanour put him at ease.
“Get
this drug from anywhere in the town-- Just anywhere. Don’t worry about the
money. For military prescriptions it can be adjusted later on. Hurry up, or
else...” she handed him a prescription bearing the signature of Dr (Mrs) Joshi,
the lady Obstetrician along with the name of a drug.
“Or
else what?” he blurted out realising that the implications of what she couldn’t
bring herself to tell must be very grave.
“Or
else, you’ve got to sign these papers of consent to permit that mindless
gynaecologist Dr Joshi to become an abortionist and rip the baby out in pieces
to save the mother,” she disclosed the inevitable pointing towards the papers
on the table in such a tone that sent him right away racing for the miracle
drug.
While
nobody needs to be explained what a modern Stethoscope is, a Pinard-Horn is a
trumpet shaped wooden device with a uniform end-to-end hole. The practitioner
places its flat end-disc on the ear, while the horn’s hollow end is moved
around on the pregnant mother's abdomen for directly listening to baby’s
heartbeat in utero.
A
Fetoscope is a Stethoscope with its chest-piece replaced by a smaller version
of Pinard-Horn that picks up the sounds and transmits to the ears through the
tubing in the same manner.
Listening
to the sounds from the heart, lungs or other internal organs, with a
stethoscope is medically known as auscultation, whereas palpation is the
process of using one's hands for feeling an object, such as a tumour inside the
body with the sense of touch which Mrs Parker did instinctively.
All
that drama had been unfolding here during a period when ultrasound was still
under experimentation as a diagnostic tool even in the developed countries.
Hence, the Fetoscope— a combination of the modern Stethoscope and a
‘Pinard-Horn’, that didn’t require ultrasound to listen to the baby’s
heart-beat, was the best auscultation devise in their hands in the given
scenario.
However,
like an ‘eye of a storm’, only those intervening spells of stillness in between
bouts of seizures provided that calm slot to the Fetoscope for picking up the
foetal heart beats. But the Fetoscope drew a blank for the second time in succession.
“There’s
no heart beat,” Mrs Joshi’s voice quivered as though her own heart had skipped
a beat.
Ears
of the midwife as well as the surgical nurse picked up nothing, as they took
turns one after another, while Mrs Parker, the veteran Matron stood and watched
silently.
“Mrs
Parker, would you now try your ears at that,” requested Dr Joshi, eyeing the
Fetoscope on the surgical trolley-cart, lying among other delivery appliances
like— Amniotic Hook, Haemostat, Forceps, Sutures, Speculum, surgical gloves,
sponges and cotton swabs.
“Please don’t show that to me. Even the cardboard spool of toilet-paper roll
can serve the purpose of listening to heart beats, only if one understands the
position of the baby’s head simply by palpation first,” Mrs Parker undermined
them in a huff, sore at her relegation to fourth in the order.
She
applied all her tactile skills in palpation and then held the probe precisely
on the specific location expecting to be greeted by a faint heart-beat. But
nothing got conveyed to her ears through the tubing as to ‘save her face’ after
she had made all those boastful claims. She heard nothing, not even as faint as
the ticking of a wristwatch under a pillow.
Nevertheless,
her ears or anybody else’s for that matter, failing to perceive those decibels
was no reason for the infant’s heartbeats however faint, not to exist, she
reasoned. But the very next moment, intuition far removed from logic eclipsed
her reasoning, when out of nowhere ‘silent screams’ seemed to reach her ears,
as though the baby was still alive but in distress, medically called foetal distress.
An electrifying feeling! Yet she retained her poise while straightening up,
bearing a tender melancholy towards the tiny unborn bundle— so helpless, so
vulnerable, so defenceless. How sad that a heart that had throbbed so
vigorously inside the mother’s womb until this morning, should now be called
upon to prove itself by sending out a beat that could be heard by these
insensitive people, or else get lost forever without seeing the light of the
day…
Yet,
I saw the light of the day instead of being consigned to darkness forever,
because someone had the backbone to defy authority and the courage to speak up
for me. I woke up to life instead of being put to eternal sleep, because
someone placed ‘clinical haunch’ above ‘clinical diagnosis’ when the two were
in conflict.
“Do
you need a hearing aid, Mrs Parker?” mocked Dr Joshi.
“To
hear we always don’t need real sounds to hit our ear drums assisted by a
hearing aid,” replied Mrs Parker, “I’ve heard the baby’s silent screams,” she
said gently in reply to his caustic remark, not losing her cool.
“Was
it your third ear, something like the third eye, Mrs Parker?” Dr Joshi joked.
“Not just third, it is my thirty-third year into midwifery, may be since you
were in school, Dr Joshi. It just came out of nowhere and I’ve heard it. Can’t
explain how. Not trusting my gut feeling will be a blunder,” Mrs Parker stood
on her ground.
“Do
you realise that another two convulsions at the most and the mother will die
too,” Dr Joshi warned in a grave tone.
“What
do you mean mother ‘too'?” Dr (Mrs) Joshi, who was silent until then asked.
“All
four out of four here, who are ‘medically certified for auscultation’, have not
heard any foetal heart-beat. So, the objective conclusion should be that the
baby is ‘stillborn’ and it needs to be ‘evacuated’ immediately to save the
mother. So, better prepare for the surgery,” Dr Joshi who was the ‘Chief
Surgeon’, officially addressed the surgical team that included his wife in the
role of Assistant Surgeon.
“Prepare for surgery or butchery? Your diagnosis is suspect. I decline and so
will the midwife and the other nurses with me,” retaliated Mrs Parker sharply
with a glint of open defiance in her eyes and stood like a barricade beside the
patient cot. She uttered nothing more, only glared at Mrs Joshi, telling with
her eyes to take over the baton from her in the confrontation.
It was not surprising that an ‘extraordinary’ birthing situation should arouse
such ‘out of the ordinary’ reactions, when even normal situations invoke their own
measure of agony. And all this is because of the fact that, even normal
birthing experience has never been without its own share of pain and agony for
humans. But, why has a natural phenomenon like giving birth to an offspring
never been that easy?
This
is due the hypothesis called ‘Obstetrical Dilemma’, arising from nature’s need
for striking a balance between two conflicting evolutionary demands at the same
time— Human intelligence (demanding bigger head size) versus bipedalism
(demanding narrower hip size), for which the female hip-bone compromised on a
narrower size— a trade-off that gave a ‘tight fit’ to the skull at the
narrowest cross-section it has to pass though en-route this world. This is the
simple ‘mechanics’ behind all her pains and agony on the verge of attaining motherhood,
eulogised over the ages.
Hence
unlike other primates, becoming a mother has never been and never will likely be
an easy task for humans. Yet, no woman needs to be taught how to give birth to
a baby. Nature has put her airplane on route to motherhood on ‘autopilot’.
Right from conception to birthing and post-delivery, the sequence of commands
that her specific organs spontaneously follow are hardwired into her endocrine
system. A hormone is a ‘biochemical messenger’ that is produced by an organ
somewhere in the body, travels through the bloodstream to reach its specified
‘receptor’ on a distantly located target organ, and then tells it what to do.
There are some other hormones too, which unlike travelling messengers are
locally manufactured at site ‘as and when needed’.
For
example, the process of birthing is spontaneously triggered at full term, when
the baby’s head pushes against the cervix, causing it to stretch. This
stretching causes nerve impulses to be sent to the brain. These nerve impulses
cause the brain to stimulate the posterior pituitary gland to release Oxytocin
hormone into the blood stream. Oxytocin released travels through the
bloodstream and attaches itself to the ‘specific receptor membranes’ of the uterus
and tells them to initiate contractions.
Accordingly,
the walls of the uterus contract or shrink, thereby making the head to stretch
the cervix further to release more Oxytocin. The cycle goes on and on, boosting
the push further and further in a positive feedback loop. This is what happens
after ‘going into labour’.
This
is comparable to the turbocharger of my ‘daydream aircraft’, I began this story
with. Hot exhaust flow from the engine, instead of being thrown out directly,
is ‘fed back’ to the turbocharger to spin a turbine-wheel, which in turn spins
a compressor-wheel. This compressor in turn compresses and delivers more amount
of fresh ‘combustion air’ for the same volume, and with it more fuel, that
delivers more power in a ‘positive feedback loop’.
If
a toy or party balloon is any analogy for the uterus, then a ball entrapped
inside the balloon is the baby’s head and the tubular neck, jutting out of the
balloon and ending in a stiff rim, is the cervix. If the goal in this party
game is expulsion of the ball from the balloon by squeezing it down, then the
aim in natural-birthing is similarly expelling the baby from the uterus,
through the cervix into the birth-canal. But this is only a fraction of the
total interplay between the parturition hormones.
To
begin with, a hormone called ‘Human-chorionic-gonadotrophin’ (hCG) enables her
to recognise the presence of the embryo and begin its automated progress
towards birthing. In response, a big player in this interplay of hormones— progesterone,
initially produced in the ovaries and later in the placenta, comes into play.
This hormone initially maintains blood flow to the womb, manufactures nutrients
to sustain the early embryo and produces the decidua, a unique organ by which
the embryo attaches itself to the inner wall of the placenta. As the foetus
grows, decidua gets stronger to enable clinging, until auto-detachment at term
delivery or preterm-detachment in case of an unstable pregnancy— like that
severe jolt rapturing the fastener and detaching the ‘balloon’ in the airplane
analogy of my story. Also there is enough evidence to suggest that, following
conception, another hormone termed ‘Corticotrophin-releasing hormone’ (CRH) in
the placenta, purposely supresses the mother’s immune system, to the extent that
it does not mistake the foetus for a ‘foreign body’ and attack it, like the
analogy of antiaircraft gun attacking territory’s own aircraft. The foetus
nestled inside the depth of the womb is otherwise safe in a ‘stable pregnancy’.
Now,
just imagine in that balloon analogy— that the ping-pong ball progressively
grows up to the size of a billiard ball and then to the size and weight of a
‘junior short-put’ ball, to which the head-size and weight of a baby in-utero
nearly equals at full term. The tubular neck jutting out from the balloon must
be sufficiently stiff or un-stretchable, to hold load of the ball. Also, as the
ball enlarges, the physical stress and strain it exerts on the balloon’s wall
is on the rise, which it must be able to withstand. The same is demanded of a
uterus for a ‘successful pregnancy’. Progesterone accomplishes these two tasks
by thickening the inner lining of the uterus and structurally maintaining the
‘load-bearing capacity’ of the cervix till the end of gestation. But at full term,
these same set of conditions which had maintained pregnancy until then, must be
‘reversed’ in order to accomplish the process of ‘natural birthing’.
Prostaglandin, the next player in this game, (a hormone created at
‘work-site’), accomplishes this task by transforming the uterus walls from
‘firm to flexible’ to enable contractions and the squeezes. Prostaglandin also
affects structural modification the cervix causing— thinning out of its walls
(effacing) and ‘shortening’ it elastically, thereby widening the opening
(dilation), till the ‘outward force’ exerted by the baby’s head overcomes the
resistance faced, allowing passage of the baby from the womb to the outside
world through a ‘favourable cervix’. This is looking at Biology from an
Engineer’s point of view.
These
hormones are only to name a few. But what is true for all of them is— just as a
natural hormone produced endogenously, accomplishes certain tasks, so also do
their synthetic versions or analogues, produced exogenously.
At
that point of time when this story was unfolding, the synthetic version or
analogue of Oxytocin, that mimics the natural one, had just found its way into
the country under the trade name Pitocin. Its role as a therapeutic agent to
induce or augment labour for ‘term delivery’ and initiation lactation after
childbirth were known and also as a fall out from this, its non-therapeutic
role or abuse for ‘milk-ejection from dairy-animals’ came to be known. However,
though natural Oxytocin’s role as the hormone of love, bonding, empathy and
‘feel-good’ was known, it was not certain whether its analogue’s role or abuse
as an addictive ‘mood elixir’ had come to be known.
In
that airplane analogy, if a simple push on its ‘push-button starting switch’
for triggering the engine’s self-ignition is comparable with a push by the
baby’s head on the cervix for triggering spontaneous contractions, then use of
synthetic version of Oxytocin or Pitocin for artificially inducing contractions
is comparable with ‘jump-starting’ the airplane using an external battery
called ‘Rescue Booster Pack’. Under the conditions prevailing in the delivery
room, synthetic Oxytocin could at least serve like that jump-start, in absence
of self-excitation from the natural version at preterm.
Now,
coming back to the delivery room…
C-section,
the easiest option, like jettisoning some amount of load from the airplane, was
ruled out for reasons of the likely blood loss in the procedure itself to gain
access to the baby, after it had already suffered placental abruption with
significant haemorrhage. Adding further to the constraint was the on-call
anaesthetist's total inexperience in ‘administering anaesthesia to a comatose
patient for C-Section’, which was still a subject of dissertation in medical
journals.
Under
those uncertainties, the way the low tone consultation between the flustered
OBGYN duo, Dr. and Dr. (Mrs.) Joshi erupted into a heated argument, with scowling
faces, pointing fingers and adrenaline rushes, it gave no inkling of their oxytocin
rushes while sheltered in each other’s arms like love birds the night before.
Voices raised and pitches soared, while each one of them tried to assert one’s
point of view in a perfect model of ‘role-playing’:
“How
do you go from saving lives to taking lives, Dr Joshi?” she was quite vocal on
taking over the baton from Mrs. Parker, who along with the midwife got engaged
with the patient, unseen behind the curtain around the cot.
“Mrs
Joshi, the baby is stillborn, which means death inside the womb from 20 to 28
weeks of pregnancy at which it is now and even if taken remotely that it still
has some life left in it, I am licensed to perform the evacuation if it becomes
absolutely necessary in the interest of saving the mother,” he showed his
powers.
“Doctor
Joshi, ‘showing no signs of life’ and ‘being dead’ do not mean the same thing.
Evacuation, the option going on in your head will only end up killing both at
such an advanced stage of gestation. So, expulsion by induction will be a safer
procedure medically,” she contradicted.
“But,
however dangerous, the risk of immediate evacuation outweighs the risk of your
lengthy procedure whose duration neither mother nor baby survives,” he warned.
“But, however dangerous, the risk of inducing, even if the duration shoots up
to more than 72 hours, outweighs the risk of such late term evacuation,” she
asserted.
“And
what kind of a normal delivery are you pestering me for, until its abnormal
foetal ‘presentation and position’ is moderated to ‘heads down and facing the mother’s
spine’ Mrs Joshi?” he revealed.
“And
what kind of an evacuation are you vouching for while the patient is in coma,
and cannot be given full anaesthesia as to not wake up during surgery, Dr
Joshi?” she disclosed.
A
silence fell. Flustered under moral dilemmas, first things didn’t strike them
first. It happens. Their eyes met calmly, seeking compliance. But turning from
being defiant to compliant over the next course of their exchanges it came out
that: The synthetic version ‘Pitocin’ was only used to artificially induce
labour in elective cases, when labour did not start spontaneously at full term
or upon overshooting it. For planned cases, just the requisite dose was
requisitioned from Command Hospital, where it was not there now.
Furthermore,
premature induction requires much larger doses of the same induction agent or Uterotonic,
for reasons of relative of paucity of Oxytocin receptors on the pre-term
uterine walls as well as for the larger duration.
Moreover,
after artificially inducing labour with Pitocin, the next set of cascading
events like softening, ripening, dilating followed spontaneously at full term
only, with Prostaglandin hormones getting released naturally. But this
spontaneous effect does not follow artificial onset of contractions with
Pitocin prematurely or before full term.
To top it all, synthetic analogues of Prostaglandin, that could initiate this
effect artificially, were yet to be synthesised in laboratories. So, in absence
of a purely non-invasive pharmacologic regimen, they had no alternative other
than resorting to age old mechanical methods. Skill on such invasive methods
among those present there, comfortable with routine procedures only, was also
very much in doubt.
Feeling
lost, they unwittingly looked in the face of Mrs Parker, who came out from
behind the curtains just then.
“While
listening to all that was passing between the two of you, the midwife and I
have fixed all your doubts. Now just like a shot in the air when the preconditions
are ready, try to get that inducing agent in the requisite doze for IV infusion,
just from anywhere and within three hours at the most, or else, let Dr Joshi
take the floor,” Mrs Parker recommended. That was at least better than killing
or letting die from incisiveness. While Dr Joshi walked out to make the papers
ready, Mrs Joshi wrote and handed a prescription to Mrs Parker.
“I
know there is only one person in this world who will move the mountains for the
magic potion,” her voice quivered as she walked towards the crucifix...
“My
nerves racing, I madly pedalled from one corner of the town to other,” Dad
hastened his narration as the destination neared, “I dashed into pharmacies and
clinics, knocked on doors of maternity centres or even abortion clinics to
which I was guided and whose existence I wouldn’t have otherwise known. But
nowhere was it there. I even met with suspicious stares. Yet I carried on the
hunt and time was running out. Suddenly, I suffered a blackout and fell down
unconscious on the street. When I regained consciousness, I opened my eyes to
an unknown person sprinkling water on my face. I faintly heard him telling the
bystanders around me to move wider to let in more air and that he knew how to
resuscitate, being a medical representative himself. I sprang up to full
awareness. No further resuscitation was necessary. I showed him the
prescription. He rummaged through the contents of his MR bag till he came out
with a flasket containing vials of the panacea. He handed it to me saying he
felt awed that a thing he had been carrying for a dubious deal, divinely got
diverted towards a good deed. There are true stories about pilots bailing out
from shot down aircraft, para dropping on enemy land and opening eyes to a
rescuer who was miraculously present there. Any expiation?” Dad’s voice got
choked.
His
story stood at a juncture like that fairy-tale race between the ‘poison and the
potion’ to save the princess— A do or die race which he had to win! He raced
against time beating the abortionist and dashed into the anteroom where the
matron still stood before the crucifix…
The
airplane touches the ground. The exit door opens. As I get out and climb down
the stairs, I can see my mom standing behind railings in the visitor’s gallery
at the edge of the runway, in her eager wait for her ‘budding engineer’ son.
That was real, not a daydream!
“Maa…”
my heart cries out, “I have come down to you from the sky flying on an aeroplane
just as you had told me”.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)