My daughter does not like Anna. She knows that Anna fights against corruption, he is committed to cleansing the society of the ills, and he has dedicated his life for the betterment of the people. Still she does not like him for the cap he wears. To her Gandhi cap is synonymous with hypocrisy and corruption.
Things were different during my childhood. I was born twelve years after India had attained her independence. Freedom fighters were seen moving with Gandhi caps on their heads, and living with their Ganhian principles. The persons in Gandhi caps were respected. Teachers in the class spoke of Gandhism and preached that the man should live for others, do something for improving the society. They cited the examples of the dedicated leaders, freedom fighters who had sacrificed their comforts for the nation, neglected their family and children for the country and its people.
They wore Gandhi caps.
Mahendra, my friend once said, “When first time I came to Bhubaneswar, after I got down from the bus, I took a pinch of Bhubaneswar dust and smeared on my forehead. Because, the great persons-MLAs and Ministers- has walked over the earth of Bhubaneswar. Then, most of the MLAs and Ministers were former freedom fighters. I had heard from my teacher, a minister was going to the Assembly and to the Secretariat riding a bicycle. A former Chief Minister after demitting office was seen riding a bicycle. The earth of Bhubaneswar I considered as sacred as Gangajal.”
Mahendra was disillusioned soon after he entered into government service in the later part of eighties of the last century. He joined forest service and found there nexus between timber mafia and the forest people. The forest mafia thrived with active support of the politicians. Being a man of principle, he could not tolerate the loot of the jungle and tried to enforce law. He did not get cooperation from his own people and on the other hand, he was threatened by the mafia. He only created enemies. At one time, he perceived the danger to his life and saw he could no longer work there. He approached the forest minister. The minister had learned about him from his own sources and said, “I shall transfer you from that place. But I cannot help you always. You have to amend your ways. You are an honest officer. It is okay; but that does not mean you should try to prevent others from becoming dishonest. That’s as simple as that. You will be always in trouble, if you enforce your principles and honesty on others. Don’t try to become a second Gandhi. Gandhi was killed when he was old, you would be killed young.”
He was transferred as Assistant Conservator of Forest coincidentally to the place where I was working as Treasury Officer. We were happy to be reunited after our university days. We would engage ourselves hours together in small talks over cups of tea; go with our families on picnic at least once in a month. But he looked most of the times depressed and absentminded. He would often say, ‘I should not be in this job.” But he also could not do anything else, considering his family background, he could never risk for anything else at that point in his life. At that time also his wife was expecting their first child.
When we met he told me about his office matters. The forest range officer, subordinate to him, had unofficial and informal relation with the DFO, his senior. He had scant regard for him. The Range officer was also on intimate relation with the local MLA. The local MLA, formerly a jungle mafia, earned his wealth by timber-smuggling. One day Mahendra seized a vehicle carrying smuggled logs. The MLA intervened, but he did not listen. The DFO ordered him to release the vehicle without booking a case. The DFO told that the Chief Conservator had telephoned him to tell him in this matter. He had to release the vehicle.
After this incident, one day the MLA called Mahendra to meet him at the PWD bungalow. When he reached, the MLA told him to sit in front of him. Without saying anything more, he opened his briefcase, took out a revolver, checked the bullets, cleaned the revolver with his handkerchief and put it back in the briefcase. Then he said, “Mahendra Babu, you know, our paths are different. You were a brilliant student, otherwise you would not have qualified PSC exam to become an officer. But I was a school dropout. We have different backgrounds, we play with different toys. You have just seen the toy I play with. Your toys must be different. If we play with our respective toys, I need not explain, you know what would be the consequence….”
Later, Mahendra described before me the way the MLA spoke and laughed. He remarked, “The MLA must be an action movie buff.”
But after some months, he went mad. He thought everybody who went to him was conspiring to kill him. He sat with a loaded rifle, supplied to the forest department by the government, and threatened to kill if anyone would dare go near him. The psychiatrist diagnosed him to be suffering from one kind of paranoid psychosis.
Another sad incident happened during that period when I was the Treasury Officer. A BDO committed suicide. He was honest, hardworking and a committed officer. For his uncompromising nature, the chairman of the Panchayat Samiti harassed him; the Collector did not support him, and the Minister who was on a visit to the area humiliated him in public. It was also rumoured that his wife had betrayed him. I was shocked. I wrote a story on the incident of the BDO’s suicide. The story was published in Katha under the caption Chakravyuha. In the story, a character says, “In the present system, an honest officer will either go mad or commit suicide.”
I do not dislike Anna for the Gandhi cap he wears. But I do not expect much from the movement he leads. Will Anna’s Jan Lokpal protect honest and committed government servants against an MLA with a revolver and the kind of DFO and Co and allow him to work for the people?
xxxxxx
Friday, October 21, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
A Love Story Retold
Mr P is my friend. Every day we meet during our morning walk. He retired from government service in 2006 after rendering 34 years of service. He admires my stories and reads whatever I write whenever he chances upon it. A few months back while doing our ‘brisk morning walk’ he suggested, “Why doesn’t you write a story on me?”
“On you?” I could not get him.
“Yes, on me. I had a love affair, just after I had completed my Matriculation. It had lasted exactly four years and three months. But we were intensely in love with each other. “
Everybody loves to read a love story. The story may be Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Chetan Bhagat’s 2 State Story of my Marriage. Irrespective of nation, language, region, age or time, a love story always interests a person.
I said, “You have to tell me.”
And he told me his love story. He took the whole one hour we did our morning walk to describe his story with all the tit bits. He must have replayed his story many times in his mind during the last 40 years; otherwise he could not have made the story so interesting. In fact, I enjoyed the hour listening him without any feeling of fatigue for the ‘brisk walking’.
It was just a usual love affair in the sixties between two young persons who belonged to two different castes. Since their castes were different and also social standing of their parents in the village, the affair could not be translated into marriage. They had to succumb to social pressure, and part their ways.
I wrote a story based on his affair. The story is published under the caption ‘seshachithi’ (the last letter) in the anniversary special issue of SAMBAD, 2011.
I got a phone call at 10.30 in the night. I do not entertain any call after eight. But it was Mr P, my morning walker friend. He said, “Sorry to disturb you. I know you don’t like to be disturbed after eight, but I could not wait till the morning. I just finished your story. It’s really excellent…. the way you have ended the story… I don’ find words to describe it. It’s one of the four or five best stories of Odia literature I would always remember …”
Of course, I was pleased. But I felt he was over rating the story, it might not be as good as he described. I said, “It’s your story, that’s why it interests you. Others may not appreciate it…”
He stopped, took pause. Perhaps, he could not believe me. He said, “Maybe, that’s a point. But I think it’s really a good story. You will get good response from others… definitely… I am sure...”
I did not want to discuss on the subject more in the night. I said, “Okay, we shall meet tomorrow.”
I switched off the cell phone.
The next day in the morning we met. He again eulogised me and the story. He said, “I gave you a skeleton, but you injected life and put the soul. You have added something which I had not told you. But those were my real feelings at that point in time and in that kind of situations…. It’s really amazing... how could you imagine other’s feelings exactly …”
To change the discussion I said, “But I committed a mistake. I have changed the names of the characters. But I forgot to substitute some names for Manas and Manasi.”
Manas and Manasi were the code names they were addressing each other in their letters though Mr P and his lady love’s names were different. I had substituted some other names for Mr P and his lady love in the story, but forgot about Manas and Manasi. Of course, besides Mr P and his lover, the code names were only known to two of his closest friend and his wife. Yes, his wife knew the affair. He had burnt all of her letters except one. Somehow one letter out of a trunk full he had received during their affair of four years and three months had escaped the destruction. And that letter reached the hand of his wife who could discover the real Manas of Manasi with little investigation.
He said, “No, rather you have done the right thing in not changing the code names. She may chance upon the story. After all, Smbad’s anniversary magazine is widely circulated, she may get to read it and….”
In the story Mr P has met his lover after a gap of thirty three years, but in real life they have not met till now after they had parted their ways forty years back.
I looked at him. He stopped and did not complete the sentence.
Mr P is now at 63. His wife would be at 60.
“And…” I asked.
He smiled. I understood.
xxxxx
“On you?” I could not get him.
“Yes, on me. I had a love affair, just after I had completed my Matriculation. It had lasted exactly four years and three months. But we were intensely in love with each other. “
Everybody loves to read a love story. The story may be Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina or Chetan Bhagat’s 2 State Story of my Marriage. Irrespective of nation, language, region, age or time, a love story always interests a person.
I said, “You have to tell me.”
And he told me his love story. He took the whole one hour we did our morning walk to describe his story with all the tit bits. He must have replayed his story many times in his mind during the last 40 years; otherwise he could not have made the story so interesting. In fact, I enjoyed the hour listening him without any feeling of fatigue for the ‘brisk walking’.
It was just a usual love affair in the sixties between two young persons who belonged to two different castes. Since their castes were different and also social standing of their parents in the village, the affair could not be translated into marriage. They had to succumb to social pressure, and part their ways.
I wrote a story based on his affair. The story is published under the caption ‘seshachithi’ (the last letter) in the anniversary special issue of SAMBAD, 2011.
I got a phone call at 10.30 in the night. I do not entertain any call after eight. But it was Mr P, my morning walker friend. He said, “Sorry to disturb you. I know you don’t like to be disturbed after eight, but I could not wait till the morning. I just finished your story. It’s really excellent…. the way you have ended the story… I don’ find words to describe it. It’s one of the four or five best stories of Odia literature I would always remember …”
Of course, I was pleased. But I felt he was over rating the story, it might not be as good as he described. I said, “It’s your story, that’s why it interests you. Others may not appreciate it…”
He stopped, took pause. Perhaps, he could not believe me. He said, “Maybe, that’s a point. But I think it’s really a good story. You will get good response from others… definitely… I am sure...”
I did not want to discuss on the subject more in the night. I said, “Okay, we shall meet tomorrow.”
I switched off the cell phone.
The next day in the morning we met. He again eulogised me and the story. He said, “I gave you a skeleton, but you injected life and put the soul. You have added something which I had not told you. But those were my real feelings at that point in time and in that kind of situations…. It’s really amazing... how could you imagine other’s feelings exactly …”
To change the discussion I said, “But I committed a mistake. I have changed the names of the characters. But I forgot to substitute some names for Manas and Manasi.”
Manas and Manasi were the code names they were addressing each other in their letters though Mr P and his lady love’s names were different. I had substituted some other names for Mr P and his lady love in the story, but forgot about Manas and Manasi. Of course, besides Mr P and his lover, the code names were only known to two of his closest friend and his wife. Yes, his wife knew the affair. He had burnt all of her letters except one. Somehow one letter out of a trunk full he had received during their affair of four years and three months had escaped the destruction. And that letter reached the hand of his wife who could discover the real Manas of Manasi with little investigation.
He said, “No, rather you have done the right thing in not changing the code names. She may chance upon the story. After all, Smbad’s anniversary magazine is widely circulated, she may get to read it and….”
In the story Mr P has met his lover after a gap of thirty three years, but in real life they have not met till now after they had parted their ways forty years back.
I looked at him. He stopped and did not complete the sentence.
Mr P is now at 63. His wife would be at 60.
“And…” I asked.
He smiled. I understood.
xxxxx
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Odia Puja magazines
In the seventies and early eighties of the last century when I was a student in the School and later in the College I was eagerly waiting for the Durga puja holidays. Durga puja was a great festival of Orissa. The Government employees got the longest holidays during this time. But it was not observed in our village with the fanfare as it was observed in Cuttack or in some other towns. I was not a devotee of the Goddess either. I was eagerly waiting for the Puja as Odia literary magazines brought out their special issues on this occasion. When I was in the school – our school was in a remote village- I would come to Cuttack to buy the magazines. Jhankar was a must and besides, I used to buy Asantakali, Nabarabi and some other magazines. The magazines were thicker with more stories, and some of those also published complete novels. After the School/College reopened, I would have enough material for a few days’ enjoyment. I enjoyed most reading a good story or a novel.
My waiting for the Puja has been a habit with me since those days. Asantakali stopped its publication. Nabarabi was also stopped; but after some years, it is published again. Jhankar continues its publication being the oldest surviving odia literary magazine. Now the number of odia magazines published during the Puja has increased.
With development in printing technology, the get up/lay out of the magazines has improved. It now looks nicer and more attractive. Exact figure is not available with me, but the number of odia literary magazines hitting the stands during the Puja is around a hundred. Of course, ninety-five per cent of the magazines published during the Puja disappear from the market, and are not seen whole of the year.
There is always complaint that the readership of odia literature has greatly reduced and most of the odia people have no longer any interest in odia literature. On being asked, the writers writing in odia cite the example of the Puja magazines. They say, almost all the magazines published during the Puja are sold out. Sambad, the odia daily, publishes its annual anniversary issue and it claims to printing more than one hundred thousand copies. There are some monthly magazines like Kadambinini, Katha which print more than twenty thousand copies. On a rough estimate, the total number of copies of all the magazines would be around two lakh. But it does not imply that two lakh persons buy odia literary magazines. For example, each year I usually buy around ten Puja special issues. The person who has interest in literature cannot be satisfied with one magazine, and usually he, on an average, buys more than two-three magazines.
During my student days, some of my favourite writers were Manoj Das, Santanu Acharya, Mahapatra Nilamani Sahoo, Rabi Pattanaik, Bibhuti Pattanaik, Jagannath Prasad Das, Chandrasekhar Rath, Pratibha Ray, Ramachandra Behara, Padmaj Pal, Kanheilal Das, Jagdish Mihanty, etc. Some of them have passed away, and some of them have stopped writing. Some talented writers have come to the odia literary scene. New writers are coming to the literary field every year. Some of the old writers have been deleted and some new ones have taken their places in the list of my favourites. Comparing the present writing with that of the past there is not only change in theme and content, but also in style and presentation. But my interest in literature remains the same; I still wait for the Puja for the Puja special odia magazines.
xxxx
My waiting for the Puja has been a habit with me since those days. Asantakali stopped its publication. Nabarabi was also stopped; but after some years, it is published again. Jhankar continues its publication being the oldest surviving odia literary magazine. Now the number of odia magazines published during the Puja has increased.
With development in printing technology, the get up/lay out of the magazines has improved. It now looks nicer and more attractive. Exact figure is not available with me, but the number of odia literary magazines hitting the stands during the Puja is around a hundred. Of course, ninety-five per cent of the magazines published during the Puja disappear from the market, and are not seen whole of the year.
There is always complaint that the readership of odia literature has greatly reduced and most of the odia people have no longer any interest in odia literature. On being asked, the writers writing in odia cite the example of the Puja magazines. They say, almost all the magazines published during the Puja are sold out. Sambad, the odia daily, publishes its annual anniversary issue and it claims to printing more than one hundred thousand copies. There are some monthly magazines like Kadambinini, Katha which print more than twenty thousand copies. On a rough estimate, the total number of copies of all the magazines would be around two lakh. But it does not imply that two lakh persons buy odia literary magazines. For example, each year I usually buy around ten Puja special issues. The person who has interest in literature cannot be satisfied with one magazine, and usually he, on an average, buys more than two-three magazines.
During my student days, some of my favourite writers were Manoj Das, Santanu Acharya, Mahapatra Nilamani Sahoo, Rabi Pattanaik, Bibhuti Pattanaik, Jagannath Prasad Das, Chandrasekhar Rath, Pratibha Ray, Ramachandra Behara, Padmaj Pal, Kanheilal Das, Jagdish Mihanty, etc. Some of them have passed away, and some of them have stopped writing. Some talented writers have come to the odia literary scene. New writers are coming to the literary field every year. Some of the old writers have been deleted and some new ones have taken their places in the list of my favourites. Comparing the present writing with that of the past there is not only change in theme and content, but also in style and presentation. But my interest in literature remains the same; I still wait for the Puja for the Puja special odia magazines.
xxxx
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Living in dream
Images intrude into the mind
Clash with the worries
Broken into pieces
Like reflections on a broken mirror
Picture of a bride suddenly changes
Sindoor is wiped off her forehead
Bangles of her hand broken
Bereft of color, she turns into white
In search of the nest
One has already traveled
Two-third of the way
The nest is not to be seen
It’s still far away
Commanding look of the boss
Dejected face of the self
Savage apparitions of the wishes
Unusual thick humid stagnant autumn air
Keep sleep at a distance
In the wee hours of the morning
Mind refuses to think
Eyes rebel
I slide into a dream
Birds chirp
Bell rings in the temple
Waves play on the beach
Cool wind blows from the south
As she appears
Emanating peace and tranquility
I refuse to come out of the dream
*******
Clash with the worries
Broken into pieces
Like reflections on a broken mirror
Picture of a bride suddenly changes
Sindoor is wiped off her forehead
Bangles of her hand broken
Bereft of color, she turns into white
In search of the nest
One has already traveled
Two-third of the way
The nest is not to be seen
It’s still far away
Commanding look of the boss
Dejected face of the self
Savage apparitions of the wishes
Unusual thick humid stagnant autumn air
Keep sleep at a distance
In the wee hours of the morning
Mind refuses to think
Eyes rebel
I slide into a dream
Birds chirp
Bell rings in the temple
Waves play on the beach
Cool wind blows from the south
As she appears
Emanating peace and tranquility
I refuse to come out of the dream
*******
When life ends before it begins…
They celebrated their first marriage anniversary on 4 July 11.
Buni was expecting; the doctor had predicted the birth of the child in the second week of September. Pradeep, her husband was negotiating with a builder to buy an apartment. They would shift from the rented house to their own apartment after their child was born, and set up their own dream home.
On 7th September, Pradeep had a temperature. Dengue had taken the form of an epidemic. There was news of dengue related deaths every day in the daily newspapers. He consulted a doctor of a Nursing Home. The doctor got tested his blood sample and also did other tests. The reports of all the tests were negative. The doctor prescribed medicine for the fever and said, “No need of taking admission in the Nursing Home. Go home, take medicines. Complete rest will get you well within three four days.”
The temperature remitted after he took medicines, but it relapsed after one or one and half hours. The next day, on the 8th, the temperature touched 102 degree plus in the thermometer. He telephoned the doctor. The doctor assured, “Don’t worry. It is only the second day. Viral fever normally takes at least a week to be cured. Continue with the medicines. You will be well within three four days.”
On the 9th, he had unbearably high temperature. He was taken to the same Nursing Home. But on the way to the Nursing Home he became unconscious. The doctor of the Nursing Home said, “We don’t have vacant bed for the patient,” and advised to take the patient to SCB Medical College and Hospital.
The scene at the SCB was depressing.
The SCB is always overcrowded with patients. A large number of patients are on the veranda of the Medicine Ward; sleeping, some of them are seen on drips and their attendants sitting beside them. People, the near and dear ones of the patients would be running hither and thither. There is always allegation of callousness and carelessness of the doctors in any Govt Hospital. Sometimes, the doctors’ behaviour precipitates into violence; after death of the patient, the close relatives physically assault the attending doctor, and are beaten in return by the doctors. The doctors go on strike against such violence and demand action against the culprits, and as a permanent solution, demand enough protection. Taking into account the large number of patients and disproportionately less number of the doctors, the helplessness of the doctors is understandable.
Pradeep was admitted in the Medicine Ward. He was put on drips. He regained consciousness, but not fully. He could open his eyes, recognise the persons, but could not comprehend properly. He was, perhaps, administered some medicine, but what and what for, his relatives could not know. There was no discernible improvement in his condition. His relatives had a feeling that he was not properly attended to. The doctors were irritable when asked anything, and their behaviour was certainly very rude. When one of his relatives asked, “What has happened? What ailment he is suffering from?” Their answer was, “What do you know? I am the doctor or you are?” and the doctor turned his face away as if the person asking were not a human being, but an ugly beast or something like that.
Buni felt labour pain. The same day she was admitted in the Gynaecology Ward of the SCB Medical.
The next day, on the 10th, condition of Pradeep deteriorated. His relatives were desperate. The doctors were unresponsive. His relatives were not sure whether or not their patient was being treated properly. One of his relatives, himself a doctor serving in a periphery Govt hospital, visited him and inquired into the case. He observed, “There is no transparency; the patient’s attendants should know the disease he is treated for and the medicines he is being administered. That instils confidence in the treatment. The doctor may prescribe the medicines; patient’s relatives shall buy, so that they will be reassured…” He went to the doctor on duty and suggested the same. The young doctor on duty, a PG student, replied, “He is treated properly. There is no provision that a patient would purchase the medicine. The Hospital is giving the right kind of medicine.”
The patient might be treated properly; the Hospital might be providing the right kind of medicine. But what’s about the quality of the medicine? There are also news, one often come across, about poor quality of medicine supplied to Govt Hospitals by the unscrupulous suppliers in connivance with certain corrupt officials. One reads such kind of scandals in the newspapers!
The doctor-relative remarked, “He is very arrogant and also misbehaving. I was his senior, still he behaves like this. A few months back he was also beaten by a patient’s relatives, and there was much hullabaloo. Better, you take the patient to a private nursing home.”
The doctor-relative told that Pradeep had cerebral malaria.
The friends, relatives, acquaintances who heard of his illness thronged to the SCB to see him. One of his relatives has a doctor-friend serving as Asst Professor in Berhampur. He requested him whether he could help the patient in any way. The Asst Professor was a lecturer in the SCB before he got promoted and posted to Berhampur. The Asst Professor asked about the Unit in which the patient was admitted and the Professor heading the Unit. When he heard the Unit and name of its head, he said, “That Professor is very arrogant and irritable. Instead of listening to any one, he would rather be annoyed.” And he told once his own uncle had gone to the Hospital and he, by the way, dropped his name. The Professor got annoyed and rebuked his uncle. The Asst Professor added, “But he is a good doctor. He does not neglect in his duty.” That was the only solace.
On the 10th, Buni gave birth to a son in the Gynaecology Ward. Pradeep was informed about his becoming a father. He asked, “Has the child been administered injections?” and then, he lost consciousness.
Pradeep’s condition further aggravated. The next day, on 11th, he was taken to ICU and put on ventilator. Dialysis had to be done for functioning of his kidney. But the instrument the SCB had took eleven hours for a dialysis.
The doctors of the SCB did dialysis once and then, his relatives took Pradeep to Appollo Hospital, Bhubaneswar. In Apollo, the dialysis took four hours. Dialysis had, now, to be done regularly.
The doctors of the Apollo gave hope, they told he would survive.
After a few days the ventilator was put off, but dialysis continued in regular interval. The Asst Professor told recovery would be fast after the ventilator was put off.
But on 28th, the patient’s condition suddenly deteriorated, the right side of his body turned paralytic, he was again put on ventilator. On 29th, at around 5.30 pm, he breathed his last.
Buni is my niece, the only daughter of my wife’s sister. She is at 27, Pradeep was at 31. Their marriage was only one year old; their son is only 21 days old when his father died.
I visited my wife’s sister on last Sunday, 2nd October. I asked her father, “Where is Buni?”
He replied, “She is now in her in law’s house.”
“How could you send her to her in law’s house in such a condition?” I could not believe.
He said, “What can I do? There is a social custom; the wife has to see the face of her dead husband before the dead body is cremated. Vermilion has to be wiped off her forehead; bangles of her hands have to be broken…”
I could not have patience to listen more. I wanted to meet Buni, but now I did not have the courage to face her.
I cannot forgive the doctors of the SCB Medical College and Hospital. Of course, they meet every day hundreds of such patients, but Buni had only one patient, her husband who died, her parents has lost their only son in law, their only daughter is now a widow.
I feel hatred against such a cruel social custom that put a grieving wife to such a painful trauma.
xxxxxxxxx
Buni was expecting; the doctor had predicted the birth of the child in the second week of September. Pradeep, her husband was negotiating with a builder to buy an apartment. They would shift from the rented house to their own apartment after their child was born, and set up their own dream home.
On 7th September, Pradeep had a temperature. Dengue had taken the form of an epidemic. There was news of dengue related deaths every day in the daily newspapers. He consulted a doctor of a Nursing Home. The doctor got tested his blood sample and also did other tests. The reports of all the tests were negative. The doctor prescribed medicine for the fever and said, “No need of taking admission in the Nursing Home. Go home, take medicines. Complete rest will get you well within three four days.”
The temperature remitted after he took medicines, but it relapsed after one or one and half hours. The next day, on the 8th, the temperature touched 102 degree plus in the thermometer. He telephoned the doctor. The doctor assured, “Don’t worry. It is only the second day. Viral fever normally takes at least a week to be cured. Continue with the medicines. You will be well within three four days.”
On the 9th, he had unbearably high temperature. He was taken to the same Nursing Home. But on the way to the Nursing Home he became unconscious. The doctor of the Nursing Home said, “We don’t have vacant bed for the patient,” and advised to take the patient to SCB Medical College and Hospital.
The scene at the SCB was depressing.
The SCB is always overcrowded with patients. A large number of patients are on the veranda of the Medicine Ward; sleeping, some of them are seen on drips and their attendants sitting beside them. People, the near and dear ones of the patients would be running hither and thither. There is always allegation of callousness and carelessness of the doctors in any Govt Hospital. Sometimes, the doctors’ behaviour precipitates into violence; after death of the patient, the close relatives physically assault the attending doctor, and are beaten in return by the doctors. The doctors go on strike against such violence and demand action against the culprits, and as a permanent solution, demand enough protection. Taking into account the large number of patients and disproportionately less number of the doctors, the helplessness of the doctors is understandable.
Pradeep was admitted in the Medicine Ward. He was put on drips. He regained consciousness, but not fully. He could open his eyes, recognise the persons, but could not comprehend properly. He was, perhaps, administered some medicine, but what and what for, his relatives could not know. There was no discernible improvement in his condition. His relatives had a feeling that he was not properly attended to. The doctors were irritable when asked anything, and their behaviour was certainly very rude. When one of his relatives asked, “What has happened? What ailment he is suffering from?” Their answer was, “What do you know? I am the doctor or you are?” and the doctor turned his face away as if the person asking were not a human being, but an ugly beast or something like that.
Buni felt labour pain. The same day she was admitted in the Gynaecology Ward of the SCB Medical.
The next day, on the 10th, condition of Pradeep deteriorated. His relatives were desperate. The doctors were unresponsive. His relatives were not sure whether or not their patient was being treated properly. One of his relatives, himself a doctor serving in a periphery Govt hospital, visited him and inquired into the case. He observed, “There is no transparency; the patient’s attendants should know the disease he is treated for and the medicines he is being administered. That instils confidence in the treatment. The doctor may prescribe the medicines; patient’s relatives shall buy, so that they will be reassured…” He went to the doctor on duty and suggested the same. The young doctor on duty, a PG student, replied, “He is treated properly. There is no provision that a patient would purchase the medicine. The Hospital is giving the right kind of medicine.”
The patient might be treated properly; the Hospital might be providing the right kind of medicine. But what’s about the quality of the medicine? There are also news, one often come across, about poor quality of medicine supplied to Govt Hospitals by the unscrupulous suppliers in connivance with certain corrupt officials. One reads such kind of scandals in the newspapers!
The doctor-relative remarked, “He is very arrogant and also misbehaving. I was his senior, still he behaves like this. A few months back he was also beaten by a patient’s relatives, and there was much hullabaloo. Better, you take the patient to a private nursing home.”
The doctor-relative told that Pradeep had cerebral malaria.
The friends, relatives, acquaintances who heard of his illness thronged to the SCB to see him. One of his relatives has a doctor-friend serving as Asst Professor in Berhampur. He requested him whether he could help the patient in any way. The Asst Professor was a lecturer in the SCB before he got promoted and posted to Berhampur. The Asst Professor asked about the Unit in which the patient was admitted and the Professor heading the Unit. When he heard the Unit and name of its head, he said, “That Professor is very arrogant and irritable. Instead of listening to any one, he would rather be annoyed.” And he told once his own uncle had gone to the Hospital and he, by the way, dropped his name. The Professor got annoyed and rebuked his uncle. The Asst Professor added, “But he is a good doctor. He does not neglect in his duty.” That was the only solace.
On the 10th, Buni gave birth to a son in the Gynaecology Ward. Pradeep was informed about his becoming a father. He asked, “Has the child been administered injections?” and then, he lost consciousness.
Pradeep’s condition further aggravated. The next day, on 11th, he was taken to ICU and put on ventilator. Dialysis had to be done for functioning of his kidney. But the instrument the SCB had took eleven hours for a dialysis.
The doctors of the SCB did dialysis once and then, his relatives took Pradeep to Appollo Hospital, Bhubaneswar. In Apollo, the dialysis took four hours. Dialysis had, now, to be done regularly.
The doctors of the Apollo gave hope, they told he would survive.
After a few days the ventilator was put off, but dialysis continued in regular interval. The Asst Professor told recovery would be fast after the ventilator was put off.
But on 28th, the patient’s condition suddenly deteriorated, the right side of his body turned paralytic, he was again put on ventilator. On 29th, at around 5.30 pm, he breathed his last.
Buni is my niece, the only daughter of my wife’s sister. She is at 27, Pradeep was at 31. Their marriage was only one year old; their son is only 21 days old when his father died.
I visited my wife’s sister on last Sunday, 2nd October. I asked her father, “Where is Buni?”
He replied, “She is now in her in law’s house.”
“How could you send her to her in law’s house in such a condition?” I could not believe.
He said, “What can I do? There is a social custom; the wife has to see the face of her dead husband before the dead body is cremated. Vermilion has to be wiped off her forehead; bangles of her hands have to be broken…”
I could not have patience to listen more. I wanted to meet Buni, but now I did not have the courage to face her.
I cannot forgive the doctors of the SCB Medical College and Hospital. Of course, they meet every day hundreds of such patients, but Buni had only one patient, her husband who died, her parents has lost their only son in law, their only daughter is now a widow.
I feel hatred against such a cruel social custom that put a grieving wife to such a painful trauma.
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