The old jalopy braked hard and came to a shuddering halt, one of its tyres resting on the ash-mound and sending clouds of ash into the sky.
The bearded driver stayed put , so did many other people crammed into the old jeep. Two women in burqa alighted , holding a small infant between them .
The women were wailing, the child lay limp and quite still between them.
Father saw the baby and asked them to take him to a bigger hospital , immediately.
The baby was sleeping on his cot. A scorpion had climbed up the legs of the cot and stung the baby on the soft part of the head , the fontanelle.That was last night. The baby was unresponsive now .
The ladies climbed aboard, still howling.
Some one produced a small steel bowl of water with a spoon, The thinner, (and so, the younger ) woman, most probably the mother , tried feeding the baby.She spilt some , as her hand shook, the rest trickled down the baby's cheek, un-drunk. The driver sped off in a cloud of ash-filled dust.
The feminine wailing, gut-wrenching and full of foreboding, settled on the air thick with ash.
This was an image burnt into my memory, of a small clinic opened by my grandfather , for father.
It was ill-equipped to say the least. All it had was a couple of boxes of first-aid items and a cot. Father was very distressed . He had worked in a large hospital.He knew what needed to be done . His inability to provide the same , bothered him to no end.
It would distress him that a crowd would be waiting for him , patiently , by the gate , when he arrived . It bothered him, and us , that some of those dusty, dhoti-clad people, would try and touch his feet, even if they were (or looked) much older to him, and were in obvious pain.
It bothered us that medical care wouldn't be given to 90% of these people, simply because of lack of facilities. Still, they flocked to him. Fractures, wounds , fevers, boils, pregnant ladies in labour,and small babies covered in boils.He would wring his hands, shout at his assistant, give a patient hearing to most, and send them off to government hospitals , that provide free health care. It was a serious farce.
Father would storm into grandfather's den, when he had shooed the last patient away, and they would have a shouting match.
"You just want me to be a "Parchi doctor."( a doctor who writes slips)I am not a parchi doctor, I don't want to be one . Why can't you understand ?"
Grandfather deserved this outpouring. He was the PR behind the throngs at the gate . But he would smile and nod his head , sagely. That would drive father over the edge , and he would pack his bags and leave early for his job in the city, forfeiting his leave .
Grandfather was doing what he thought was best . He , probably, like all doting fathers , wanted his son to stay close with him, work from home .
Once , around mid-night, the jeep from our convent stopped at our gate . Father was at home . A sister , one of our tutors , had taken ill. Food -poisoning. Father got manika to concoct a brew of salted nimbu-paani(ORS). She recovered. One of the few successful treatments administered from home .
The clinic died a natural death, next monsoon,as the tentacles of gourd and luffa vines entwined and completely covered the sign on the door. Grandfather still sat in the verandah , in his dhoti , his walking stick resting next to him, nodding and smiling to himself, waiting.
The bearded driver stayed put , so did many other people crammed into the old jeep. Two women in burqa alighted , holding a small infant between them .
The women were wailing, the child lay limp and quite still between them.
Father saw the baby and asked them to take him to a bigger hospital , immediately.
The baby was sleeping on his cot. A scorpion had climbed up the legs of the cot and stung the baby on the soft part of the head , the fontanelle.That was last night. The baby was unresponsive now .
The ladies climbed aboard, still howling.
Some one produced a small steel bowl of water with a spoon, The thinner, (and so, the younger ) woman, most probably the mother , tried feeding the baby.She spilt some , as her hand shook, the rest trickled down the baby's cheek, un-drunk. The driver sped off in a cloud of ash-filled dust.
The feminine wailing, gut-wrenching and full of foreboding, settled on the air thick with ash.
This was an image burnt into my memory, of a small clinic opened by my grandfather , for father.
It was ill-equipped to say the least. All it had was a couple of boxes of first-aid items and a cot. Father was very distressed . He had worked in a large hospital.He knew what needed to be done . His inability to provide the same , bothered him to no end.
It would distress him that a crowd would be waiting for him , patiently , by the gate , when he arrived . It bothered him, and us , that some of those dusty, dhoti-clad people, would try and touch his feet, even if they were (or looked) much older to him, and were in obvious pain.
It bothered us that medical care wouldn't be given to 90% of these people, simply because of lack of facilities. Still, they flocked to him. Fractures, wounds , fevers, boils, pregnant ladies in labour,and small babies covered in boils.He would wring his hands, shout at his assistant, give a patient hearing to most, and send them off to government hospitals , that provide free health care. It was a serious farce.
Father would storm into grandfather's den, when he had shooed the last patient away, and they would have a shouting match.
"You just want me to be a "Parchi doctor."( a doctor who writes slips)I am not a parchi doctor, I don't want to be one . Why can't you understand ?"
Grandfather deserved this outpouring. He was the PR behind the throngs at the gate . But he would smile and nod his head , sagely. That would drive father over the edge , and he would pack his bags and leave early for his job in the city, forfeiting his leave .
Grandfather was doing what he thought was best . He , probably, like all doting fathers , wanted his son to stay close with him, work from home .
Once , around mid-night, the jeep from our convent stopped at our gate . Father was at home . A sister , one of our tutors , had taken ill. Food -poisoning. Father got manika to concoct a brew of salted nimbu-paani(ORS). She recovered. One of the few successful treatments administered from home .
The clinic died a natural death, next monsoon,as the tentacles of gourd and luffa vines entwined and completely covered the sign on the door. Grandfather still sat in the verandah , in his dhoti , his walking stick resting next to him, nodding and smiling to himself, waiting.
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