Doctor who?

Once, there was a time when a certain section of the population was revered. They were placed next to Gods, and it was not because they could preach incorrect interpretations of holy texts confidently;  or perform impossible limb-twisting postures, calling it yoga. It was based on their ability to heal, to save a dying man. They called the person a doctor. A doctor in a family is often a role model for the young ones. A doctor in the society often doubles up as a guide to many people. People used to put blinnd trust in the 'man in white coat'. The sight of a doctor in a hospital brought with it, an aura of hope, of life. A man, who sacrificed his nights, so that his patients could sleep peacefully; someone who knows the blood group of his patient but not of his wife. Such words were spoken about him.

Today, over 4000 doctors in maharashtra are on strike. Doctors of VS general hospital are on strike following assault by a patient's relatives on a neurosurgeon, and are still being threatened with suspension.

Somewhere, something went terribly wrong.

The sight of ward boys accepting bribes from OPD patients and bringing them to us, forcing us to admit completely unnecessary patients, or write needless drugs is altogether too common. Hospital labs dont have all necessary blood investigations so we send them to outside labs which obviously charge money. Does the patient think we have a cut in all of the above? Probably. When popular figures and media tell the public that a certain radiological procedure costs much less than what the doctor is charging, the patients believe it and think the doctors are looting them. Apperently because it is in the papers, so it must be true. because apparently the value of knowledge, skill and experience is almost non existent. Thats why maybe Tushar kapoor and Uday chopra are richer than us.

With one of the worst paid jobs in India, with respect to pay-per-hour (yeah, on paper, we are working 24 hours a day), a doctor passes through many more difficult tests than those required to clear examinations. He has to live in sub-standard conditions, sleep less than 5 hours-per-day, be expected to remain alert and on call for 48 hours at a stretch many a time. He is responsible for everything that happens to his patients. And should anything bad happen to a patient, he is the one to receive the brunt of the relatives. And then, they are forced to work 1/2/3 years in rural areas, because apparently the health situation in India's village needs uplifting. It's true, no doubt. But its not as if we have world class roads and buidings in villages and courts are full of honest lawyers and judges and the case back-log is negligent. Then why lawyers, engineers are not sent to villages? And why the doctors, responsible for the health of a village, has to sleep in mosquito-infested quarters? By the time we get our bachelor's degrees, most of our colleagues have already lost their bachelorhood and would probably be fathers, secretly wishing their children never become doctors.

The media portrays us as villains if we charge money, but nobody would come forward to help should we need some. The govt levies extra tax for the hospital as it is a "commercial" entity. Probably the only commercial entity where making money is a sin. The fees we charge is a reflection of our knowledge, our efforts over the previous ten years and our confidence. By questioning the same, the media and the semi-literates are questioning all of the above. Media portrayal is always going to be negative. "A doctor saves a dying man" is like "A barber cuts hair." for the media- boring. Interesting is, "4000 doctors on strike, health services crippled!" yeah, we love going on strike and bring harm to the very people we swore to serve for our life (the patients, of course!).

Today, the scenario has changed. Today, the patients fear a doctor. The hero is now seen with darker shades. And people are questioning, "A hero, or a villain? Doctor who?"

-Shivam'da'

Fear

Fear

A hospital is a place ripe with emotions. Ordinary problems are blown out of exaggeration by patients or relatives to attract attention of the treating doctor, or force him to admit the patient who might otherwise not require admission. Somewhere, most often near the ICU, relatives would be seen beating their chest and crying out loud to mourn the death of a closed one. A doctor, or a nurse can be seen somewhere close by, stoically carrying on with their duties, the paperwork and treating the other critically ill. Yes, showing a complete lack of emotions is also an emotion in itself, just that it has not been honoured with a name. Amidst all the emotional upheaval in the sterile (and often, not-so) corridors of a hospital, there is one emotion you will never find- Fear. You can see relatives of critically ill patients casually chatting with each other, sharing tea and biscuit or even lunch, or running errands for each other. They seem to have conquered fear and replaced it with another strange emotion- acceptance.

Question would arise then, why was the sister afraid of Ward 3?

I woke up unusually early that day. Perhaps it was the alarm clock I must have set in my sleep, trying to keep the promise I break daily; of waking up before the sun would rise. Or maybe it was the plain old brain which had kicked me out of my sleep. But, something was not right. Something was strange. Why was I all drenched in sweat? I had grown up from my days of night terrors, and the air conditioning of the room worked perfectly. Then why was I all drenched in sweat? Musing on the strange beginning of the day, I went to the bathroom. That was when the phone rang. The special ringtone was my brother’s, who was admitted in Hope Hospital. I ran to receive it.

“Hello?”

“Shyam, this is Rudra.”

“Yes bro, what's up? How is your hernia?” I joked. He was operated for hernia the day before.

“Shut up and listen Shyam. I am not feeling well. I am feeling tired and drained out. My heart is beating faster. Just come over here. I need your help!” The voice emanated fear. I dropped everything; kick started my bike and rushed to the hospital. Being my only second visit to the ivory tower of disease, I was yet to come to grips with the goings-on.

“Excuse me, where is Ward 5?” I asked a ward boy.

“Who do you want?’ he asked me tersely.

“My brother, Rudra, got operated yesterday. We had admitted him in ward 5.”

“He must be now in the post operative ward, ward 3,” he replied, then whispered, “But remember, patients who go to Ward 3 aren't discharged soon.”

“What do you mean? Oi! Come back!” Before I could ask anything about the mysterious last sentence, the ward boy walked away. Somewhat shaken, and a little bit stirred with interest, I walked towards the wards’ building. Surprisingly, there was no sign for Ward 3. “Must have fallen down somewhere,” I muttered. There it was, Ward 5, where my brother was admitted at first.

“Sister, where is ward 3?” I asked the young staff nurse. She was gave me an expression of surprise, shock and horror, tried to stammer a reply but couldn’t. Her senior came out and asked me what I wanted.

“Ward 3. Simple as that. Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything about it?” I asked, more out of exasperation than curiosity.

“Thing is, sir, we don’t discuss ward 3. It doesn’t exist for us. If you want to see it, go straight and take the first left,” the senior staff nurse replied in a whispering tone. Finally! All the nonsense about searching the ward had made me forget the real reason of the visit- my brother! I ran across the corridor, found the first left turn and there it was! Ward 3 in its resplendent glory.

It was a strange place. The other wards had a few empty cots, but not this one. This one was filled to the brim. Every cot occupied, every possible floor bed occupied. And yet, the nurses looked relaxed. Hardly anyone was giving medications, checking files for fresh orders or doing anything. It looked…out of place. I stepped in the ward gingerly, expecting a barrage of shouts from the nurses, asking me what I was doing there. Nobody uttered a word. It was as if they didn’t even register my presence.

“Woah! Its cool in here! Something to do with me? Didn’t I just bring my coolness here?” I joked. Normally it does the trick. But no, not in the mysterious ward 3. One nurse looked up, and pointed towards the eiling. I looked up and found a brand new large AC. Not the one for jokes, I decided.

“So, where is Rudra?” I asked.

“Who?” came the stoic response.

“Mr Rudra Mehta, brother of Shyam Mehta, operated for…” I struggled to put together the name, “yes, left inguinal indirect hernia yesterday.”

“Oh, the fresh admission?” there was a sudden warmth in the voice, a smile on the face and a twinkle in the eyes. Neither of the three had I seen before in the hospital.

“Yeah, that one I guess,” I replied. The nurse took my hand and walked me through the ward, till we reached the last cot. Before I could feel the surreal, I saw my brother, in deep sleep.

“Hey wake up bro! Its me” I shook his shoulder. No response. I tried it a few moretimes with zero success. That was when panic struck me.

“What is happening, sister?” I asked, my legs trembling.

“Oh, you don’t know? He has been put to sleep,” she replied coolly.

“What do you mean?” I shouted. Apparently my shouting had no effect on the nearby patients. That was when I discovered the strangest thing- every patient was in deep sleep.

“What have you done to him?” I shouted again.

“Oh nothing. Nobody will ever know. In fact, your brother has already been discharged and is currently watching a movie with his fiancée,” the sister winked. She took out her phone and dialed a number and held it to me, “Here, talk.”

“Rudra?” I asked, trembling.

“Hey bro, what's up? I thought you would come to pick me up from hospital! Where the hell have you been?”

I couldn’t answer. On one side, the vegetative body of my brother lay in front of me, and on the other, he just talked to me on the phone.

“Maybe you need a chair and a glass of water, Mr Shyam?” the nurse asked gently. I was too dazed to reply and merely sat down on the chair. Head held in hands, I could mutter just one word, “Explain.”

“Well, you see, this hospital is much more than a healing centre. It is a feeding centre. Which means, this ward is occupied by the patients whom we harvest for organs”

“WHAT?”

“Yes dear. This ward doesn’t exist. It is not a ward of the dead. It is, in fact, a dead ward. This room has been trapped in a time loop. The age of patients here ranges from one day, like your brother, to two hundred years, depending on how many useful organs they have. Nobody ages here, you see.”

“And…w..what about my brother? I mean, I just talked to him! How can he be here and there?”

“You see, sir, too many patients disappearing makes for bad publicity for the hospital. We, instead, send a Time replica in their place. They are exactly the same in every way except one; they are not alive.”

“So I just talked to…a shadow of my brother?”

“Well, you are smart! Yes, a shadow, only in Technicolor,” the nurse laughed aloud.

“This bloody scandal ends today! Wait till I get the word to the press!” I jumped up and started to run. Surprisingly, nobody tried to catch me. I thought maybe they were not used to their patients escaping from ward. It was then that the truth hit me. Or more appropriately, the wall. There was a solid wall just where I had entered the room. Helplessly, I looked around. The entire hospital staff of the ward laughed out aloud. Then it began. One ward boy held my hand while a nurse inserted an injection in my blood.

“400 years of doing this. Cant miss a vein, you see,” she winked. The last words I heard before falling asleep were, “We have a new admission. Prepare the bed!”

Are you kidding me? The brain that beat a thousand others en route to an international Su-Doku championship does not get subdued by a jab of anesthetic. Yes, I couldn’t feel my legs, but the rest was an act. I knew I had to get out soon or I risked losing my consciousness, my organs and my life, in that order. And that was when I spotted an open window by the side of the ward. To the utter shock of my captors, I broke free of their clutches and ran for the window. Without thinking of the consequences, I umped out of it. If I had to die, let it be on my own terms.

A crowd gathred out in the street. They saw an unconscious man, lying in a pool of blood. They did what any conscientious individual would do- took him to the nearest hospital.

I woke up to find myself being carried to a hospital. I tried to shout, tried to prevent them from taking me to the place from where I had just escaped, only to find that I had landed in a new city altogether. Apparently not many people had jumped out of Time-locked chambers and survived to tell the tale. You don’t just jump through time. You also jump through space and land over a hundred kilometers away.

“Hope General hospital, how may I help you?” A smiling receptionist greeted us. There was something familiar about that smile. Something that told the discerning watcher that she has been doing it for….four hundred years.

Quirkies

Chapter 1

Love, money, life

“Asmi, I am asking you for the last time. Are you serious?” Sometimes children can make parents wonder on which planet they are living.

“Yes, dad. I am sure. I love Vineeta,” Asmi replied with nonchalance of someone who is informing of having bought a packet of gum.

“But… how? I mean, weren’t you normal?” Incredulousness. Sheer incredulousness.

“Dad, don’t be a homophobic. Lesbians are humans too.”

“Reeta, it’s all your fault! You should have taught her better!” Blaming on the wife. The usual.

“Don’t blame her dad. I love Vineeta, that’s my issue. Don’t drag her.”

“I just can’t believe it’s happening with me!” The denial.

Asmi laughed out aloud. Her father was yet to grasp whether she was laughing at him or at herself, when she said, “It’s not happening with you, dear dad. But I wanted to tell you that many things are worse in life than me falling in love with a boy who is not of our caste.”

“What?” The ecstasy and the agony.

“Yes dad. He is Amar, working as a general manager in a multinational company. I love him so much daddy!”

“But beti, we are one of the richest families in the city. I can’t allow my daughter to go with any riffraff of that sort. You said he works in a multinational company. You know which one?” The concern.

“Yes. Its…  I don’t remember the name. But its  big company. How does it matter dad? He is well settled, and doesn’t need your filthy money that comes from slaughtering cows!”

“I will have respect about my company in my house!” Anger. Sheer anger.

“Well then, you respect my choice, I respect you. Simple.”

“Fine. Tell him to come here next Sunday to meet me.” Resignation.

In the meanwhile, in another part of the city

Pat, pat. Pat, pat. Footsteps are heard from a distance, their frequency increasing with time. Amar does not risk looking back. They were the henchmen of Jaggi, the local don.

“Amar, you bastard! Stop Right now!” a wild shriek came from behind as he start running.

“Shit!” he muttered, a she ran for his life. The sound of footsteps became louder, faster and mingled with the boom of bullet being fired. Amar ducked down in the nick of time.  A few more shots followed so did a few more jumps, feints and sharp turns. To his respite, the goons ran out of bullets, and he run into a building.

“Billa, I want that bastard Amar’s ass right now!”

“But sir…”

“No questions! He dared to swindle one crore of Jaggi’s money. I will cut his body into an equal number of parts for that!”

“But sir, he’s escaped us!”

“What? Escaped? One idiot fooled twenty of my men? What are you all made up of, eh? Dirt?”

On the other end, Billa shuddered at the sound of his boss. He knew Jaggi had a ferocious temper, and he didn’t want to be consumed in the fire of his anger.

“Billa, you know what happens when I have headache. I don’t take a goli. I give one. Right into the head of the one who gives me a headache. And today, this Amar is giving me the worst headache of my life. Understood?”

“Yes sir. I wont disappoint you again.”

“Better don’t. Otherwise I may get a headache from you too.”

Soon after

“Jaggi, you little twerp, when are you returning me my money?”

“Vikraant sir, I am extremely sorry! There’s this guy who has swindled the money from me.”

“Don’t joke Jaggi. You tell me that you are the biggest mafia boss in the city, and then you say someone stole one crore from you?”

“I can’t explain sir! Don’t worry. He cant escape my clutches. Like an eagle’s claws, my men are following him. They are loyal to me as a dog. Soon they shall have their prey, and will feast on them.  I am the lion of this area, and he is like a puny mouse. I shall…”

“Zoology aside, I want my money. I don’t know how you get, from where you get it and how many animals you employ for that.” Vikraant said with a coolness that comes with authority and cut the phone.

Jaggi stared at his phone and looked around to confirm that none of his men had seen him groveling in front of Vikraant. Filled with anger and humiliation, he shouted the one word that had been giving him headache, “AMAR!!!!!”

Two phone calls at the same time

“Amar, I did what you asked me to. Now fulfill your promise and protect me from Jaggi. He will kill me if he doesn’t find you soon. And if he knows of my role, he will kill me before I could speak my name.”

“Don’t worry Billa. Trust me, no one will touch you. I will soon arrange for a means to escape the country and we’ll both be rich!”

“Your words encourage me, Amar. Now try to hide yourself till we can escape. I don’t want to irk Jaggi again!”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you tell that idiot Jaggi that you have killed me and thrown my body in the river? He doesn’t have brains to check the facts, and he wont trouble you too.”

“And the money? He will want his one khokha too!”

“Tell him that I have spent all the money, and suggest him to sell my house and properties to recover the money. He will reward you for your intelligence!”

“Haha! I liked you from the beginning, lad. You always had the brains that I never did!”

“I take it as a compliment, Billa.”

Amar wondered what would happen to Billa if Jaggi found out the truth. He smirked at the idea.

“Asmi,  bring that boy for dinner today. I may not be here on Sunday. I am going out of station for a meeting.”

“Dad! I am so excited! Thank you!”

Vikraant smirked. He knew that no matter how happy his daughter would be, he would have the last laugh in the end. He had already decided for his son-in-law, and he would reject Asmi’s choice on some or the other pretext.

Chapter 2

A perfect picture of composure, Vineeta entered the café.  Although it wasn’t visible on her cool exterior, she was terribly excited. She was on a blind date with a software engineer called John. He seemed a genial, chubby and shy person, typical of his creed, when they chatted on Facebook. It was time to see how correct her assessment was. Nervously she glanced at the watch. It was about time. Just then, a commotion made her look near the door of the café. There was tall, well built man, sporting a fuzzy beard, holding a large bouquet in his hand, that had accidently bumped into one of the customers and had the coffee spilled over it. As he was arguing with the customer, Vineeta tapped on his back and asked, “John?”

“Oh yes! I am John. And you must be Vineeta, right?” a wide gazed expression, a combination of awe and wonder.

“Of course! Who else knows you here?”

“This gentleman, from now on,” he replied, pointing at the man he was arguing with, and continued, “Well, I brought this little present for you, which has now been a little spoilt. Will you accept it nonetheless?”

“Oh sure, John! Come, lets have a seat and some coffee.”

“Only coffee? I thought conversation came free! I am ready to pay through the roof, if it’s required to parlay with a charming woman.”

Vineeta laughed coquettishly. Her cheeks turning a shade of crimson, she replied, “No, no. the conversation comes free, depends on how long you can sustain it.” She was beginning to like this man more and more.

“How much do you make in a month?” Vineeta asked.

John shifted uncomfortably. It was a tricky question to answer, and much more on meeting someone for the first time.

“Um, I do get along well. I can’t discuss my salary actually…”

One week before

“Vineeta, are you there?” a concerned voice spoke from the other end of the phone. Vineeta, though, had gone deaf. All she could of was her father.

“Uncle, how could this happen?” she cried in desperation laced with disbelief. It was natural to not believe that your father has suffered a fatal heart attack.

“Yes, beta. He has just been administered an injection. But the doctor says that unless we get a bypass operation done soon, he would not live for long.”

“Uncle, how much will it cost?”

“The doctor says it will cost around five lakhs. Don’t worry, I know you will do something.”

“What do you mean uncle? I was counting on you to help me!”

“Sorry beta, all my money is tied up in business. I can’t spare even a lakh!”

Vineeta slammed the phone down. And cried out aloud. It helps to let out the emotions before they constrict your heart like a chain. It helped too. Because it helped her lay down a plan. A foolproof plan. In three simple steps, as she summarized it, it was:

1)      Get a rich boyfriend.

2)      Take his money.

3)      Sayonara!

Coming back to now…

“So John, tell me. Do you like me?” Vineeta twirled a strand of her hair with her fingers, and gazed at John lusciously. A lesser man would have fallen. And John was even lesser. He was completely swooned.

“I love you princess!” he said, holding her hands. Vineeta smiled inwards. John smirked. They hugged each other passionately.

In Jaggi’s den, some time later

Jaggi was pacing about like a lion whose prey has just slapped him on the cheek before running away. He was livid, and beet-red with frustration.  If his anger had an equivalent of fire, it would have burnt the whole world down. In any case, his own world, and his ass, was on fire. And it would be literally on fire, if he failed to find Amar and his money.

“Hello. is it Jaggibhai?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“First tell me what do you like to eat? The mango or the seed?”

“Eh?”

“It doesn’t matter to you who I am. What matters is whatever I want to tell you,” the voice was mysterious. It promised a juicy tidbit.

“Go on.”

“Billa is the man you want.”

“What?”

There was silence on the other end.

A little later, a different place

“What has happened to my money?”

“Vikraant sir, my men are on the trail. They will catch him soon.”

“They better do, Jaggi. Otherwise I will personally cut your balls off and sell them. They will fetch a high price, for you dared to swindle my money!” The line went dead again.

Chapter 3

Hunger knows no limits of age, sex or social status. A hungry millionaire is perhaps as desperate as a hungry beggar, perhaps more, for the former isn’t used to the state of prolonged cephalic phase of gastric acid secretion.

“Yaar Amar, I have mice running in my tummy!”

“Lets find some free food, Billa. For you don’t have money and I have my credit card which I can’t use.”

“Why?”

“Because I am dead, you fool!”

“Oh!”

They say that if you pray hard enough, even God would come to your doorstep. Food comes at a lesser price. A little ahead, in front of them, stood, like the gateways to heaven, a large hall with a number of guests milling about. Hoping to get a quick entry and a sumptuous bite, Billa and Amar walked past the gates, surprised not to find any security or checks for gatecrashers. As they walked towards the stack of plates, they didn’t find anyone to question them or ask what they were doing there. It was all getting too easy. And as they say, a straight, smooth road causes maximum accidents, Amar smelt something fishy. It seemed to be a cultural gathering of some sort and most people were carrying plates loaded with delectable delicacies. It was time for action, hell with the consequences. As Amar went to pick up a plate, his fears turned true,

“Sir, your pass please?” a courteous looking man, dressed in a necktie asked.

“Um, pass? Well, I think I have forgotten it in my car,” Amar fumbled for a reply.

“Sir, may I request you to come back with the pass? Its an  order that we cant issue a plate without a pass.”

Dejected, rejected, Amar walked away. He was hungry and food looked inviting. He had to do something. And he didn’t trust Billa to carry out such a neat task. He was good for the fist jobs. As he spied around, he saw a well dressed gentleman entering the hall. He had in his hand what looked like a pass. Amar walked quietly up to the man and slipped a hand past his fingers. The pass was in his hand! But unfortunately, he had only one, and two plates were needed. He didn’t want to wait longer anymore. And then, another idea struck him. Yes, it was dirty. Yes, it was cheap. But it was the only solution, and Billa would have no issues. Only men with dignity would have any problem with what he was going to do.

“Oy Amar! How come you have a plate in your hand and I am roaming around hungry?” Billa asked angrily.

“Billa, I could get just one pass. But don’t worry. I have an idea. Just roam about and choose the dishes you want. I will handle the rest.”

Billa did as Amar told him. He trusted Amar completely. In the meanwhile, his trusted friend was hogging on all the food with relish. Once he was done, he asked for a napkin. Then he turned around and wiped the dish clean with the napkin. It had a few stains left, but Billa ate in worse plates daily. Then walking towards his friend, Amar proudly presented him, with the swagger of presenting the world cup, a plate.

“There you go Billa! Go, enjoy your meal!”

Same place, same time

“Vineeta, you won’t believe how sweet he is!” It was the hundredth time Asmi was repeating these lines. Vineeta was bored. Both had come to attend the Annual Business Meet with Asmi’s father, who was to arrive later.

“Asmi, I got it. He is sweet, and rich, and dashing. I heard it a thousand times now!”

“Oh Vinee you have to see him to believe me. I am so in love!” Asmi continued her charade with a dreamy, lost look. Her reverie was broken by some shouts from the direction of the food counter. It wouldn’t have mattered them much, had the shouts not been of Asmi’s father. Both rushed to the spot and asked what happened.

“This bastard, this waiter here says he won’t give me the plates unless I produce the pass!” Asmi’s father yelled.

“But dad, don’t you have a pass?”

“I had! But I don’t know, maybe I lost it, or someone stole it.”

“Who would steal a food pass here, dad? You must have lost it.”

“But does that mean I shall have to go hungry?” he retorted, and then turning at the manager, shouted, “Take me to your boss. Tell him it’s Vikrant Sinha who wants to talk to him!” The manager would have heard the name, for he scurried away in no time. It was then that Asmi’s eyes grew bright.

“Vinee! Look, here is my Amar! Didn’t I tell you, he’s a big businessman?”

Vineeta looked in his direction, but could only a man wiping a plate with a paper napkin.

“Seriously Asmi, which businessman wipes plates after eating?” On closer look, Vineeta saw something else. Something that shocked the daylights out of her.

A different time, a different place

Jaggi had summoned Billa. He had some important matters to discuss with his main henchman and his commander-in-chief.

“Jaggi, did you call me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s a question I would like to ask to you, my friend. Why?”

“Eh?”

Those were last words Billa uttered before hearing a loud boom of a revolver and feeling the searing heat of a bullet fired at point blank range in his head. The entire sequence took less than a millisecond before Billa collapsed to the ground. Dead. Jaggi’s men rushed into his room.

“I do not like those who cheat me. You can cheat death, but you can’t cheat Jaggi! This bastard here, tried to cheat me by joining hands with that scoundrel Amar. Here is the justice meted out, Jaggi dada style. Hope this serves as a lesson to anyone who might ever think of swindling me. Raja, throw his body out on the streets. The dogs and vultures shall feast tonight.”

A little while later

“Whoever you are, Jaggi thanks you for the information. He wants to reward you richly. Tell me, when shall we meet?”

“Jaggi, I have no interest in your money. All I want to know is whether Billa is dead.”

“Yes, I have killed him with my own hands, and except Rajnikant, no one comes alive after that,” Jaggi chuckled at his own poor joke.

“Hardly funny.”

The connection went dead.

Chapter 4

Asmi and Vineeta were too shocked to believe their eyes.  Amar and John were same! The bastard was cheating them both. The intention seemed obvious. Asmi had lots of money. But why Vineeta? She intended to find it out soon. Asmi, in the meanwhile, called her father. She had enough of lovey-dovey romances. She didn’t trust herself anymore. Her heart was like a mirror, broken into a million shards, unable to be one again, neither with itself nor with anyone else. She decided to marry the boy her father would find for her. But before that, she wanted revenge. And she wanted it served cold.

At Jaggi’s den

“Jaggi there?”

“Yes. Who the hell are you?”

“Your friend who helped you find Billa. Now, if introduction is over, can we talk sense?”

“Oh, my friend! What is it? You have more news for me?”

“Two words- Amar Mehra.”

“Take whatever you want and give me the bastard’s location.”

“I like dealing with people like you. One khokha is what I want. Keep the money ready in notes of thousand rupees in a blue Samsonite suitcase,” he then proceeded to tell him the exact location of placement of money, and added, “You will find an address where you place the bag. I will be standing with a sniper rifle so if you try anything funny, then you will have to find out the rest of information from Billa, in hell.” The phone slammed shut.

Jaggi cursed the caller, Amar, Billa, Vikraant and the world in general. He didn’t have the one crore rupees to pay the caller, and if he didn’t pay him, he would never find out about Amar. Just then, the phone rang again. It was Vikraant. Cursing aloud, he picked the phone.

“Jaggi, you will be my son-in-law.”

“W..what?” Jaggi was unused to good news, particularly from Vikraant.

“I said, you will become my son-in-law. You have a problem with that?”

“Sir, how can I have a problem? You are like a lion, and I am just a rat…”

“Shut your zoology shit up and listen. This is an offer. Find Amar, get my money back and you have my daughter in your hand.”

“Sir, I have found the source to reach Amar. But my source is asking for one khokha. If I had that kind of money, wouldn’t I have given it to His Highness? Can you please lend me the money?”

“Am I running a bloody charity? Should I finance you to get my money back to me? Listen you idiot! Get me my money and be my son-in-law.  I am not marrying you to my daughter because you are dashing or handsome. Its only because you will stay at my home, and manage my business. Under me. So if you want your share of luck, then get the fuck out of here and search for your man!” The phone was cut on Jaggi’s face for the second time in ten minutes.

Now he was angry, and desperate. And such a man is dangerous. Very dangerous.

At Amar’s place

Amar smiled. Things were working perfectly.  He had swindled one crore from  Jaggi and was about to swindle another crore, from right under his dirty nose. He intended to finish off the scour of Jaggi once and for all. He had given the address of his house to Jaggi and was sure he would try to reach him. Amar had his back up ready. His entire house was rigged. With one push of the button, Jaggi would depart with a boom, and Amar would elope with the bucks.

At Asmi’s place

It was a simple plan. Call the unsuspecting Amar, ensnare him, wriggle out the truth. Simple as that. The first phase went as per plan. Asmi called Amar and coyly asked whether she could come at his place. When asked the purpose by an already excited Amar, she replied in a conspirational tone, “Let it be a secret buried between the bed sheets.” Amar needed no further words. He promptly called her to his hideout. Asmi went, accompanied by Vineeta and two revolvers. It was time for some action. Before going however, she made a discreet call.

The meteors collide!

“Amar, can I enter?”

“Do you have to ask for it baby? Come in! I am hungry!”

Asmi entered. And Vineeta followed. And Amar’s eyes looked like bulging out of their sockets. He was too shocked to react. And Vineeta slapped him on his right cheek. Asmi followed it up on its left counterpart. Amar nervously walked backwards until he collapsed on a sofa. Vineeta took out a revolver and pointed it on Amar’s temple.

“Why?”

“I wanted money, Vineeta,” he replied plainly.

“Money? From someone who has already lost it all? You are bloody leech! And people like you don’t deserve to live!” Saying this, she put her finger on the trigger. Before the bullet could escape the nozzle, a shot was heard at the door.

“Welcome Jaggi, my friend!” Asmi said. Amar could not believe his ears, “You and Jaggi? Disgusting!”

“And what you did to us was even more disgusting! I called him here. I knew dad was repeatedly asking him about you. Now, tell me how you want to end you life- our bullet or his?”

Asmi barely completed her sentence when Amar kicked her hand that was holding the gun. She dropped the gun on the floor and Amar picked it up.

“Haha! How about now? I am leaving now and nobody stops me. Get out of the way!” he shouted. Just then, he felt a nozzle at the back of his head. It was Vineeta, “Move and you will move no more.” That was when they were joined by Jaggi.

“So, my friend, you were the one who passed on the information about Billa? And you got your partner killed to get a bigger share of money? Now, you won’t get a penny!”

BOOM! The sound of a bullet firing rang through the room and one man fell to the ground, clutching his heart, and shock in his eyes. Amar turned around and faced Vineeta, “Pretty neat, I must say. You are a bitch, but a damn clever one. So now, we’ll split the loot between us.”

“Not so soon, you bastard, not so soon. You have spited me and Asmi. You will not spend, but pay. Pay for your deeds. Go to hell,” there was venom in her voice. Intentions , though, do not necessarily translate into right actions. And that was shown when the faster, more professional Amar fired first. It was a pointblank shot, with the nozzle of the gun pointed straight at Vineeta’s head.

First there was shock. Then dismay. The pain came only later. And the blood, much later. There was a spurt of blood when it came. The floor was painted red. Amar’s body lay on the floor, dead. Asmi marveled at the gun held in Amar’s hands. It was a masterpiece designed by herself. Having been brought up in the arms of the country’s biggest arms dealer, she knew her way with the weapons. The backward-firing revolver was her design. She had carried it only to gift it to Amar, who accepted it and invited death upon himself. Killing Jaggi was her idea too. She never wanted to marry him and there was no way she could have persuaded her father to do otherwise. And she loved him too much to kill him.

“So Vinee, what shall we do with the money?”

“Well, split into half?”

“Old idea. Lets ring in the new!”

“Meaning?”

“I need money to escape my father. You take money and get your father treated. And the rest of money, we’ll use it to escape the country and settle somewhere safe. Some place where life isn’t surrounded by gun-toting goons.”

“Is it really possible Asmi?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. But, trying doesn’t hurt, right?”

“By the way, whats this remote for?” Vineeta asked, picking up a remote with a red button.

“I would advise that we should try it after we are quite far from this place,” Asmi replied with a malicious glint.

Vineeta laughed as she hi-fived her best friend and walked out of the house and pushed the button. BOOM!

The Scalpel Notes- It Begins

Introducing...........the first doctor vigilante- Dr Shyam! This is the first of (hopefully) a series of stories written under same title. For long, the image of doctors has been in the extreme- either Godly, kind and easy to hurt (remember the Parsi doctor in Munnabhai?) or that of a scheming villain or a cruel man who will kill a patient if he doesnt pay up. I have not seen either type of doctors so far. This story is a ttempt by me to restore some sense in theimage portrayal of doctors, and provide some thrills at the same time! Enjoyyyyy!

“The guilty, Dr Shyam Pandey, is hereby charged guilty for the murder of Rajesh saxena. The court orders imprisonment for fourteen years,” the judge read out the statement in a monotonous drone, much unlike the events that led to the statement being read out.

“Dr Shyam, how did a doctor become a killer?” one microphone was thrusted in his face as he was being taken by the police from the court.

He stopped, smiled and replied, “Get your vocabulary right.”

“What do you mean Doctor?”

“Not the right time to explain. Good bye!” Shyam waved heartily as he walked into the police van, chained from head to toe.

“Doctor sa’ab, tell me. Why did you do it?” a police constable couldn’t resist the temptation.

“Listen boy, some people kill because they want to. Others kill because they have to. I killed because everybody wanted to.”

“What do you mean?”

“A murderer kills for fun or money. A desperate man kills because he has no choice. A vigilante, however, kills because the society needs it.”

“A vigilante? Who is that?”

“Well, how long have we got from here to the jail?” Shyam asked.

“About an hour and half.”

“Well then, get ready to be a part of my journey. But beware, it is a bumpy ride ahead!”

And it began…

Dr Shyam paced up and down in his chamber. It was just half past midnight and his hospital’s emergency centre had received its sixth gunshot injury. It was almost a daily routine. He was used to seeing stabbings, bullet injuries and other attempts at homicide since his residency days, but the rate at which the sufferers of violence had increased in recent times, was alarming. As a doctor, he always felt that he was meant to do much more than just treat a disease. He felt he was meant to cure the society. And societies are not cured by treating gunshot injuries. Societies are cured by preventing a gunshot injury from occurring. Expectedly, his phone rang.

“Shyam sir?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“Sir, one more. This time, it’s on the abdomen. No exit wound seen.”

This was an emergency. Somebody had been shot, and the bullet was probably lodged in the intestines, causing fatal hemorrhage or intestinal perforation, or both. Probability was, the patient might not survive till he climbed down two flights of stairs.

In the end, he never did.

“What the HELL is going on in this godforsaken place?” Shyam pounded his wrist on the table after returning to his room. There was no one to reply. It was then, that a voice spoke, “If no one can do anything about it, why don’t you try?” Shyam stood up and walked towards the mirror in his room. His refelection revealed all the years he had spent struggling with obscure pieces of information, hoping to clear the medical entrance exams, the years of his medical college, the struggle of post graduate training and the insane amount of hours put in practice after his post graduation, which ensured that his marriage ended in two years. “What did you gain, my friend? The reflection asked. For once, Shyam was silent. Did he save lives? Yes. But, did he improve lives? No. Did he save people coming with stab and bullet wounds? Yes, sometimes. Did he even try to prevent them from occurring? Never. It was always supposed to be the job of the police, the government, the municipality. Apparently, somebody was not doing their job well. It was something he had learnt the hard way in his housemanship.

“But sir, I ordered the ward boy to collect the lab reports. What can I do if he didn’t go on time?” an innocent Shyam pleaded.

“You lazy ass! If he doesn’t go, then you have to go!” his senior shouted.

“But sir, that’s not my job!” Shyam, the epitome of gullible, protested.

“Idiot! If somebody doesn’t do their job, it becomes yours! YOU are the one responsible for the patients of the ward. Not the ward boy, not the sister.”

The episode was burnt on his mind. If nobody is willing to do a job, it becomes the job of the one who cares. It was time, Shyam decided, that a surgeon cuts out more than just a rotten organ.

“Connect me to the nearest police station,” shyam asked the telephone operator, ho duly obliged.

“Hello, this is Dr Shyam, from Krishna TrauamCare. Can I speak to the PSI there?”

“Sir PSI sa’ab is in a meeting…” the constable answered the routine line, but Shyam cut him short, “Then tell him to stop the meeting now. Its regarding a bomb threat which will destroy this city in half hour if he doesn’t do something!” The response was immediate and adequate.

“This is Police Sub Inspector Maharshi speaking,” a gruff voice answered, “and listen, this better not be a hoax call or I will rip your insides out!”

“That sir, is kinda my job,” Shyam replied coolly, “and let me ask you one thing. How many serial bomb explosions this city has seen?”

“Wait… what?”

“Answer me sir. How many serial bombings has this city seen? How many deaths recorded?”

“One incident, yes. Five years ago. Fifty people died, almost double were injured.’

“And I have seen almost fifty deaths due to gun shot and stab injuries in the last one year. And I run just one hospital. Don’t you think something should be done about it?”

“Don’t you bloody lecture me on what to do. Our team is already…”

“To hell with your team!” Shyam thundered, “ Meet me in half hour if you seriously want to do something about it. I am not telling you what to do. I am telling you how to do it.”

to be continued...

The Madness Within

Episode 1- The entrée

It was a dark, silent night, punctuated only by an occasional bark of a dog, or footsteps of a beggar. But suddenly, a new set of footsteps could be heard. Several new steps. All new sounds were hurried, as if several steps are chasing someone. From a small distance, the sound of someone breathing heavily could also be heard. Some time later, with utmost predictability, the sounds stopped, and were replaced by new ones which included someone slapping, a cry of pain and a hush of whisper. On straining closer, a rough, dreamy voice was heard to be saying, “Believe me sir. That man had plans to murder me. He used to follow me daily to my home and watch me even when I would in bathroom. Please. I had to kill him. I had no choice!” The voice started crying. Crying out aloud, as if to seek divine help. None descended and the others, obviously the police, dragged him to their jeep. The silence of the night returned, only to be punctuated by the wailing siren of the police car.

“Hello. Is this Dr Poonam? This is Sub Inspector Shirsath talking.”

“Yes, its me. What happened?”

“Ma’am, we have a murderer here who appears to be crazy. Can you check him and give your opinion?”

“First of all, you do not call them crazy!” she thundered, “And secondly, I am attached to JG group of hospitals. You may send your prisoner there with adequate security cover.” Saying this, she put the phone down.

“Damn it!” Shirsath muttered. He hated doctors and Dr Poonam was just giving him a new headache. The older headache was rattling the bars of his cell in his jail, shouting, “Let me out! Let me out! These walls are full of monsters ready to eat me!”  Cursing under his breath, he walked into the cell and ordered the constables to tie that man down and gag his mouth, humane treatment of th mentally be damned. He was sick of the constant rattling, crying and shouting of the mad murderer. “Just one more day,” he thought, with the drawl of his cigarette relaxing him, “just one more day of this madness.” Oh dear, he absolutely had no idea.

It was a long wait outside Dr Poonam’s clinic the next day. From the depressed to the oppressed, from the alcoholics to the druggies; they were all there. And in the middle of them all was the mad murderer, all chained up and surrounded by the police. Dr Poonam conducted the preliminary history taking, examination and followed it up with various tests devised to assess the mind. She came up with one conclusion, “Paranoid schizophrenia. He is suffering from a mental disorder that will make him think that everybody else is out to kill him or harm him in some way. And he will go to any extreme to negate that ‘risk’, even murder the person. I think he committed the murder under its influence.”

“Will you depose your statement in court?” Shirsath asked.

“Yes, I will. Further, I advise that he be admitted in our psychiatric ward. We will keep him in isolation room. Don’t worry.”

“Fine then. See you soon ma’am. And thank you for your help,” Shirsath offered a cold handshake that Dr Poonam didn’t care to reciprocate.

Somewhere else, in a typical hideout

It was a night of wil celebration. Jaggi and his gang had just pulled off the biggest supaari, contract killing of their lives by bumping off the Czar of jewellary business, Mr Rudrashish Majumdar. Their only worry was that their man, Shyam had been arrested by police. Jaggi was worried what might happen if Shyam decided to spill the beans. The educated ones are softer and less resistant to physical torture, the gang members told him. But he was insistent on hiring Shyam for the contract killing business. For one, the man was trained in Police Institute and held a degree in Forensic Psychiatry. And the second, and more important reason, he was angry with the government after his father had died in a train accident and the government did literally nothing. It was a deadly combination- a man with the right knowledge, training and anger all mixed in one violent mind.

But there were no news from him for the two days after the murder. Events of the murder were all over the place and the media reported that Rudrashish was killed by a ‘mad murderer’. Jaggi frowned. Shyam was anything but mad. He was the smartest guy he had met, and the smoothest of talkers and swiftest of killers. Just when doubts had begun to creep in his mind, he reeceived a text message from an unknown number: “Police can’t arrest me. I will be proven a mad man in the court and will be admitted in a mental hospital for sometime. Plan my escape from there. – Shyam”

A jubilant Jaggi called his minions and gave them a lecture on why the boss (in this case, himself) should alwaysbe right, and his decision to hire the educted murderer was the best in gang business.

“So boss, how will we free him?” Chintu, one of the minions asked.

“Are you crazy Chintu? Who said we will free him? Do you want rival gangs to mock  us for keeping a crazy man? He thougt his craziness is his escape plan. Wrong. He might have been the most educated, but I am still the smartest guy here. He as unwittingly ensured our safety. Now even if he spills out our names in court, nobody would believe a mad man, right? No. He will stay in that mental hospital. We can always hire another killer!”

Episode 2- The course

The doctor walked up to the man staring empty space, and tapped his shoulder.

“So, come again about the voices you hear.”

“Sir,” he whispered, “they’re terrifying. Sometimes they shout, scream, bite at me. The next moment, they are soothing, reassuring. But I am truly terrified when they threaten me!”

“Threaten you? With what?”

He stared. He stared into emty space all around the doctr. And then, he stared right into the doctor’s eyes. He kept on staring till the doctor’s eyes began to burn. Tearing himself away from the mad, yet mesmeric gaze, the doctor asked again, “What do they threaten you with?” He leaned closer to the doctor’s ear and whispered, “Murder!” Saying this he screeched out loud, a voice barely resembling the laughter he intended to produce. Stung from the experience, the doctor walked away, scribbling away his daily notes.

It was a daily routine at JG Asylum for the Mentally Challenged. The inmate, Shyam, would scare the daylights out of most of the young doctors who would try to examine him. Only Dr Poonam was able to contain him, that too only fleetingly. The inmate was clearly proving to be a bigger headache than most expected. Inwardly, Shyam smiled. His plan was woring perfectly. Almost perfectly, that is. He was waiting for Jaggi to come and rescue him. When the ‘security’ arrangements includes a door with a rusted lock, guarded by an anemic ward boy, escape doesn’t seem so difficult. It was not so much a question of how, as it was of when.

“Here, take these medications,” the nurse handed over a couple of pills to Shyam. He stared at her blankly for some time, then took the drugs. Slowly, he moved the hand towards his mout, as if to swallow the pills. Then all of a sudden, he threw the pills at the nurse and laughed aloud, hysterically. Terrified, the nurse ran away. Shyam was perfectly evading the anti psychotics. But, what did they say about perfect plans? Something like, perfect plans don’t exist.

“His psychosis is increasing daily ma’am. He doesn’t allow us to examine him, behaves violently and always murmurs about strange sounds in his head threatening to kill him,” Dr Tejasvi, first year psychiatry resident said. Dr Poonam nodded. She had heard all sorts of reports about their new patient. Clearly, he required medications to suppress his violent behaviour or an ECT, in her opinion. But before that, he needed a trial of anti-psychotics. Dismissing her juniors, she sat down and devised of a plan to give him the drugs. It was cruel, and beyond the prescribed course of textbook, but to her, it seemed the only alternative.

“Hey where’s my food?” a clearly agitated Shyam asked the ward boy.

“Your food has been witheld. From now on, you will only receive multivitamin tablets till your vitamin levels are normal,” replied the ward boy, a script drilled intohis brain by Dr Poonam.

“Bullshit! Vitamin levels? You think I am mad?” an angrly Shyam retaliated. The ward boy merely smiled and said, “Everyone here is, my friend. Now take your tablets and go to sleep.” Shyam threw the tablets away in an instant and, ignoring the growls in his stomach, he went to sleep. The plan wasn’t going exactly as he had planned. It was getting worse for him daily. In his gut, a feeling sank that Jaggi might not come to his rescue after all, and he might havto find a way out of this hell by himself. It was difficult, if not an impossible task.

“Shyam,” He whispered, “for how long will you suffer in this shit? Take the pills,earn the confidence of the doctor and run away!”

“Are you crazy?” the Other one whispered. These are mind altering drugs. How can he take them when he doesn’t need them?”

“But then, they will administer an ECT to him. Is that okay? He will lose his memory! Shyam, take the fucking pills!” He ordered.

“No Shyam! Don’t listen to this idiot. Don’t touch the pills!” the Other one shouted.

“Shut up you both!” Shyam shouted out aloud. Realizing he was alone and his shouting would only make him look worse, he stopped. His hands were trembling with cold, as they approched towards the pills. Maybe they were really only multivitamins. Maybe they were anti psychotics. It was almost as if both his cerebral lobes were fighting against each other. He wanted to believe something else, and he knew that what he wanted to believe was false. With trembling hands, he picked up a tablet and swallowed it. A moment later, he did not feel any different. It was just as if he had swallowed a multivitamin. The part of his brain wanting to believe the multivitamin story was giddy with happiness, but the other part, the one which knew, was worried. It was a conflict and the clear loser was Shyam’s consciousness, as he, struggling with the dilemma, fell down and went to sleep…

…only to wake up after twelve hours. When he woke up, there were more pills near his door. Gingerly, he lifted them up and swallowed them, still not sure what to believe. Monitoring his movements ono the CCTV, Dr Poornima smiled inwardly. The cruel, but effective plan was successful.

“Listen you idiot!” He whispered, “This Jaggi fellow isn’t gonna come to save your ass. If you want to escape, you must do it yourself.”

“Ssssh. Don’t listen to him. He wants you to murder that guard and run way. You will be caught in any case?” the Other one argued.

“Look at him! The eternal defeatist! Ha! You will rot here if you follow his advice!” He scoffed.

Voices, voices, everywhere, and not a voice to think.

Shyam woke up after an unknown period of time and found  himself alone in the solitary room, and yet, the silly voices inside his head refused to cease.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” He shouted aloud, beating his head with a fist. The guard aught this behaviour on CCTV and alerted Dr Poonam immediately.

Some time later, four ward boys entered Shyam’s room. The tallest one asked Shyam to sit on the wheelchair they had brought. Tired with constant argument in his head, he was too weak to argue with the ward boy, and he slouched on the wheelchair. They carried him out of the cell, across a long corridor, to a room at the end of the corridor. On the top of the room it was written “ECT Room”. Shyam was terrified. Truly terrified. He sprang up and fell on one of the wardboys’ feet and shouted, “Please, please. I am not mad! I am not crazy. It was all acting on my part. Please save me. I don’t want electric shock!” The wardboy lifted him and threw him back on his wheelchair. The he laughed and said, “Har paagal apne aap ko seedha hi kehta hai!” Every madman claims to be sane. He was pushed inside the room where the anesthetist was preparing the general anesthesia required for ECT.

“No, no, no! Please! PLEASE!” He cried, but to no avail. It was then that Dr Poonam intervened.

“Stop,” she ordered tersely, “and send the patient to my room.” Moments later, Shyam’s wheelchair rolled inside Dr Poonam’s room. She looked at him squarely and said in a stern tone, “Tell me the truth.”

Shyam gulped. He was helpless now. Speak the truth and he’d be in jail. Lie and his brains would be fried.

“Ma’am, it was all a plan. I feigned schizophrenia to escape the law. But it seems my acting was way too realistic. My boss, who was supposed to save me, ran away. It seemed a perfect plan, but…” Shyam sobbed.

“But perfect plans don’t exist, do they?” Dr Poonam replied stoically. Ten minutes later, Shirsath and his team surrounded the facility.

It made a view for the newspapers, a gangly, dirty, unkept man, all chained from head to toe being dragged out of a mental institution by the police in a police van. It seemed like the end of Shyam’s story.

But wait. Shyam was an explosion waiting to happen. An explosion couldn’t fizzle out so easily.

Episode-3 The just dessert

It is often a source of comfort, sometimes boredom to be stuck in a routine. Only rarely it is a terrifying proposition. But when the routine involves daily beatings, abuses and food being thrown on face thrice a day, one does not blame the terrified. Shyam was ne such man. Ever since he was shifted to the jail, he was tortured on a daily basis, with hope that he would spill out the truth. But he repeatedly said the same line, “Sir, they told me to do so, the voices!” Cue: more thrashings.

“You fool! Why are you rotting in the prison while that ass Jaggi is roaming in the streets?” He whispered in a rasping voice.

“Because he has no option. He cant escape from here,” the Other one replied calmly.

“Shut up you loser! You murdered your way in the jail, now murder your way out!” He ordered.

“No Shyam! Don’t listen to Him. He is a fool, a liar. He told you to murder Rudrashish in the first place, didn’t he?” the Other One retaliated.

“NO! NO! NO! Please get out of my head you sick bastards!” Shyam shouted. It didn’t help, of course, Only that the calculated whsiperings dispersed into more generalized noises. He clutched his head and leaned down on his hunches, the voices filling his head with their incoherent, indiscernible noise. He had no clue what was happening around him. And then, the noises stopped. His brain was clear once again, like a month old stain being wiped off in an instant. Only one voice spoke in his head- his own. Or perhaps that was what he perceived as his own.

“Shyam, listen to me. You go straight to the guard, steal the keys and run away. Simple as that,” a calm voice instructed him. Shyam followed the instructions almost robotically and walked upto the guard, who was snoring, deep in his sleep. He slid his hand into the guard’s pocket and caught hold of a metallic object. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from the pocket. Just as he was about to take it fully, the old rasping voice was back. He was back. He whispered “Put down the keys. Put them down. The guard will wake up and catch you!” With trembling hands, he followed what He said. He was about to put it back when the calm voice resurfaced, “Shyam, pull it out. You can do it. Its your ticket to freedom!”

“No Shyam! Don’t!” He said

“Hahaha!Look who is a failure now!” the Other one smirked.

“Don’t listen to them Shyam, listen to me,” the calm voice ordered.

And once again, with his hand in the guard’s pocket, his mind was thrown into a whir of voices, all unrecognizable and incognizable.

“STOP IT!!!” he shouted, and his hand which was inside the guard’s pocket, tightened a little. Not entirely knowing what lay there, Shyam was somewhat surprised to hear an explosion which deafened him temporarily. He was even more surprised to see blood coming out of the guard and seeing the guard writhe in pain. It was then that he withdrew his hand out of the pocket, and found himself holding a revolver- the guard’s service revolver. It was the last thing he saw before he was hit on the head by the police and lost consciousness.

It made big news, obviously, an inmate killing a guard and not even trying to escape. What made bigger news were the sights of the prisoner holding his head repeatedly and speaking to an imaginary person. Ofcourse, everybody said, he was acting this time, like he did previously. Nobody was going to be fooled twice by the same act.

He was sentenced solitary confinement for fourteen years. Even today, if you manage to pass by his solitary confinement cell, you could hear someone shouting, “ Shut up you four!” or on some days, “ Shut up you all! Why are ten people yelling at me at the same time?” or sometimes, “Save me! Save me! Take your iron horn and break down the door. Please!” If you take pity and think of entering the cell, hold back. Because, on some days, he also sees Jaggi all around in his cell. Those days can be marked by blood spilling out from his cell. A busy day for the prison doctor.

Trying to escape the punishment of his sin,

Shyam, my firend, got caught by the Madness within.

The Not so beautiful game

The IPL just ended, and the FIFA football world cup is about to begin. It’s a ‘sporting’ summer, and yet, here I am, discussing about a game which we all play; a game in which we all can be world champions if we want to. I am talking of the Blame Game.

The past couple of months witnessed a political storm. Even Alfred of Batman fame couldn’t have seen this storm coming. Key issues were raised, important discussions held, leaders projected and promises made. The nation’s economy was in shambles, internal security and defense were in hands of incompetents and the country was supposedly run by a woman whose greatest qualification was that she was the wife of an ex-PM. It was time for change, and we all agreed to it. However, what we did after that was very typical. We decided to elect one person who promised a lot- growth, economy, development, stability, and decided that he and only he will be responsible for converting India into a developed nation. Like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat, and the audience applauding.

I live in Gujarat, where Modi has undoubtedly a huge following. To his credit, Modi has done a fantastic job here, and we expect him to continue the same at a national scale too. But, does our duty end with voting for our candidate (in most gujaratis’case, it was Modi.)? A couple of days ago, I saw a man roll down the window of his sparkling Audi and spit out a flurry of red paan liquid on the road. Probably he would have voted for Modi. I saw a man break the traffic signal and try to run over the traffic cop who dared to stop him. He could have even run over him if the cop hadn’t jumped at the right moment. Probably he too voted for Modi. Daily we see people jumping queues, breaking laws, creating chaos. Most of them would have voted for Modi. Are they contributing to the developed India they all voted for? Or they are becoming a hindrance to it?

The current electricity problem in Delhi is well known now. The first thing everybody did was to find out whom to blame. The Aam Aadmi Party blamed the BJP. BJP blamed them back. Supporters of both parties are currently engaged in a Facebook feud, and might be privately blaming Mark Zuckerberg for inventing Facebook. I am not justifying BJP here, but why are people so quick to blame each other when anything goes wrong? The nadir was when some Aam Aadmi Party supporters were blaming the Indian public for electing BJP. Seriously?

But this is not limited to the political sphere. When we were in school, many of our Social Sciences lessons would have sentences like “India is a poor country because the British looted us for 200 years.” It made me think even back then, that India has been independent for half a century. How does the British empire still contribute to our poverty? I realized it much later that the textbook are written by diktats of the ruling government, and the government too needs someone to blame. Today, we blame ‘Western influences’ for everything bad, including and not limited to rapes, eve teasing, drugs, alcoholism. Indeed! What were the parents doing when the ‘Western influences’ were influencing their honest-to-God child? Probably they were busy having the late night dose of alcohol, or were probably fighting each other.

I often come across worried mothers who say that they are changing the tuition teacher of their 10 year old kids because the child in question isn’t getting 95%. I once told one such lady that my mother used to teach me till I was 15. And then I entered the world of tuitions for the first time. And no, there was no pressure on me to get 95% (nor did I ever get that score). She was surprised. Apparently she had one less person to blame for her child’s “failure”. And the students are no less either. They might be loitering all day in the ‘hangouts’ but if they don’t score well, they will first blame the teacher. Interesting blame game, this one.

The more we think about it, the more deep the problem seems to be. Why do we blame? Psychologically, there is a ‘defense mechanism’ called Projection in which a person will ‘project’ the ‘socially unacceptable’ occurrences on another person. It helps us justify our own minds that we are not at fault. I have come across people with all kinds of physical handicaps, and to my surprise they seemed to be happier than their normal counterparts. Partly because they had no one to blame for their condition and had accepted it as it was. I had experienced it first hand during my MBBS days. For the first two years, my health was constantly a problem, hindering the studies. I still managed to pass with a decent score in every exam. Once the health was back to normal, I found myself without a reason to blame, in case I performed poorly. It was the loss of a ‘backup’ that hit me and my performance after being healed completely was my worst in two years.

And when we fail in all our endeavors to blame a person, we blame God. Because, He is the one who created us all, and hence He should be the one accountable to us all. Many of us feel that God didn’t do enough for them. Wrong. God created most of us equals. We didn’t make use of the opportunities that came our way. God and blaming has another off-shoot. The terrorists of one religion often blame the other religions and try to attack their peaceful followers. God didn’t create violence. All religions preach peace. It is the followers who get violent.

I would like to end this by taking the readers back to first pitch of the Blame Game, politics, with this quote-

“Democracy is a process by which people select a new person to blame for five years.”

Why blame anybody, when we can analyze where we went wrong and pick up from there? Why blame the existing or past governments when we do not contribute to even basic civic sense? Why blame the teacher when the students don’t prepare well? Why blame God when we could have done better?