November 10, 2011
We reported to the Lord's hospital promptly by 10am. My second youngest uncle had also come home, so he rode with us. Clothes, utensils all packed and loaded for a three day stay. The outpatient nurse informed us that Dr. Haridas had gone for some ultrasound scanning but will be back soon. Since the hospital was already brimming with patients, Amma had no patience. She ran upstairs and caught the doctor.
"Ready aano, Arun?" (Are you ready, Arun?) he asked looking through my file. "I have asked them to put an 8 hour sugar chart for you. If there is any spiking, we will give some insulin."
Then he turned to the nurse, "Ivarku noottionnu room kodukku, allengil irunootti ezho munnootti onno" (Give them room 101, else 207 or 301)
"Noottonil delivery case aanu saar. Irunootti ezhu innu uchakku ozhiyum" (101 has a delivery case,Sir. 207 will be vacated by noon.)
We had no qualms about waiting till noon. Or till 1pm as it finally turned out. Relatives and well-wishers regularly telephoned. Amma's colleague Moncy uncle called to say, "Arune,oru pakkiye pidikunna pole undavu." (Arun, it will be as simple as catching a moth). Amma said he had told her yesterday to tell me that he survived well after even a part of his tongue was removed because of oral cancer, my surgery in comparison should be cakewalk.
The room 207, closest to the operation theater, was spacious and air-conditioned with a even bigger bathroom.
Two metal frame beds, a larger one for the patient (i.e. me) and lower, narrower one for the bystander. A metal table with mica top, two wooden chairs. 15 inch television with Asianet cable connection on the table. Lockable almirah. Open shelves.
Amma insisted everyone leave their footwear outside. A passing attendant told her they might be stolen/lost. So they came back in. I sat around watching TV. A nurse (from now onwards they will be referred to as sisters) came to drop a plastic bag on the table "medicines aane" (these are medicines). I examined the contents, 5-6 enormous syringes and equal number of bottles. I went back and sat on the bed. Tried to dispel the fear for injections by watching the comedy movie "Pulivaal Kalyanam" that was on a channel.
After uncle left, Amma and Achan came back inside. Amma kept on smiling widely whenever she looked at me. Her modest regular cheerleading attempt. Loud knock on the door by 2:30pm. A 30-something man with bushy mustache and neatly oiled prickly standing hair dressed in the blue hospital staff uniform. "Cleaning unde" (There is cleaning) he announced. We saw neither broom nor mop in his hand. Confused looks. He revealed a small plastic sachet. It dawned on me that I was the object of his cleaning operation. "Njangal veliyil nilkam" (We will wait outside) Achan and Amma volunteered before being asked.
Me, the man, closed door. He tore the plastic sachet open. One blue surgical razor. "Shirt maattano?" (Should I take off the shirt?)
"Ellam Saare" (Everything, Sir) he said.
As I undressed, I realized that he was simply the first in the long list of people who will see me naked over the weekend.
We spread three sheets of old newspaper on the bed. The depositories of my 33 years of proudly cultivated hairy inheritance. The not-at all-grim reaper was checking his razor.
"Nivarnu kidakane" (Lie on ur back) I obeyed instantly with a certain helpless urgency that full nudity brings about to one's actions.
He began from half an inch below my right nipple.
"Ivudanne edukano" (Should you remove right from here onward?) I wondered aloud.
"Laparoscopy alle saare, doctor evidennu tube idum ennu parayan pattoola" (Since it is laparoscopy, we cant be sure where the doctor will decide to insert the tube)
I was happy he left the hairy bit of my manliness intact over my man-boobs. Complete transformation into sexless Bollywood hero type would have been more mental trauma than the surgery.
It was obvious that we had a long way to go in this clean up operation, so I resorted to conversation.
"Entha saarinte peru?" (What is your name, Sir?) I ask him.
"Murugan"he replies. Not a common Malayalee name.
"Tamizh naatil ninnano"(Are you from Tamil Nadu?)
"Alla, malayali thanne. ivide kazhakoottam"(No, I am Malayalee. From Kazhakoottam here)
"peru kettathu kondu chodichatha"(I asked because of the name)
"njan janichathu kovilpatti. pakshe valarnathellam ivide thanne."(I was born at Kovilpatti in Tamil Nadu. But brought up here only)
"kovil patti veeralakshmi...angane oru cinema vanathu kondu sthalam perariyam" (Kovilpatti Veeralakshmi...that was the name of a movie, so I know the place name)
He smiles.
"Simraninte" (Simran acted in it) I recalled the actress with the legendary hips as Murugan moved onto mine.
"ethra naalayi saare hernia?" (how long have you had this hernia, Sir) he inquires
"kurachu varsham"(some years)
"ithrayum valuthayile saare, njan ithupole kanditilla" (it has become so large. I haven't seen one this size)
"njan americayil aayirunnu.naattil vannittu cheyyamennu vachu. aniyathiyude kalyanam aayirunne. Murugan married aano? family okke?" (I was in America. Thought I will do the surgery after coming back. Came for my sister's wedding. Are you married? Your family?)
"Married alla saare"(Not married, Sir)
He asked me to turn on my side and started doing my back. "Backil illalo saare" (There is nothing much at the back)
"entha muruga kalyanam kazhikathathu?" (Why are you not married, Murugan?)
"athoru kathayanu saare" (It is a story, Sir)
He was done with my hips. I looked down and remembered Robert Frost. Miles to go. Enough time for a good story.
"Paranjo muruga, samayam undalo"(Tell the story, Muruga, we have time)
"Nammukkoru love undayirunnu saare. kore varsham"(I had a love, Sir. For many years)
Like my hernia, I thought but instead asked, "Nadanila, eh?"(didn't work out?)
"Jathakam saare. Avalde familykku jatakam nokkanam. Yathoru karanavashalum cheroola ennu. orumichu jeevikkane padila ennu" (Because of horoscope, Sir. Her family insisted on horoscope matching. Our charts didn't match at all. They said we should never live together)
"Paisa kodutha cherum ennu parayuna jyolsaye kittumalo"(You can pay astrologers to say whatever you want them to say. You could have found one to match it for you)
"enthonu jathakam saare. manaporutham alle ellam. athundaya pore? Athonumalla saare. karanam sambathikam thanne. avalde family athrakku illa. avalde chechiyude bharthavinte family bhayankara paisa aanu. appo avarku njan pora."(what astrological charts, Sir? Matching of the minds everything. Isn't that enough? Charts were not the real reason. It was financial. Not from her immediate family. But her sister's husband's family is rich. They didn't think I was good enough)
We were getting to the intimate bits...of the story.
"avalde vere nischayam kazhinju. ennittu njan kathirunnu saare. kore nokki. aval athum kalanjittu varumennu vicharichu. vanilla." (They got her engaged elsewhere. Still I waited, Sir. Waited long. I thought she will break the engagement and come back. She didn't)
"ippo kazhinjo kalyanam?"(Is she married now?)
"hmm...kurachu masam aayi" (Yes...it's been some months)
He fell silent. May be from the memories. May be the work needed silent focus.
"ivide vannittu ethra nalayi?" (How long have you worked here?) I tried to make the conversation professional since very private parts were being cleaned up.
"naalanju divasam saare" (4-5 days Sir)
"munpe?" (Before that?)
"matte kazhakootathe hospitalil. avidennu namukkoru cheriya suspension okke kitti." (At that other hospital at Kazhakoottam. I got a small suspension from there)
My suspended bits shrink further at this revelation. He notices.
"ente kuttam alla saare. vere oru attendant water bed nirachathu sheriayila. patientinte relative ennodu kayarthu. ente peril complaint koduthu. show cause notice thanappo njan ingu ponnu. onnu kamazhnu kedannu saare." (Not my fault, Sir. Another attendant filled a water bed incorrectly. Patient's relative took it out on me. He put in a complaint with the management. I got show cause notice. I left. Please turn around and lie flat now.)
"budhimuttanalo, muruga" (That is difficult for me to do, Muruga)
"entha saare ithu ithrayum kalam cheyathathu?" (Why didn't you get this operated earlier, Sir)
"vedana illayirunnu."(There was no pain)
"naalu kaalil nilkamo saare? onnu kaal spread cheythu."(can you stand on all fours,Sir? And spread your legs)
I strike the doggy pose earnestly. The comedy and melodrama of the movie proceeds on tv.
"vere oru blade vennam saare." (I need another razor, Sir) He goes out to get another razor. My parents who were slightly worried about the hour long operation get relief.
Murugan returns. He proceeds to ensure that his work will impress the docs the next day.
"backil okke ithrayum carefully venno muruga?" (Do you have to be so particular about the backside?)
"anesthesia chilappo back vazhi okke saare..." (Sometimes anesthesia is through the back, Sir)
I closed my eyes not wanting to think more about it. Murugan proceeds to convert me from a Bollywood non-female look into a porn actor look.
"Ithu valiya paniyanale Muruga, namude malayalees ellam nalla romeshwaran maralle?" (This is hard labor for you Murugan. Aren't we Malayalees notoriously hairy?) I try to lighten the mood.
"Aanum pennum, Saare" (Both men and women, Sir) He agrees.
"Sayippanmarum Madammamarum angane thanne. Avarude tholiyum romavum randum velupayathu kondu ariyila" (Even westerners are hair but since the hair color matches the skin tone, it is not easily noticed)
My legs get attacked next.
"ithenthina kaalil" (Why are you shaving my legs?)
"clean cheyyumbo oru full region cheyanam saare. chest thottu muttu aanu kanakku." (There is a full region that has to be cleaned. Chest to knee is the norm)
I watch myself acquire Lakshmi Rai-sque thighs.
He double checks every region and runs razor again over the unsatisfactory parts. "Ini Muruganum vere kalyanam nokkamallo?" (Now Murugan, you can also look for another girl to marry)
"Amma nokkunund Saare. Varumbo varatte" (My mother is looking for girls. Let it happen when it does)
90 minutes, two razors and 4 sheets of old newspapers later, we get to the final wet towel wipe. I give him Rs.100. "Ithoke dutyude part aanu saare" (It is all part of my duty, Sir) he shies away. "service alle muruga. ente oru santoshathinu" (This is for your service, Muruga. I am happily giving this.)He accepts.
Achan and Amma come back. "Valiya operation aayirunalo" (Was a major operation, eh?) Amma laughs. "Nale operation theaterinu veliyil wait cheyunathinu ningalkoru practise aayi alle" (You got practice for the wait outside operation theater tomorrow, right?) I ask, "Njangal samsarikunathu kettile?" (Couldn't you hear us speaking?)
"Illa, pakshe njan appozhe paranju nee aa payyante full katha chodichu oru episode ezhuthan ullathu undakum ennu" (No, but I told her that your would ask that young man's full story and get material for an episode) Achan smiled. "Enthayalum oru thozhil cheythu jeevikunalo...kakkanum pidikkanum pokathe" (At least he is doing a job to make a living instead of becoming a thug or thief). Amen.
One of the senior nurses, the vivacious Divya arrives. "test results tharu" (Give me all your past test results). Achan hands over the carefully protected set of print outs that came in a brown envelope within a magazine within a plastic bag of Kalyan jewelers.
"X-rayum ECG-um evide?" (Where is the x-ray and ECG?) she asks immediately. Panic ensues.
Where are they?
Are they at home?
Why are they not in my hospital file?
Are they at the reception?
Did we leave it at the Dr. Gopakumar's office?
"Ithu randum illathe anesthesiologistinu decide cheyyan pattila" (Without those two the anesthesiologist cannot decide)Divya sister decrees.
Achan decides to rush home to search. Amma goes to find out the alternative. Achan keeps an autorickshaw waiting as he searches in panic at home. His presence of mind goes for a toss. He goes to Rema Aunty's house and telephones us from there, asking us to call him back at that number if the x-ray is found in the hospital.
"Why are you waiting at the neighbors?" Amma gets irritated.
"Because our cellphones are in the hospital" Achan explains his blurred logic.
"Don't we have a landline?!" Amma shouts!
"This man and his panic!" she throws up her arms, "he must be worried now about making the rickshaw driver waiting, not about finding the x-ray"
Her analysis is correct. She has known him for 34 years. I am only 33 years old. I am mildly amused by this parental hysteria. I stroke my smooth shaved belly smugly. "Won't the doctor think we are so irresponsible?!" Amma laments.
The x-ray and ECG facilities are 24 by 7 at the hospital, so worst case scenario is getting another set of both done. I don't mind at all since they don't involve needles and syringes. On his way back, Achan bumps into Dr. Gopakumar and explains the situation. "I have seen the x-ray and ECG and I have clearly noted in his file that he is fine for general anesthesia." This vital information is relayed via a battalion of nurses to Dr. Ashwathy, the anesthesiologist in charge for the operation.
Rema aunty visits. More phone calls. Dr. Haridas comes to the room on his way home at 8pm after half a dozen surgeries of the day. "Bowel motion okke regular alle?" (Regular bowel motions, right?)
"Yes, doctor"
"Kurachu kazhinju anesthesiologist varum. ini onnum kazhikanda." (Anesthesiologist will come in a bit. Don't eat anything now onwards.)
She comes to the room by 9pm. Young doctor. Very pretty. If anything she has the opposite effect of sedation on a normal person. "We don't need the ECG and x-ray" she says.
"Asthma undo?"(do you have asthma?)
"illa"(no)
"snoring undo" (snoring?)
"undalo...samanyam nalla pole und" (yes...to a very good extent) I confess.
"married aano?" (are you married?)
"athum snoringum aayi bandham illalo doctore!" (my marriage status and snoring are not connected, doctor!)
"nalla jovial aanalo! bharyayodu snoringine patti chodikkan aanu married aano ennu chodichathu" (You are very jovial.If you were married, I could find out about your snoring from your wife. So I asked)she explains.
My inner voice reminds me that it won't be any woman but an American roomie of Sundeep, once upon a time when he was interning at Dell in Austin, who bore the full brunt of my snoring symphony with the equally musical Santosh after a night out at sixth street. Then there are Alfred and Bulusu who can vouch. Both of them dared the possibility of a bear attack and slept with their heads outside our tent while camping at Pedernales Falls since my synchronized snores with Rahul's were powerful enough to raise and lower the tent rhythmically.
The beautiful Dr. Ashwathy continues, "Dr. Haridas wants yours to be the first operation tomorrow. We will start latest by 9:30. You will be taken from the room by 8:45am. Sleep well. Do you need a sedative?"
"No thanks, Doctor!"
Before 10pm, my snores must have reverberated in the room.
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