Monthly Archives: January 2016

General

“from shadows to the stars”

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ROHITH

“At the stroke of one midnight hour when the world slept, the Indian democracy was born on 15 August 1947,

At the stroke of another midnight hour when the world slept again, the Indian democracy was caught napping, over the murder of ‘Rohith Vemula’.

At the stroke of this midnight hour when Rohith heads from shadows to the stars, it is time for pseudo-stars of Indian democracy to come out of their shadows, Or continue to live a life in shame.”

What a shame: What a shame that ‘Rohith’ is no more. What a shame that a young, smart, intelligent, intellectual and talented researcher, writer and activist died… correction – ‘murdered’. Murdered not by one person or one institution but murdered by an entire country. A country that continues to sleep on a multi-layered mattress of casteism, regionalism, religious sectarianism and hypocrisy softened by a layer of apathetic and a pathetic governance, covered by a comforter called pseudo-democracy that has nailed into coffin, the Indian nationalism right after the clock struck twelve on the night of 15 August 1947. Without going into a blame game, a detached look into the event and aftermath sadly reflects the evolution, rather devolution of a nation that was born out of the dreams of many, shed blood of many more and survives today on the hope of a billion more. Death of Rohith Vemula mirrors how deep-rooted the country’s beliefs are in the many institutions that we have constructed around for years, called religion and religious tolerance, linguistic states, caste system and reservation and the likes that are the progenitors of today’s political parties. In his death, Rohith has shaken many out of a slumber, hopefully, and if not, then what a shame…

Rohith, the Dreamer: I personally do not know Rohith Vemula, in fact had never heard his name till three days back when the news of his suicide splashed across news media sources and social networks. But then while reading his news as a passing glance with absolutely no sense of shock or surprise whatsoever but rather with a casual preconceived impression of “this happens in my country every day”, I chanced upon Rohith Vemula’s suicide note. At first read, I laughed… seriously? Is this a media blunder? This is not a suicide note, they got the wrong document uploaded. I had to reread it at least two more times to then realize… What a shame? What a shame Rohith Vemula is no more. Rohith Vemula, a scientist, activist, writer, philosopher, leader and most definitely a dreamer, died attempting to live his dream. A dream of hope, of equality, of liberty, of rights, a dream of a just life just as the preamble of the nation reads: “WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a SOVEREIGN SOCIALIST SECULAR DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC and to secure to all its citizens: JUSTICE, social, economic and political; LIBERTY of thought, expression, belief, faith and worship; EQUALITY of status and of opportunity; and to promote among them all; FRATERNITY assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation; IN OUR CONSTITUENT ASSEMBLY this twenty-sixth day of November, 1949, do HEREBY ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION”. Sadly, it was not yet the right time to even dream of fulfilling the preamble of the Indian constitution, not yet, even though it’s over six decades now. It will remain a dream.

Until the last word: If a normal human with a few extra brain cells, than an average person, who may be just even little close to one standard deviation on the right side of the Gaussian curve for ‘human-intelligence-distribution’, reads Rohith Vemula’s suicide note, the first feeling that will come to his or her mind is, a feeling of overwhelming awe, of respect and reverence and of complete stillness of time, given the clarity, style and extraordinary depth of the contents that have such a huge meaningful message cutting across boundaries both natural and man-made, physical and meta-physical. It surely did not read like a suicide note, surely not until the last paragraph, until the last word is read. It in fact read more like a literary article by a scientist who is both well read as well as deeply experienced by the veracities of life, banalities of rationality and travesties of Indian democracy, a democracy that has been nothing but a majoritarian vandalism ridden with feudalism, nepotism, casteism and religious bigotry, irrespective of which government has ruled the country, from the night the we received freedom. Or did we? By the time I completed the first draft of this article, I have read the letter over twenty times and each time it hits me, new and harder, waking me up and hopefully every Indian reader, to ask if this is just a suicide note or a commandment of a departing soul to what man should heed to. Until the last word is read, until the last leaf is turned, the letter reads like a soulful, mystic musical composition of words that tell, ask and challenge the human within the monsters that we have become, to try and become normal, become humans. As I turned the leaves of his letter, I was reminded of the composition by the maestro Yanni, “Until the last moment”, a stirring soulful composition many years back that does poetic justice to Rohith’s life even before he lived it and lends music to Rohith’s letter, until the last word.

From Shadows to the Stars: ‘The Final letter’ as it is called now, Rohith Vemula’s suicide note so completely and poetically reveals many faces of Rohith. A son’s love for family, a friend’s respect for friends – “family you loved me very much”. A confession that takes the blame onto himself and complains or blames no one – “I have no complaints on anyone. It is always with myself I had problems.” A youth dreaming of his goals and ambitions, of sky being the limit – “I always wanted to be a writer, a writer of science, like Carl Sagan.” Of everything that a parent would train his child to dream of. A poem on his romance with science and the stars – “I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people…” A sincere critique who is challenging mans conflict with nature – “…loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature.” A philosopher who viewed and understood the depth of relationships in their true meaning – “Love is constructed, our beliefs are colored. Our originality valid through artificial art”. A writer with incredible vocabulary who could use the words to play into the reader’s mind with such visible clarity that reading the letter seemed like actually watching the writers ideas displayed in motion on a three-dimensional canvas, right in front of my eyes. The beautiful threads of words used to, so effortlessly yet so powerfully and meaningfully, connect ‘life with death’, ‘stars with dust’, ‘soul with monster’, ‘love with pain’, ‘identity with vote’, ‘man to a number’, ‘birth to a fatal accident’, ‘from shadows to stars…’ this would have been a beautiful poem that I will have ever read! I would have called it “from shadows to the stars”. Alas, it is not a poem. Every word and sentence written compelled that it be read, connected, understood and awed at; every emotion in that letter begged to be smiled, laughed or cried at; every idea conveyed deserves respect, reverence and standing ovation; every unasked question in it demanded a clear and complete response, every criticism provoked anger, aggression, pain and hurt; no sense is left untouched. The clarity in his pristine mind just before his death, the stillness within his wobbling thoughts, the silence emanating from the noise of many voices of his many faces, the hidden-inside-the-heart anger within his soul, an undeniably undying attitude finally humbled, all so loudly clamored for attention in his life, and Rohith in his last moments was able to so methodically do justice to it all, by bringing them all together in this one note, before he departed from shadows to the stars.

The Final Letter: What has the country come to? Counting every death as another statistic, using every event like this as an opportunity to harvest, for personal and institutional benefits, digging into the pie before it is all taken, and then moving onto another breaking news because this is old the next day. I am certain that Gods, if they do exist and if they live somewhere out there, certainly take turns to watch over and to command over the mankind, although unfortunately in a very non-interfering manner. And for this oversight, they surely do need help. Today Rohith Vemula offers them that much-needed help. If ever Gods were to exchange notes while handing over their duties from one to the other, this letter would easily be the one single document that so completely and so accurately describes mankind and nature’s relationship on the brink of a separation so calculatedly and callously authored by the man himself. “Where the mind is without fear” reverberates as the desire that Rohith might have inherited from Rabindra Nath Tagore, begging his God “Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.” And surely the Gods need help too, help, as they work towards taking the country into that heaven of freedom, a freedom where the head is held high, knowledge is free, narrow domestic walls are fragmented, words are true with a clear stream of reason and words lead human mind forward into thought and action. The Gods surely must be thrilled that they now have a one-pager handover document on issue they have at hand. It is called Rohith Vemula’s, ‘The Final Letter.’

At the stroke of midnight: It is indeed a shame that the author of this complete and accurate scientific work is no more and the reason he is no more is because of the very contents in this document that he so magically molded and carefully poured onto a papyrus piece. Sadness and pain are the two most profound feelings that I am currently going through. Sadness at the loss of such an intellectual genius he would have been and pain that he did not commit suicide but an entire country murdered him, under the dark shadowy cover of democracy that is more equal to some, than to the other. “At the stroke of one midnight hour when the world slept” the Indian Democracy was born and “At the stroke of another midnight hour when the world slept again”, a pseudo-democracy that has shaken the foundations of the same democracy, murdered Rohith Vemula. A murder not by accident, not by fate, not by a non-interfering attitude but clearly by a conspiracy hatched on the shoulders of the many systems within the same democracy, systems that identify Indians not as Indians but by their color, caste, language, state and richness. When the first prime minister of the country authored his “Tryst with destiny” on the stroke of midnight when Indian attained freedom, little would he have realized that he had nostradamically foretold another tryst with destiny, the one that Rohith chose to live and chose to embrace, at the stroke of another midnight.

The Sun has set before it rose: It is even more poignant and poetic that a twenty-five-year-old adult died just at the time when he was about to take that big leap of faith into the world of real-politics, starting a new life. The Sun on his life set just about when it was rising. Rohith died in the portals of an Institution and under the shadows of the teachers that were meant to lay the foundations of higher knowledge in many like him, meant to lay the path of right directions to make right choices for many like him, meant to sow the sprouting seeds of wisdom in many like him, meant to spread the message of humanity to many like him and an Institution that is deemed a center of excellence for the country. What a shame that an Institution died in Rohith Vemula today within the ramparts of the very Institution that was meant to, one day turn him into a man, a scientist, a writer and perhaps a true democratic leader. Or perhaps that’s what the institution and the country were afraid of…felt threatened by, a true democratic leader in the making, in Rohith Vemula. With this death, the Sun has set today but sadly, even before it rose.

Wake up India: The predictable and incredible display of so picture perfect petty politics, that is worthy of nothing but disdain, anger and outright rejection, in the aftermath of this murder further puts to utter shame, the very shame in this loss. Every politician and every leader, who are by default opportunistic, worthy or unworthy of his or her salt have come into this limelight, to make hay while the last rays of Sun still remains on Rohith Vemula’s remains. The bright spotlights radiating from the star-dust of Rohith’s spirit have overnight moved over from his remains to these opportunistic stars of Indian democracy. Not pained about the loss of such a precious life; not saddened at the loss of a scientist, activist, writer, leader or a human; not concerned about why it happened; perhaps not even aware of the contents of ‘The final letter’ and if aware; unable to fathom the depth of the same, every one of the adaptable principled politician of the nation has displayed a perfect spirited show of blame-game. It may be caste, it may not be or well it is; it may be a personal problem, really? Some calling it a non-issue and others calling it the death of a terror apologist… seriously? There are arguments, there are counter-arguments, there are contests, there are clarifications, there are investigations but unfortunately, there are no lessons. No lessons learned from this carefully written chapter that has already gone down in the annals of literary works as ‘The Final Letter’. A chapter that will perhaps, albeit unfortunately, stand taller than the author himself. Confidently but very sadly, I could say that those benefiting out of this ‘another breaking news event in India’, the propagandists, the hypocrite nationalists, and even the casteist hate-mongers, not one of them will ever be able to cross to the right of the third standard deviation on the left side of the same Gaussian curve I referred to earlier. Really, is this a suicide? That too a suicide due to personal problems, is it? Wake up India, wake up… And these, my friends are the leaders and lawmakers of the free India, of our democratic country. Indeed time to wake up.

Hope: Yet, the letter ends with love and forgiveness, as it displays Rohith Vemula’s humility in his parting statements – “No one is responsible for this”, “Do not trouble my enemies after I am gone.” It felt like reading ‘The Ten Commandments’ right from the stone tablets held up by Moses. Another incredible display of maturity and wisdom on the backdrop of hope… of a hope that he could not see in his little lifetime but yet in his death he remained assured that people whom he left behind would see, see hope someday. A picture perfect composition that even captures the left over works on his personal front to be completed; apology notes and thanksgivings offered to the concerned; powerful deep messages to rest of the readership; and somewhere touching a personal chord deep within me; this letter by a twenty-five year old is a reflection of what the country has lost and what we are losing every day. In his death and in his final letter are lessons for each one of us, as citizens of the nation, as leaders of the country and as humans, we have a learning from Rohith Vemula’s life, a life that we did not allow him to live but a life he so well authored it in his final letter. Let us desire to live that life… What a shame he is no more, but we can surely desire and hope to reach him in the stars one day where, he is the lone worthy placeholder today and proudly tell him the story… a new story of “from shadows to the stars” – A biography of Rohith Vemula.

PS: A copy of the original letter is below

Rohith Vemula’s suicide note (The final letter)

Good morning,

I would not be around when you read this letter. Don’t get angry on me. I know some of you truly cared for me, loved me and treated me very well. I have no complaints on anyone. It was always with myself I had problems. I feel a growing gap between my soul and my body. And I have become a monster. I always wanted to be a writer. A writer of science, like Carl Sagan. At last, this is the only letter I am getting to write.

I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature. Our feelings are second handed. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs coloured. Our originality valid through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.

The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In very field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living.

I am writing this kind of letter for the first time. My first time of a final letter. Forgive me if I fail to make sense.

May be I was wrong, all the while, in understanding world. In understanding love, pain, life, death. There was no urgency. But I always was rushing. Desperate to start a life. All the while, some people, for them, life itself is curse. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past.

I am not hurt at this moment. I am not sad. I am just empty. Unconcerned about myself. That’s pathetic. And that’s why I am doing this.

People may dub me as a coward. And selfish, or stupid once I am gone. I am not bothered about what I am called. I don’t believe in after-death stories, ghosts, or spirits. If there is anything at all I believe, I believe that I can travel to the stars. And know about the other worlds.

If you, who is reading this letter can do anything for me, I have to get seven months of my fellowship, one lakh and seventy five thousand rupees. Please see to it that my family is paid that. I have to give some 40 thousand to Ramji. He never asked them back. But please pay that to him from that.

Let my funeral be silent and smooth. Behave like I just appeared and gone. Do not shed tears for me. Know that I am happy dead than being alive. “From shadows to the stars.”

Uma anna, sorry for using your room for this thing.

To ASA family, sorry for disappointing all of you. You loved me very much. I wish all the very best for the future.

For one last time,

Jai Bheem

I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my this act of killing myself. No one has instigated me, whether by their acts or by their words to this act. This is my decision and I am the only one responsible for this. Do not trouble my friends and enemies on this after I am gone.

General

CDC – An unfailing Hope

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An unfailing Hope

On a hot afternoon under the shade of a drought-ridden tree, fourteen year old Ojok Daniel (name changed) suddenly stopped eating. Ojok began staring into the distance and his head started to nod every 8-10 seconds. This episode lasted for about 5 minutes. Unfortunately, this is neither the first nor the last occurrence for Ojok. Described as Nodding Syndrome, a form of atypical seizures, Ojok is one among the many children in his village who are afflicted with this disease. Health officials have seen Nodding Syndrome in geographically defined regions of northern Uganda, South Sudan and Tanzania.  The descriptions of the syndrome include head nodding that gets worse over time and is sparked by exposure to cold weather and familiar food, with additional cognitive and neurological dysfunction over time.

The road from Kampala to Kitgum District is scenic, with the quietly streaming Nile River providing a light background noise along parts of the journey. However, very abruptly the drive became rough as our vehicle careened onto a dirt road, the only indication of its existence being tire tracks of an earlier vehicle. This served as our welcome to the epicenter of Nodding Syndrome in Uganda. Northern Uganda in February and March still manages to reach anywhere from 85 to 95 degrees Fahrenheit which, coupled with torrential rains and strong winds, made my two-week trip anything but easy.

It had been six months since my last trip to Uganda, and I was returning to support the coordination of a follow-up survey estimating the prevalence of Nodding Syndrome. At the time the project was being led by Dr. P, an Epidemic Intelligence Service (EIS) Officer who had already been in the field for two weeks, an energetic first year officer, brings with her a fresh mind loaded with many questions and a “ready to roll-up the sleeves” attitude. Accompanied by Dr. J, a globe-trotting neuroepidemiologist from CDC, we were a good mix of experience, expertise and energy that CDC offered as support for the Nodding Syndrome.

A typical day in the field began anywhere between 7 and 8 am. We met with our site teams at the local district office to review plans and collect supplies for the day. We then traveled by car through parts of the country where infrastructure ranged from minimal to non-existent. Upon arriving at one of the three parishes where our survey took place; we were greeted by a gathering of children, their caregivers and village health team staff. We were looking for children on our list of participants. If any of the children were not present, the local village health team members would travel on their well-worn bikes or by foot to track down the children and their caregivers and bring them to the site.  This was all a part of the extreme effort made to include only those on our randomly selected participants list and not just use those participants who were conveniently available. Despite the fact that we were working in an area without paved roads, lacking phone connectivity, and many times transforming the shade of trees into our survey station and interview rooms, all credit must be given to the volunteer village health team members who still helped to maintain the scientific rigor in the midst of harsh field conditions. Our day would between 3 and 6 pm if all of the children sampled to participate were present and interviewed.

This survey was the second phase of our project and involved interviewing a sampled subset of children whose caregivers had answered yes to the question “does your child have nodding syndrome?” in our first survey conducted over the summer of 2012. By asking a series of questions intended to capture everything from clinical symptoms, response to medications, and neurocognitive abilities as well as taking body measurements, the Uganda Ministry of Health and CDC aimed to conduct the first scientific measure of Nodding Syndrome prevalence. It is our hope and expectation that by understanding how many and how severely the children are affected, we can better direct resources and projects aimed to identify the cause and treatment of Nodding Syndrome.

Primarily affecting children aged 5-15 years old; Nodding Syndrome is a form of seizure disorder in which children repeatedly bob their head forward. Accompanied by neurologic and cognitive symptoms, children with this syndrome come to require around the clock care. I see families and communities depressed and dejected as they watch their children deteriorate in front of their eyes; caregivers express the frustration of having to provide 24/7 care and the toll it takes on their entire family. Forced to stay at home to care for the sick child and unable to work to provide for their other children, or forced to tie those children with Nodding Syndrome to a tree in order to prevent them from wandering off or injuring themselves, the families and communities in this region are slipping into a vicious cycle of poverty, malnutrition and sickness. Often occurring in many families in the same village, the whole community has had to face the burdens that accompany Nodding Syndrome.

Despite these hardships that will remain etched on the canvas of my memory, I left Uganda with tremendous hope. It is this same hope that makes these families still care for their affected children and that prompts caregivers to participate in surveys like these knowing very well that there is no individual therapeutic benefit being offered. This is the hope. And in the midst of this hope I could clearly see the true face of the CDC; the true face that perhaps can only be seen and perceived out in the field. Out here in the field I see what CDC truly reflects, and it is more than just an ordinary Federal agency. CDC is that ‘unfailing hope’ of these children, families and communities afflicted with Nodding Syndrome and an agency that will translate that hope into realization. CDC is and will remain that ‘unfailing hope’ that doesn’t just promise to take the world towards a safer healthier future but leaves behind a confidence in the most impossible situations, promising to come back to realize that dream.

First posted on 

JIPMER

Memoirs of a Graduate

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As the outgoing batch of ’92 comes together for the final performance, the clocks turn back, five and a half years into the past when seventy cheerful faces took on a task uphill. Some innocent and ignorant, some pretentious and arrogant; some meek softies, some self-assertive and bullish; some fair and some IAS (invisible after sunset); some beauties and beasts – a medley of varied physical proportions and mis-proportions; tall, dark and handsome; fat, bald and gruesome! But all with one dream… the same dream – the ambition to walk out of the portals of JIPMER as doctors.

Well it took some time to overcome the initial insecurities, homesickness and LOHA food hiccups and hiccdowns, with the unflinching support from our dear seniors in the form of… hush hushed…rrrragging. Thanks to them that the not so good-looking guys overnight became handsome muscular Adonis’, measuring the length of hostel corridor in how many ‘match-stick-lengths’ and some even in how many ‘match-stick-breadths’. Lord Shiva stood on one limb but never would he have tried sitting on a part of it, ‘The Femur’, an act which often attempted a desperate PR and at times even tried replacing the probably prolapsed piles of a not so suspecting victim, to the distinct sadistic pleasure of two horned sssssirs. Dancing to the tunes of the boss was heard of but dancing to the wails of our own classmate – who was actually asked to sing, was never even nightmared of. All said and done the joy, pleasure and ecstasy of proposing to – my fair lady sometimes even ladies, (sometimes provoked or probably forced by the seniors but most of the times unprovoked!) was unmatched. How I wish that I could have continued to be a baby (junior!) for that at least.

Besides this routine curriculum in our fatally suboptimal life sustained by the UEO’s (unidentified edible objects) from the LOHA mess, literally a mess, we also had an extracurricular program pertaining to academics. And that included the hour-long short naps in the Physio classes. The Anat lectures at times made me feel that I was mentally retarded for in spite of my innermost desire and utmost efforts I repeatedly failed to gather the ‘pearls of wisdom’ pouring out of our respectable teachers. Biochem perhaps chemically inconvenienced me as I found myself orally challenged and dumb struck whenever I was called for, to opine regarding anything pertaining to any and every topic under consideration.

The debut SPANDAN revealed the talent in almost all of us except a few lazy bones who were uniquely fortunate to, I shall say unpremeditatedly scoot and in spite be called – promisingly talented, it’s a different story that their talent never got tapped over the past five and a half years. Coming to those whose talents were indeed revealed, I shall talk about myself. I suddenly discovered that I was naturally gifted in ‘renovatingly architecturing the land’, i.e. mopping floors which in this case was a basketball court and which I thought was exclusively a job of the fairer sex or of the non-dominant recessive male sex post martially. My ideas that only professionally trained individuals could roll the ground (or roll on the ground) and highly sophisticated equipment alone could dry the wet football ground were shattered when… well, I was made to do that along with other less fortunate, no so lazy bones of my class. We take pride in telling that transport committee would routinely send SOS for ‘us’ for we were the only unpaid proficient labor force available anywhere in Pondicherry. It was an only guys team, another instances of gender bias, sex discrimination or was it sexual harassment of the other kind? To date all of what I know about interior designing, which is almost nothing, I had learnt in the reception team. To our relief SPANDAN came to an end and so did every baby junior’s drudgery.

Tragedy struck or did it?, as if by an awful retribution from the almighty above, we were thrown into the clinics. Proudly hanging the steth around our neck we felt ecstatic but most of the time was spent learning Tamil. ‘Asshollow!” was how it sounded when one of our superior country mates (i.e. north Indian friend) tried to open the mouth of a patient and landed opening his own, god only knows how many times.

The clocks stole the time beneath our nose as we graduated semester to semester and by luck, fate, chance or destiny we successfully cruised through our academics of course interspersed with inter-class-es and a couple of trips to Ooty and Kodai which led to some long-lasting, some not so long-lasting relationships. During those day-long infatuations and the puppy love tales on the backdrop of those scenic places, we shockingly discovered the Romoes’ and the not so really consenting Juliet’s in our class. Some did fructify, though not literally, but some of the cupid’s arrows missed the target and got out rightly rejected with blatant No’s. No harm, they had lots of arrows in their quiver and there were lots of fishes in the sea, the next day our rejected and dejected Romeo got up charged with rejuvenated hope and optimism to try his ill-luck elsewhere. With no gender bias, while speaking of rejection I must say that there was disappointment among the eves too for, some of the Adams refused to bite the apple.

As we were evolving in mother JIPMER’s womb and nature’s bountiful resources, sailing through the calm and benevolent marine outstretch in search of our ‘Capes of Good Hope’, tragedy struck in its most cruel form. We lost two of our classmates and very dear friends K and T under tragic circumstances. A reminder of his perhaps un-divulged plan for each individual. It was irreparable loss for the class and a personal tragedy to each one of us, for they were two nice lovable guys. No doubt, ‘good people die young’, “We miss you throughout Dr. K and Dr. T. May their soul’s rest in peace as we remember them once again.

Some how time flew carrying us about and we donned the executive seat. After intense tussle for ‘gaddi’, hard(-ly) fought verbal battles and unattmepted poll riggings we managed to give a stable leadership at the center – JSA and equally strong power in LOHA. Looking at the Lallus, Rabris and Kesris we feel proud today for the greatest decorum we maintained in being the organizing batch in spite of having the best of the nonchalant, nonconformists and the worst of obsessional perfectionists in the class. Grad day was pronounced a great success following which it took over sixty humans, six months (almost) and equally long consistent abstinence from academics plus illegitimate absence from classes to organize the six-day annual show – SPANDAN. Ridiculous perhaps but an achievement in itself, running around for sponsorships and money, not as beggars, but as JSA affiliated applicants for fund-raising services was no doubt a not so pleasant experience but we learnt a lot through this unpaid work of entrepreneurial nature as our convincing abilities and tremendous potential of lying (not to be taken otherwise – its telling lies) through this infra-nasal orifice came forth. The motto was hook or crook – beg, do not borrow and be indecisive about stealing! And it happened; for once all the hands and 119 legs (one of us fractured his leg) came together to make SPANDAN a roaring success. It indeed was, what with a roaring show of western music on the final day!

Come December and we found ourselves in a very vulnerable predicament of counting the number of pages of ‘Park’ to be read each second, a race against time, wind, light and everything capable of beating human mind. But to our misfortune we all did it. Misfortune because we were the honorable final years now, filled with consternation, we did come through. There was no turning back, having caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Charged with new vigor and utmost reverence for academics but oblivious to the impending doom we entered the new year. What a shocking metamorphosis it was, for the yesterday’s carefree punks, maachas and machees, Romeos and Juliets, suddenly became serious mugpots, sincere, regular, alert, oriented and conscious and above all cooperative. That one year of total abstinence, from every form of extra-academic social intercourse in spite of the tempting drop-dead beauties of the baby junior batch, which under the circumstances was an occupational hazard for every senior, did the trick. The so-called atheists suddenly became spiritual minded and ardent devotees of every form of God existing on earth, though just for the last three months. O’ God, to Allah became natural expressions of every emotion from joy to despair, success to failure, elation to depression. Prayers were heard and demands answered as we sailed through the final year unscathed though some were incompletely successful.

With celebrations and festivities, we joined internship highly spirited (literally). I would compulsorily call it ‘Compulsory house surgeonship’ retrospectively. It felt good attending OPD’s and going around in ward rounds as the joy of finally working as ‘live’ doctors stirred our souls but soon dawned upon us that, what our seniors had told us was true – it was a job of a glorified…. All said and some left undone, it was definitely a great time of practical learning, revealing to us, the intricacies involved in our profession, not only medical but also non-medical and extraprofessional, of course strictly ethical.

It will be an unpardonable mistake if I forget the most unforgettable and cherish-able part of internship – ‘The Ramanathapuram posting’, rather the honeymooning period of internship where we took full advantage of the symbiotic coexistence with the reptilian wildlife in erasing our acrimonious life patterns of the past five years, with the ‘spirited’ fun-filled moments and movements. Some old flames re-ignited and some new ones bloomed into long-lasting (time shall tell how long) liaison-ships as they rediscovered the indiscretionary pheromonous fragrances in each other in the sobriety of the spirited moments and movements again!

Soon it came to an end, five grad days, six interclasses and equal number of SPANDANs later; some fights, many catfights and a couple of couples later; few infatuations, some affairs and lots of true heart breaks later; one DVD, one KK, one Sollu…. the list goes on for seventy us all, and five and a half years later, here we are the tickers of the batch of ’92 parting ways leaving behind vivid impressions of varied emotions and multifarious pleasant images in each others hearts, un-erasable, unforgettable and eternal. For once, we feel lost, lonely, insecure, JIPMER sick (not homesick anymore) and unsure standing at the crossroads as a family disintegrates to allow each member to mould individual future and careers. But thanks to thee O’ Mother JIPMER for enabling us to walk out of thine holy shrine not only as knowledgeable doctors but also as mature, confident and self-assertive men and women.

With memories galore sweet and sour, cherish-able reminiscences, silently brushing across the windows of my thoughts sending in cold breeze of joy and happiness, it is a feeling of melancholy with which I put down the pen… for the last time… for thee O’ JIPMER.

‘Al-Wida’

(Outgoing graduate, February 1998)

Batch of ‘92

General

It is you!

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Waves gushing their way to the shore,
Birds flying, chirping the lore.
Clouds sailing through the skies, in motion,
Trees swinging to the tunes of the ocean,
It is you, who keeps them in creation.

Early morning, the sun in the horizon,
Here you are, greatly beholden.
In my mind and soul O' dear one,
My poetic thoughts overflowing my pen.
They are only of yours, dear one.

Mid afternoon and the sun so bright,
My face washed off by a ray of light.
I rise up and think of that ray in delight,
None but you come to my sight.
It is you, that ray of light.

Calm sea and the starry night,
But sill reminisce of that ray of light,
None but you come to my side,
It is you, that ray of light.
General

Someone, somewhere, someday…

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All of us are walking around with some kind of greeting card or a flowers bouquet, that we would like to give to someone…

Some personal expression of joy, creativity or aliveness, that we are hiding under out shirt,

Just a little expression of our liking for someone, our love for someone,

Someone, somewhere, someday…

I feel more satisfied and at peace with myself than I had in a long time,

I needed to learn to open my heart and give love, without requiring anything in return…

Uncategorized

The Hippocratic Oath

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HippocraticOath

Original Greek version:

ὄμνυμι Ἀπόλλωνα ἰητρὸν καὶ Ἀσκληπιὸν καὶ Ὑγείαν καὶ Πανάκειαν καὶ θεοὺς πάντας τε καὶπάσας, ἵστορας ποιεύμενος, ἐπιτελέα ποιήσειν κατὰ δύναμιν καὶ κρίσιν ἐμὴν ὅρκον τόνδε καὶσυγγραφὴν τήνδε:

ἡγήσεσθαι μὲν τὸν διδάξαντά με τὴν τέχνην ταύτην ἴσα γενέτῃσιν ἐμοῖς,καὶ βίου κοινώσεσθαι, καὶ χρεῶν χρηΐζοντι μετάδοσιν ποιήσεσθαι, καὶ γένος τὸ ἐξ αὐτοῦἀδελφοῖς ἴσον ἐπικρινεῖν ἄρρεσι, καὶ διδάξειν τὴν τέχνην ταύτην, ἢν χρηΐζωσι μανθάνειν,ἄνευ μισθοῦ καὶ συγγραφῆς, παραγγελίης τε καὶ ἀκροήσιος καὶ τῆς λοίπης ἁπάσης μαθήσιοςμετάδοσιν ποιήσεσθαι υἱοῖς τε ἐμοῖς καὶ τοῖς τοῦ ἐμὲ διδάξαντος, καὶ μαθητῇσισυγγεγραμμένοις τε καὶ ὡρκισμένοις νόμῳ ἰητρικῷ, ἄλλῳ δὲ οὐδενί.

διαιτήμασί τε χρήσομαιἐπ᾽ ὠφελείῃ καμνόντων κατὰ δύναμιν καὶ κρίσιν ἐμήν, ἐπὶ δηλήσει δὲ καὶ ἀδικίῃ εἴρξειν.

οὐδώσω δὲ οὐδὲ φάρμακον οὐδενὶ αἰτηθεὶς θανάσιμον, οὐδὲ ὑφηγήσομαι συμ βουλίηντοιήνδε: ὁμοίως δὲ οὐδὲ γυναικὶ πεσσὸν φθόριον δώσω.

ἁγνῶς δὲ καὶ ὁσίως διατηρήσω βίοντὸν ἐμὸν καὶ τέχνην τὴν ἐμήν.

οὐ τεμέω δὲ οὐδὲ μὴν λιθιῶντας, ἐκχωρήσω δὲ ἐργάτῃσιν ἀνδράσι πρήξιος τῆσδε.

ἐς οἰκίας δὲ ὁκόσας ἂν ἐσίω, ἐσελεύσομαι ἐπ᾽ ὠφελείῃκαμνόντων, ἐκτὸς ἐὼν πάσης ἀδικίης ἑκουσίης καὶ φθορίης, τῆς τε ἄλλης καὶ ἀφροδισίωνἔργων ἐπί τε γυναικείων σωμάτων καὶ ἀνδρῴων, ἐλευθέρων τε καὶ δούλων.

ἃ δ᾽ ἂν ἐνθεραπείῃ ἢ ἴδω ἢ ἀκούσω, ἢ καὶ ἄνευ θεραπείης κατὰ βίον ἀνθρώπων, ἃ μὴ χρή ποτεἐκλαλεῖσθαι ἔξω, σιγήσομαι, ἄρρητα ἡγεύμενος εἶναι τὰ τοιαῦτα.

ὅρκον μὲν οὖν μοι τόνδεἐπιτελέα ποιέοντι, καὶ μὴ συγχέοντι, εἴη ἐπαύρασθαι καὶ βίου καὶ τέχνης δοξαζομένῳ παρὰπᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις ἐς τὸν αἰεὶ χρόνον: παραβαίνοντι δὲ καὶ ἐπιορκέοντι, τἀναντία τούτων.[

In English:

I swear by Apollo the physician, and Aesculapius the surgeon, likewise Hygeia and Panacea, and call all the gods and goddesses to witness, that I will observe and keep this underwritten oath, to the utmost of my power and judgment.

I will reverence my master who taught me the art. Equally with my parents, will I allow him things necessary for his support, and will consider his sons as brothers. I will teach them my art without reward or agreement; and I will impart all my acquirement, instructions, and whatever I know, to my master’s children, as to my own; and likewise to all my pupils, who shall bind and tie themselves by a professional oath, but to none else.

With regard to healing the sick, I will devise and order for them the best diet, according to my judgment and means; and I will take care that they suffer no hurt or damage.

Nor shall any man’s entreaty prevail upon me to administer poison to anyone; neither will I counsel any man to do so. Moreover, I will give no sort of medicine to any pregnant woman, with a view to destroy the child.

Further, I will comport myself and use my knowledge in a godly manner.

I will not cut for the stone, but will commit that affair entirely to the surgeons.

Whatsoever house I may enter, my visit shall be for the convenience and advantage of the patient; and I will willingly refrain from doing any injury or wrong from falsehood, and (in an especial manner) from acts of an amorous nature, whatever may be the rank of those who it may be my duty to cure, whether mistress or servant, bond or free.

Whatever, in the course of my practice, I may see or hear (even when not invited), whatever I may happen to obtain knowledge of, if it be not proper to repeat it, I will keep sacred and secret within my own breast.

If I faithfully observe this oath, may I thrive and prosper in my fortune and profession, and live in the estimation of posterity; or on breach thereof, may the reverse be my fate!

Poems

Whispering pastels of Life!

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What is life, but footprints on the sands of time,
Erased by waves of experience lashing on stony practicalities.
A medley of feelings, emotions and thoughts,
Of the soul, body and mind of human distraught.
A river with ups and downs,
Of overflowing cogitations, of ephemeral eternities.
O’ Dear, life is a sweet child of God,
In the heart of moments with whom is eternity!

What is life, but the music of cold breeze,
Passing through the hollowed bamboo sticks.
An orange tint of the full moon,
Rising through the dark clouds, across the horizon.
The hope of a candle flame,
Flickering through the dark spooky nights of rain.
O’ Dear, life is a new born child,
Eyes closed, weeping loud, Mothers love intense, still mild!

What is life, but the melodious tunes of waves,
Percussing hard against the tympanic rocks.
An early morning rainbow,
Across the weeping skies, in a resplendent show.
The hope of an oasis,
On the sands of a desert, on a sweltering noon.
O’ Dear, life is a child crying for a chocolate,
When the whole world is at her disposal!

What is life, but shades of black, white and grey,
Of the clouds sailing with silver lining lay.
The pastel hues of red, orange and yellow,
Of the sun setting in the horizon, so low.
The tale of birds flying east,
With the hard earned prey for their siblings feast.
O’ Dear, life is under an umbrella, a child laughing,
As dark clouds prevail and its raining hail!

What is life, but the snow sailing down
In motion, so slow as a solitary crown.
The swaying branches and wet leaves,
After a drenching downpour of heaven’s tears.
The sun swallowed the darkness around,
The star spangled skies and shimmering moonlight.
O’ Dear, life is a child gazing searchingly,
The vast expanse of nature, through the window, inquisitively!

What is life, but woeful litany,
Of violence, chaos and cacophony for some,
For others, a soothing symphony
Of those unremembered of acts of kindness and love.
It is overcoming those innumerable trials,
Of temptations and thoughts of inhuman calls.
O’ Dear, life is a child suckling at its mother’s breast,
To live, survive and be a Human at best!

Poems

this ones for you Dad

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daddySaving ten cents off a sugar-cane juice for himself so that I could have a dollar worth of coke.
Deciding not to celebrate his birthday only to plan a lavish one for me.
Himself managing with the same pair of flip-flops for over five years but not hesitating to get me a new pair of shoes every year.
Stitch-patching his one trouser to ensure I have seven pairs, one-a-day of the week.
Thinking twice and not getting a wrist-watch for himself but unhesitatingly getting me sun-glasses for no reason.
That my friends are the memories of dad, my dad, I had a few months back.

I do not remember the nights when he stayed-up walking, coz I was sleeping on his warm shoulder rocking.
I do not remember how he sweated in the heat of an army mission when I was playing gully cricket in the army neighborhood.
I do not know how many tears he shed for his family at a time I was partying with my friends in the college hostel.
I do not know how he breathed his last, all alone in the hospital ICU, when I was holidaying with my family and friends.
BUT I do know that every one of those moments, he was praying, praying that ‘I’ may have a good life
That, my friends is a dad to every son and so was my dad to me…

Dressed in his crisp army greens, shoes shining like a mirror and the stars lined on his chest.
In sleeveless vest with a lungi around his waist, legs stretched and sleeping while watching tv
Un-tucked half sleeved white shirt on a pleated dark trouser with the slippers outside the Church.
Pulling himself out of the warm sleeping bag to make an early morning tea for me in Kashmir
These are the few images of my dad that I carry in the canvas of my memory.

Like my mom, he was not there always to receive me at home when I returned from school.
Like my mom, he was not there every time I wanted to share the centum I scored in my math.
Like my mom, he was not there every night that I might have needed my diaper to be changed.
Like my mom, he was not there for every vacation to play with me being out on a deployment.
But I know that the only reason I am what I am today is because of the struggles in what he did at times when he was not with me to celebrate.
That my friends are the celebrations I never had with my dad.

He would not kiss me ever on my wound with any promise to get it healed.
He would not hug me ever and show his love never.
He would not smile at me often enough to show his affection towards me.
Everything my mom would do every minute he would not do even once in a year.
Yet, I knew always that he loved me enough to be ready to stretch out his hands and die on the cross.
That my friends is a dads love for his child and so was my dads love for me.

Every time he kneeled down to pray, to his God, he had a small prayer for me on his lips
Every time he stood up to worship his God, he had a hymn for his son in his heart
Every time he closed his eyes remembering his God, he had a vision for me in his spirit
Every night he slept on his bed thanking his God, he had the largest gratitude to God, for his son
I now know my friends that each waking breath I inhale and each sleeping moment I live is a prayer each, that my Dad had offered to his God, for me.
And it is the very same prayer that he continues to offer in the heavens even today that gives me the body soul and spirit to stand here today…

I have not seen you Jesus, I have not seen you O’ Father of Abraham, I may not have been touched by the spirit that many Christians claim to have, but
From what I have read about you Jesus, from what I have heard about you O’ Father of Abraham, and from what I dream to experience when the holy spirit touches me…
I do know that, to manifest the love of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit on earth, for weak spirited sons like me, God made Fathers, that you and I could call daddy.