Till the Right Tick

Every self-help book in the world would probably have these words (or something very similar) trashed away somewhere in its usually useless pages - "Every morning, God fills up your day with 24 hours, 1440 minutes, 86400 seconds - use it well. It's never going to come back". Yes - you didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out - but then I guess these 'motivational' authors do really believe that the whole world's permanently enrolled in some gigantic kindergarten.

Earth-days have always been 24 hours long. (at least in the living memories of anyone who is reading this and is not a ghost!) But have you noticed how seemingly, the days seem to be getting shorter as you grow up? How every morning reminds you of the colossal amount of work that is to be done? How often you wish to just smash that time-piece on your desk, hoping that it would miraculously suspend the world in some timeless animation? The truth is that we have become so incredibly ambitious, so ridiculously over-zealous, so unconvincingly diligent - that the little patience we as a species are born with has slowly trickled away into the ever-thirsty sands of panic. Our whole approach to life is so overtly aggressive that no wonder the better things that Destiny plans for us are backing away in plump fright. We have so thoroughly mastered the art of hurrying and scurrying that every hour of the day has become a ghastly 'Rush Hour' for us. Mark Twain once called 'Time and Tide wait for none' - arguably the words most frequently put between quotation marks in this language - a 'highly pompous and self-satisfied proverb that was true for a billion years'. But, in our times perhaps the correct thing to say would be that 'Man waits neither for Time nor for Tide'. And quite unfortunately so.

Have you heard how the most ruthless of the predator felines hunt down their prey? They wait. They go into hiding and with a stealth unmoved by the belches in their bellies, simply wait for their prey to come into the right position. And then, at the opportune moment, they spring into action and 'go for the kill'. Had they launched into attack at the first sight of their victim, they would have been fairly and squarely beaten by its superior swiftness and nimbleness. Courage is not always about standing up and grabbing your fate by its horns. It is, more frequently than not, all about lying low - going down but not out - and then, when even the most adventurous of the bookies don't give you a chance, jumping up and sealing your triumph. Its a skill very difficult to inculcate - not because it needs greater merit - but because it needs greater motivation. The rewards, in immediate retrospection, are completely inglorious. But, in the longer run, it fetches you more dividends than you could ever have bargained for. The number of times that a moment of patience has managed to ward off a great disaster is only superseded by the number of times a moment of impatience has ruined a successful campaign. Just ask an Indian batsman how many times he has lost his wicket just because he has 'played it too early'? Just ask an Indian fielder how many times he has dropped a sitter just because he foolishly lunged for the ball instead of waiting it to come and sit pretty in his fingers.

Of course, there are those desperate times when you have to show urgency. There are moments when sitting back will allow men less capable than you to zoom ahead. There are races where it is wiser to be the hare rather than the tortoise. It is upon you to decide how to deal with the situation at hand - with promptness or with patience. The chief thing is just to know that the latter of the two options does exist and there is no disgrace in exercising it. Opportunity knocks doors - but only closed ones. There is no point in keeping yours open all the time.

******

For everything there is a season -
And a time for every matter under heaven.
A time to be born, and a time to die
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted
A time to kill, and a time to heal
A time to break down, and a time to build up
A time to weep, and a time to laugh
A time to mourn, and a time to dance
A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather them
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain
A time to seek, and a time to lose
A time to keep, and a time to throw away
A time to tear, and a time to sew
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak
A time to love, and a time to hate,
A time for war, and a time for peace.

Apollo's Ire

A good doctor treats a disease. A great doctor treats a patient. The medical education system, which I am a part of, is probably suffieciently equipped to churn out good doctors. But, rarely does this framework go beyond the realms of scientific teachings and cultivate a batch of great doctors. Free medical services do not give you the license to compromise on the quality of healthcare - something which professionals associated with government hospitals all over the country need to be reminded. When you become a doctor and undertake the Hippocratic Oath, you embark on a voyage in the sea of humanity. Storms in the forms of diseases have to be weathered and newer and better routes to good health need to be constantly chartered. Sadly, the money-making tendencies and the lack of a moral dimension to medical practice has brought about a partial, if not complete, erosion of these extremely essential social ingredients of medical profession.

I have watched with my own eyes, a patient first become a clinical history, then an examination, a diagnosis, a chart, a case number and eventually a shabbily stored hospital record. I have seen a sick man stand in line for six hours, waiting and still waiting, to be shuffled through an inefficient system of impatient receptionists, an overworked nursing staff and a breed of doctors who couldn't care less. I have seen patients in a pathetic state being robbed of whatever little comfort and dignity they carried when they entered the hospital premises. I have seen them languishing in their beds by the day, oblivious to the hustle-bustle in the wards. I have heard them howling in the nights with noone to alleviate their pain. I have watched a patient being told bluntly that he had cancer - irrevocable and invariably fatal - and then shoved out of the clinician's room to ponder over his impending end. I have seen twenty abdomens being examined in thirty minutes without so much as a glance at the fear writ large on the face of the patients. I have seen the facial muscles of an old man's wife twitch as two junior residents mutter gross jargon with sardonic smiles over her husband's ailing body.

I am ashamed that such inhuman actions are perpetrated under the guise of State-sponsored charity. I am ashamed that the sick of the society are seen as liabilities and obligations. I am ashamed that we have become so insensitive and academically carried away that we are more interested in the disease rather than the diseased. The worrying rise in the incidence of nosocomial (hospital acquired) cross-infections is another indication that all is not well with our public tertiary health services. Patients instead of getting treated, often go out in a worse situation than ever before. They are overloaded with empirical pharmacological agents and acted upon as experiments for the young and the ignorant. Mind you - the situation is this bad only in the civil hospitals. Their private counterparts literally pamper their patients even if it is eventually only to fill their own pockets. The time has come to infuse humanity back into medicine. The time has come to understand that your patient is someone's father, brother, husband or son and if not even that - atleast he is a fellow human being, created and loved by God, just as you are. The time has come to win back the faith of the Gods and carry out in earnest the job entrusted to us. It might be a mere professional routine to us but for someone else it is a matter between life and death...

The Jester

If laughter, as they said, was the best medicine,

he, with his humour, was one of the finest doctors.

Being sad, and yet making the world think otherwise,

also placed him in the ranks of the finest actors.

Legendary was his wit, contagious was his charm...

Thousands flocked to hear every word he spoke.

Fits of laughter and a cacophony of giggles followed,

every time he adroitly cracked a classy joke.

His countless patrons loved and adored him,

for none but him could so lighten their spirits.

He basked in glory and swam in showered silver,

as jesters from far and near failed to match his wits.

Being sharp, he knew where a man's funny bone lay,

and was adept at brewing new brands of comedy.

He became an obelisk of cheer for the crestfallen,

and they assiduously sought him as a voodoo remedy.

All was well, till his heart was pure...

and no innuendo of insult tainted his tales.

But that sweet poison called fame soon made him giddy,

and flattery began tickling him with its sculpted nails.

His ego soon catapulted to worrying heights,

and rancid narcissism swiftly took over his mind.

With a critic's eye did he now see the entire world -

no longer was his humour guileless and refined.

Insinuations and insults became the new flavour,

of this new and hideous form that his humour took.

Half the world he called imbeciles; and the other half idiots,

and darted towards their failings like a hungry rook.

He began to engage in mimicry - the diet of buffoons,

and turned each of the high and mighty into a caricature.

He lost all respect quicker than it had been earned,

and a tragic fall was superimposed over his stature.

The very people who till then were fans of his wit,

now locked him under a discerningly cold gaze.

Up in lashing flames went that celebrated charm -

a sinster wave of resentment now numbered his days.

And when he died - both a man-hater and a hated man,

Oft calling the world rogue, and oft being called knave.

The very man, who had lived to make people laugh,

had not a single soul to shed tears over his barren grave.

- NISHANK MEHTA

17.08.2009