It was a pleasant,summer morning in the city of Bangalore. I mean this morning. Bright and refreshingly chill despite it being the month of May. Nothing bright though about me. Just off a night of fever and sweating, my self-medicated body was battered and bruised. Still is, as a matter of fact, but an event in the intermediate two hours breathed a new life into me.
Our, more so my, search for a family doctor has been in vain. Treated by an old-timer for the first 10-12 years of my life, who in his prime treated my grandfather as well, his retirement had created havoc in my life. Never again would I fake illness just to get a taste of his "kemp oushdi", which literally translates to red medicine. It was him, and the precious minutes spent in his clinic, in his presence, that really cured. Not the bitter pills we had to swallow. He was more a friend than a doctor, more a human than a healer.
And today, when I fell sick enough to be compelled to visit a doctor, I really felt his loss. But so close was this man, that on finding the shutters of the nearby doctor's clinic down, we thought it worth to disturb him on a Sunday, despite of his 80-odd years and his being officially in retirement.
We set out to find him, grandson on his side, calm, with his ever present smile. There was something about him, as he peered at you through his specks, ever sliding down his nose bridge. Something of a Dumbledore, without a wand. He didn't need one. His hands and his words worked the magic.
An hour of banter, between three old comrades, self, father and doc, representing different generations, of which hardly any time was spent dwelling on the actual issue at hand, was all it took to get me back to my chirpy self. Several things were discussed, and as with most Indian conversations, started with inquiries on the well-being of common acquaintances and led to more, interrupted by a loud conversation taking place somewhere outside between doc's grandson and an unknown person. At one point I heard the unknown question the junior. 265+24! At this stage of my life, where I'm all agog on sines, cosines, roots and logs, it was a simple calculation, 289. My quick calculation was confirmed few seconds later, when the boy spoke my thoughts, loudly and excitedly.
The conversation within was more interesting, though my thoughts wavered from it too often to give an accurate account. It ranged from gossip, to reverences for the dead, facts of life and more. This man had healed many a people, saved several from sufferings, had pioneered a new herbal cure for jaundice and the several accolades lining his walls were testimony to this.
Then, it was time to leave. Medicines in hand, gratitude in my heart, I walked out, pondering over the need for these medicines, when my heart and my limbs were already feeling lighter, from the moment I set my eyes upon him. He ushered us out, with as much dignity and pomp as his age would permit and left us at the door. As I bent to put on my slippers, my eyes caught a piece of paper on the sill outside. I peered at it, hoping to do the doctor a good turn by bringing in what I thought was a letter for him.
A closer look enabled me to ascertain it was no letter, rather just an old piece of paper, which clearly showed signs of having been used recently. 265+24=289, it said. I chuckled on seeing it, and walked away with my head held high, truly and completely healed