The Medicine Man

Venu was one of the three compounders of the hospital in the industrial colony where I spent most of my life. This unassuming guy had a very special skill when it came to medical knowledge. He knew exactly which medicine treated which ailment best; what could be the possible side effects; and his encyclopedic knowledge far exceeded those of any of the doctors who served at the hospital.
I would say his way with medicine and illness came from a gut instinct and not from any medical course of study since he was not even a matriculate.
It was rumored that he once practised as a "doctor" (cum midwife) in some remote village in the hinterlands and it was there he brushed up his medical skills to finesse.
Venu was also my close friend. By some strange coincidence he always happened to be on night duty at the hospital, the nights before I had my crucial graduate exams. Those days I used to stay up late at nights and to break the montony made a casual visit to the dispensary. Venu played the genial host by pilfering some of the resident doctor's imported filter tipped cigarettes from the locked drawer in the consultation room (which was a welcome change from my cheap filterless cigarettes that I offered him).
Once in a while, he brought out some antacid pep fizz from the dispensary store and we both had our equivalent of pepsi at hospital cost of course!
While we both puffed guiltily at the cigarette sticks, Venu, more at ease, would recount the latest rumor in the colony. Working in a colony hospital exposes you to all sorts of people and you get to hear the strangest tales from the myriad of people who come in daily. Many of those who reported ill were hypochondriacs. It seems their unhappiness with life gave them all kinds of imaginary ills ranging from stomachaches and backaches to chronic headaches, and Venu realised that rather than seeing a shrink they would feign physical ills. He would try to lighten their load asking some inquisitive question that he could later share with some other visitor for a few laughs. Most of these guys poured out the woes to the patient Venu; and the grouses they had against their superiors, their wives or the guy next door.
So Venu was a walking encyclopaedia of not only medicine, but the who's who and what and when of the colony!
The doctor who served at the hospital was one of the greedy types and he had a special arrangement with the private medical store that was just a short walk away from the hospital. The doc had a habit of prescribing costly antibiotics or anti-virals for the most common of ills, which would not be available at the dispensary and for which the poor patient would have to shell out a good amount of money at the medical store. Of course, it was Venu who spread the rumor(from reliable sources) that the good Doctor took heavy commissions from the medical store keeper in return for the favor. Venu even told patients to first see the doctor, then see him. He would then reduce the long list of medicines on the doctor's prescription to a shorter list and add some of his own. He sure had guts! But he was never wrong.
His treatment was highly effective and some of the patients came to the hospital only when Venu was around. Pregnant women made a beeline to him and he would dispense the best he knew of the do's and dont's of pregnancy.
For me, he was almost like the medicine men of lore for his treatment of illness had a magic touch to it. If it was just gut instinct, well then the voodoo men had that too!

Ulta Pulta Down South!

I copy below two separate snippets from two different female white bloggers on Kerala and its attire, that I chanced to come a long time ago, which I rediscovered today, which just proves how useful a photographic memory and GOOGLE can be! I apologise to these writers for anonymously harvesting their creativity but I am too greedy to let this opportunity pass :-)
The first one:

<chenoa>
I become more and more jealous of the men, who wear lungis, a long piece of cloth that is wrapped around the waist and worn as a long skirt. They usually fold up the bottom and tuck it into the waist, though, which provides a nice breeze. So while the women are wearing churidars (the pants and long shirts and shawls), the men wear lungis and show their legs. A bit different than the United States.
So have a good weekend and write if you have any questions!
</chenoa>


<sharell>
Ah, Kerala, the land of meeshas (moustaches) and mundus (sarong type cloth wrapped around the waist and worn like a skirt, similar to a dhoti).
The men of Kerala are constantly readjusting their mundus — folding them, draping them, and refolding them.
The mundu is particularly practical when walking through water during the monsoon season. No need to worry about getting the bottoms of your pants wet, just do a quick fold-up of the mundu, and you’re good to go!
However, in hot weather, the length of the mundu often becomes quite short, as the men folk aim to get some air flow to their nether regions.
While I was down Kerala way recently, I heard a joke. How do you know when the temperature is going to be extremely hot in Kerala? When the government issues a ban on the wearing of mundus. Hardy har har.
</sharell>

The original posts here, in case you are interested->

http://www.pcusa.org/missionconnections/letters/yav/yav_stockc_0411.htm
http://www.whiteindianhousewife.com/2009/06/india-photo-you-know-its-hot-in-kerala-when/

I would advise anybody to read the entire articles linked above, and yes, go through the commentary if you please!

Innocence Lost??

I always wondered what differentiates the offspring of Indian diaspora who opt to make a living in such far flung places as the Middle East; countries in unstable but oil rich countries in Africa such as Nigeria and Sierra Leone. I suspect one of the subconscious goals of expatriate Indians is to secure the future of their children.
Who else, but the son of an expatriate NRI can boast of driving an imported car by the time he is just out of his teens, or secure a prized seat in a prestigious college?
But what are the long term effects on the children? I don't think their parents gave much thought to this when they opted to fly off to alien lands.
The children confined to the airconditioned rooms of their flats miss out on the innocent pleasures of childhood. I know of children reared up in the middle east afraid of letting their feet touch sand! It is anathema to them, used as they are to the smooth floors of their dwellings, the carpeted cars that transport them to wherever they wish to and the marbled schooling institutions where they spend much of their time.
No playing with sand, no experiments with water and clay, no breath of fresh air outside their confined spaces!
Innocence lost!
Everyman poses an interesting observation - one he made on his sojourn to Saudi Arabia a few years back-
<quote>
The times arent changing, we are just getting smarter at an earlier age. But would that make us duller at an earlier age too? I wonder...
</quote>
The full post here
http://everymansdiary.blogspot.com/2007/02/just-kidding.html

Validating the sex field- FUN at work

It was a boring day at the office. We were doing some validation stuff on a couple of web pages. The team clown was doing some UI work on a page that had a textfield asking the user to enter his/ her sex. The valid options were Male, Female, Not Applicable.
The validation stuff done, the clown was trying to come up with an error message to display to the user on invalid entry.
"Sex is required", he muttered to himself.
The team wit laughed out loud and repeated, "Of course, SEX is required!".
The clown then said, how about "Sex is mandatory?"
"Yeah", echoed the wit, "SEX is mandatory."
Now we were all in splits.
Suddenly the team whiz came running into the cubicle with breaking news. "The requirements have changed. Sex is no longer mandatory, it is optional."
We all cried out loud in unision. "Of course, SEX is not required, it is optional."
So much for boring work hours.

Passport to Gaol

It was during my last month at my gig in Germany that I got an urgent mail from my brother saying that my father wanted to talk to me on an important issue.
A bit puzzled, I called India after work, from the office phone (the money for phone calls was deducted from my salary by the shrewd German overseer).
The first thing my father wanted to know was whether I had applied for my passport twice. I was bewildered. No, I replied. My father went on to inform me that the local police had come a-visting twice to my home in Kerala wanting to know whether I had committed the crime of applying twice for a passport.
I didn't take the matter too seriously at that moment. I was convinced it was a routine blunder by the police which they are so bound to make. I told my father I was sure this was some bureaucratic blunder and would sort itself out.
When I returned home to India, the police came visiting again. I was not at home. They informed my father that I had applied for a passport twice and they wanted to investigate. My father called me on my mobile and I talked to the police person who quizzed me on my passport number and other details. With a straight face I told him all I could. Then, a bit annoyed, I retorted, saying they were the people who had my passport details on their records and that I found it strange them asking me about it.
The policeperson was not impressed.
A few weeks later I got a letter from the regional passport office saying that they would have to confiscate my existing passport since I had committed the crime of applying for a passport twice. I made two trips all the way to the passport office at the State headquarters and met the passport officer in charge who said that the police had reported that two attempts were made to secure passports and the law would follow course. I even showed him a copy of the application letter that I had written out for the passport and tried to make him understand that I had no interest and no valid reason for filling out a second application. All this fell on deaf ears.
The next time the police came a hunting (again I was out) my Dad shelled out a couple of hundred rupees. The policeman realising that nothing more could be gained from this venerable looking gentleman quietly took the money and left.
There ended the mystery of the double passport applications.
The strange tale did not end there.
While waiting for my train home at Kochi railway station I found myself sitting next to a middle aged man. He was just on his way back from the regional passport office at Kochi. And he had a tale to tell similar to mine. He had been in the middle east for a good many years and when his passport was about to expire, applied for a fresh one. But he was now charged with illegally applying for a passport twice. And he faced the same punishment - confiscation of his passport.
But he said with determination - "I am ready to go to court on this matter, but I shall not bribe a policeman to get things sorted out." Brave words from an Indian, in a land where court cases are prolonged to no end and are a waste of both time energy and will power.
what other ways would these goons come up with, I wondered, to make a few extra bucks?

Never Say Die.....

Smoking Hypochondriac: Doctor! How do I begin? You know the graphics the damned Minister Ramadoss promised to put on cigarette packets ($#@#$%#& ... )?
Doctor: Yeah! I know. He did promise. But they have not appeared so far have they?
Smoking Hypochondriac: I don't need to! Coz I have already seen them! And the graphics on the package if they ever come will be too late!
Doctor: How come? That's strange!
Smoking Hypochondriac: I had a chest pain and a severe bout of coughing so I saw a chest specialist.
Doctor: And?
Smoking Hypochondriac: Well, he told me to have a chest X ray taken. And I did!
Doctor: Then?
Smoking Hypochondriac: The lungs! It was all rotten- I swear! Though the X rays were too hazy for me. And I fear I have ulcers in my mouth!
Doctor: Really? We need to do a check up and run some tests pronto! (Praise Ramadoss!) On the lighter side if what you say is correct we could send your chest x rays to the cigarette people so they could put it on their cigarette covers. The best graphics ever, I bet. You could even make some money that way! (Praise Ramadoss!)
Smoking Hypochondriac: Doctor, I also fear I have a stroke coming! I am dying, Doctor! Please help me!
Doctor: Now, now, be calm. Let us run those tests first. (Praise Ramadoss!) Don't get so excited. We are there to help you out.
Smoking Hypochondriac: And doctor, I am out of breath. The cigarettes did that to me. And I never suspected!
Doctor: OK... Let's put you on oxygen for half an hour. And I shall add an expectorant to it, so breathe easy. (Praise Ramadoss)
Doctor: Why don't you give up cigarettes, by the way? That's the best option you have right?
Smoking Hypochondriac: It's too late Doctor. Every time I think about my afflictions I reach out for a cigarette!
Doctor: Ok. First things first! First the chest x rays. Then oxygen and the decongestant; after that maybe some oral application for your mouth, and maybe we could do put you on some medicine to prevent that stroke you said was coming. (Praise Ramadoss!)

Will this happen to all of us one day?

In honor of the perpetual net surfer