Being a doctor and a writer can be tricky. Medical colleagues who discover that I write (fiction, that too), exclaim: “You write stories?” as though it were something as inapt as wearing a see-through blouse. At writers' conferences, my medical degree evokes a few ill-concealed smiles; if coughs and upset tummies occur, they are taken to a ‘proper doctor.’
I have learnt to bend my careers to fit my needs first and then everyone else’s. When I’m asked how I balance my two interests, my answer is, “By not doing anything else.” Which is almost true. I have discovered that by stubbornly eschewing every task that I detest, I can garner the resources for what I love doing.
One question I’m asked is whether I use my medical experiences in my novels. I use them like any other experience. So much powerful human drama passes before my eyes at work. Some unforgettable incidents settle in the subconscious and nudge their way to the surface at inexplicable moments. They sometimes enter a story taking shape in my thoughts. What finally comes on page will perhaps have a flickering resemblance to the real thing. In one of my novels, however, I have used real-life surgical situations and scenes. The story itself is fiction.
Not long ago a patient I had once treated began to knock, insistently, on the doors of my memory. All that had transpired during his stay in the hospital four years back appeared before me like an album of pictures.
Madeva was a casual labourer from in a village near the rural hospital where I was surgeon. He had come to our area to pick pepper. The work demands nimble-footed climbers who go up trees on which pepper vines wind upward in decorative whorls of dark green. Madeva was new to the job. On his second day at work he fell from a height of eighty feet and broke his neck. When he came to the hospital on a stretcher, he was paralysed from the chest down, his breathing troubled and there was but a flicker of movement in his fingers.
He was unwilling to go to the nearest city hospital with facities for spinal surgery which we did not have. The100 km ride over rubble roads, a long stay in a crowded government hospial with indifferent nursing meant that often patients got worse. They developed bedsores and other infections. In our sixty-bed rural hospital, with carefully considered conservative treatment and good nursing care, we had better results. Most spinal injuries involving the lower back ultimately walked home on crutches.
But when the neck was broken it was difficult, no matter what the treatment. Over the next few weeks, Madeva’s breathing became normal, he could move his arms a little and turn on his side. But he was unable to do anything useful for himself like wash his face or eat. His bed in the Male Surgical ward was nearest to the toilets. Not that Madeva could use them himself but the hospital staff found it that much easier to clean out his bedpan.
Fated to a wheelchair life, the twenty-six-year-old was naturally devastated. His chiselled good looks suffered from the strain and his eyes filled with sadness. His medical problem was compounded by a personal one: Six months earlier, in a moment of anger against his constantly nagging wife, Madeva had moved out of his home to live with another woman. She was caring enough after the accident but as the weeks wore on, her conduct towards him changed to one of thinly veiled disgust.
Workers like Madeva who are injured on duty are eligible for compensation paid through an insurance taken out by the employer. We submitted Madeva’s forms for the claim, and a week before he was discharged the money was ready. With some wheedling over the phone, the insurance agent agreed to deliver the demand draft of one lakh directly to the patient.
As soon as this news became known, Madeva was befriended by several patients who had suddenly discovered their affection for the permanently stricken man. His wife and his mother were now regular visitors. The three women pressed around him to demonstrate how much they cared. His mother claimed to have gone through terrible hardship to bring him up; his wife said that she was the mother of his children and would always be there for him. His other woman smilingly revealed that Madeva had promised to marry her. Each of them also quizzed the nurses about his chances of survival.
One evening when he was alone, I spoke to Madeva. His body was damaged but his mind was whole. If he held on to that belief, it could make all the difference. He listened silently for the five or ten minutes that I spoke to him.
Madeva left the hospital accompanied by one of our employees (Raju, a lab assistant) who helped him deposit the money in the bank nearest to his home. A month later, we sent Raju again to check on him.
Surprisingly, Madeva had gained weight and looked cheerful. “Stay till noon,” he told Raju, lighting a bidi. “You’ll understand everything.” As the sun rose over the mud house, the three women appeared one by one, bearing tiffins full of flavoursome food. One started to wash his clothes, another made his bed and the third massaged him. “They’re still tying to guess which of them is my favourite,” Madeva whispered. “If I praise my mother one day, my wife will be the next…. You see? It keeps them on their toes. Tell the doctor I’m using my mind.
He lived only for ten more months. But he lived like a king.
