Today was one of those days which give you the perfect professional and intellectual challenge and fulfillment—nay, ecstasy—but drains you physically. The day began early morning, and now it is..let me see..oh!..five thirty in the evening.
How time flies when i am at the operation table! I think i must have skipped my lunch, and, perhaps, breakfast too! True, doctors have the worst lifestyles!
I am, well, one of the busiest surgeons of the city. People come to me from far away; they wait for my appointment for months; for them my word is an oracle and my hand, the miracle—and they can never thank me enough!
Whatever i am, i owe it to Mother: that’s plain and simple. Mother is an unlettered, conservative village woman—who lost her husband very early in life leaving not much behind. But she did possess the most extraordinary foresight and an unequalled strength of character. My education was the sole mission of her life; no hardship was too hard, no price too dear.
Well, for Mother i am still the schoolboy who would return home with his Tiffin-box all intact; drop it on the cot; and run to the playground. She has always been very possessive about me—i think it is always so with all self-made individuals—and thankfully my wife too has understood and accepted this facet of human nature in Mother.
I must be back home quick—it is already five-thirty—and, like an erring child that i am, face a good chastisement for having skipped breakfast and lunch!
But alas! The patients won’t leave me today, it seems. The duty-sister is again at the door, “Sir..an emergency case, traffic injury..patient in shock…”
“Sorry sister, i am too tired..no more patients for me now. Just ask the senior RMO..let her handle the case..i must go home, or i will collapse.” I leave—in fact escape—before she can say a word.
It is already past six by the time i reach home. Kids are out for their tuitions. Mother too is not at home; she must have gone for regular evening walk. I freshen up, change, have a bite and a cup of coffee; and spend some time with wife listening—or pretending to do so—her eternal nagging: the kids, the house-maid, the vegetable prices. After a while she gets busy with the kitchen (we have early dinner), and i switch on the cartoon net-work—the only sensible thing on the TV.
“Mother is yet not back..it’s already eight. Usually, she is back by seven…” my wife tells me with some anxiety.
“C’mon..don’t you worry dear, she must be at the Senior Citizens’ Club, or something,” say i.
“Don’t be so casual. You know how punctual she is,” she sounds serious.
“Well, what do you say i may do?” reluctantly, i press the mute button.
“If Mother doesn’t return by another fifteen minutes or so..,” she continues with some hesitation—and alarmed at her own apprehension— “We better call up people—relatives, family friends..may be police..and perhaps hospitals.”
“What nonsense? Don’t panic and raise false alarms!” say I, uncertainly though.
We call up everyone wherever Mother could possibly be. I call up the Police Commissioner too who happens to be a friend as well as a patient—i am not sure i want to register a FIR as yet, and make the whole thing official. The Commissioner promises to mobilize his machinery, and assures me of all possible help.
Lastly i-now somewhat apprehensive myself—ring up some of my professional colleagues at their hospitals: no such patient that answers Mother’s description reporting them today.
Should i call the Civil Hospital? I am just toying with the idea when my wife asks, “Have you rang up at your own hospital?”
“Not that it didn’t occur to me, but they would have informed me if something of that sort…”
“But what’s wrong in making a phone call?”
It is a bit awkward, but i see no other option.
I call up my hospital.
The receptionist checks the register, and replies—
“Yes sir, at 5:35 pm..an unidentified female patient, about 70, tall, fair..was brought in a condition of shock..was seen by the senior..it was a traffic accident..hit by a car..brought here by the by-standers.. identification-marks..just a moment, sir..yes, a black mole above right eyebrow..and an appendectomy scar..no sir, there was no other identification..well sir, the police were informed..and body sent for a postmortem…”
I hang up the phone.
“O Mother…” i sigh, and everything goes blank.
speachless!!!!
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