Just once

THE simple nameboard - Dr. David Devapragasam, MBBS - outside the clinic befitted the humble soul who practised there, six days a week, 4 p.m.

to 7 p.m.. He spent his mornings at an orphanage managed by his church. No medical work there, except for occasional prescriptions for boys and girls who came to him with a mild fever or stomach ache. He went there all seven days, because he enjoyed being with the children. He taught English on weekdays at the make-shift school. It had a flexible curriculum, designed by volunteers like him who ensured that the orphans at least knew to read, write, add and subtract, if not history, geography and science. On Sunday mornings after the sermon by the Father, he would sit beneath the orphanage's huge Banyan tree and teach the children the importance of personal and oral hygiene.

Through his years as an in-house physician for a multinational's personal products plant, he had developed a network of friends and well-wishers in the industry. He could still manage a free supply of toothpaste, soap and toothbrushes and sometimes shampoo sachets. After the doctor's talk, the Father would distribute samples that came in during the week. The children were thrilled to hold and use the product they saw in glamorous commercials on the orphanage monochrome television set.

In the afternoons, the cooks brought out the food in large utensils and the doctor would sit in the shade, hold an aluminium plate and have rice pongal and chutney, washed down with buttermilk, basking in the company of the children. After a short afternoon siesta, he cycled to his clinic in the slums.

He was closing up on the evening of December 18, when a girl came in, with an infant on her shoulder. From her anxiety and torrent of words, he gathered that someone at home, possibly the mother judging by the "m" sounds, was seriously ill. From long years of practice among the poor, he understood desperation, if not a word of Telugu.

The doctor picked up his bag and in a few minutes was in the hut. It was like any other abode of the poor that he had been to in the past few years. Caked mud floor, thatched roof, kaccha walls, aluminium pots and pans, and occupants short of money. But as he set his bag on the floor, he looked around again, because something had struck him as being different. It was the cleanliness and orderliness. The utensils were in place, the clothes folded neatly and kept atop a trunk, the child's dress was worn out but every tear had been patched with care. On the southwest side, photos of three Hindu deities graced the wall, and on the northwest, where he presumed the family slept, judging by the rolled mats, there hung the framed photo of a man. The red tilak on the glass, above the man's forehead area, told the story: A family from Andhra Pradesh, possibly interior, having lost the breadwinner recently, had moved to the garden city, in search of a livelihood.

From the patient's symptoms he suspected a severe viral fever or at worst malaria. He wrote out prescriptions for two medicines, explained by gestures that it would cost around Rs. 50 and made a mime of dropping a tablet in the throat and chasing it down with water. When the money part sank in, the mother looked at the girl, the girl looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the deities. Before facing their question, he turned away and began closing his medical bag.

The toddler had come in and was trying to cuddle up to the mother.

The little girl moved swiftly, picking up the child in one smooth motion and swinging it on to her shoulder, showering kisses and murmuring soothing words all the while. She then opened the trunk and took out a small tin box, presumably meant for emergency cash.

As he was putting his stethoscope away, the doctor could see what the box contained. Nothing.

Undeterred, the girl placed the child next to the mother for a moment, said something in her ear, gently stroked the forehead once and then again, as though wanting the moment to last, and picked up the child once again. His task over, the doctor was now at the door. One last look at this slice of life symbolising the plight of the poor, and he left the little hut, his heart tugging at his wallet with every step.

Four years ago, when he had set up the clinic in the slum, he had handed out money along with the prescription, whenever the patient had none. Soon, he discovered that his goodness was being mistaken for charity, and there were some who faked an illness to swindle a few rupees. After which he set a golden rule for himself. Free treatment, moral support, but no money. He wondered, as he wheeled out his bicycle from behind the teashop and pedalled home whether he should have made an exception today. In a home without a man, money is scarce, and money put away for contingencies, is often spent the next day. The mother obviously had a sense of pride and dignity, which meant she would not borrow from a neighbour or ask a favour of anyone. There was only one thing the doctor could do under the circumstances. He touched the cross adorning the silver chain.

* * *

Prayer was the last thing on Ranjini's mind, as she added a heaped spoonful of sugar to a steaming blend of Coorg coffee and stirred the dark concoction. Her mind, now working overtime, was playing the devil's advocate, finding convenient answers to her prime concerns. Smoking, she had read, affected pregnancy. That was years away, so it shouldn't matter. Lung cancer? Happened to chronic smokers. Fitness? She was not into sports anyway. Social stigma? Just look around the pubs on Brigade Road. Her parents? She was not going to tell them, and the chances of their finding out were remote. To make sure, she would pop a few mints on the way home and sprinkle some perfume on her sari. She knew Rekha carried a bottle in her handbag.

Slowly, her mind worked towards a "yes" to the big question. She would go for it. It was time for reason, logic traditions, family upbringing, scruples and other nonsense to take a back seat. She was Today's Girl. What was the line she had read in a Virginia Slims ad in an old Time magazine her father preserved in his cupboard? "You've come a long way, baby!" The slogan had been written for women like her. She had come a long way from the confines of her ancestral home in Basavangudi and she was now breathing the liberated air of Residency Road. No more wondering which way to go at the crossroads.

We know from our own lives that we have often stood at such turning points. Take the right route, and we are home safe. The wrong decision, and a life of repentance and regret follows. Only a few of us get a chance to retrace our steps, or make amends.

In a trance, Ranjini reached for the white pack with a band of deep red, pulled out a cigarette and placed it on her lips, for the first time in her life.

For the first time in her life, Rasayi was out on the streets of Bangalore, on her own. She carried the doctor's slip of paper on her left hand, while her right held her brother who was clinging on to her left shoulder. The child had first been bewildered at being taken away from his mother, but was now enjoying the cool air that is the trademark of a Bangalore evening. It would not take her long to reach the main road. Like many slums in India, the location of theirs was incongruous, sandwiched between two upscale areas, where the rich chewed on diet pills and green salad and worried about the poor mileage of their six cylinder cars.

Within five minutes, Rasayi had reached the corner of St. Marks Road and Residency Road. Opposite her was Cash Pharmacy, and from the prominent red coloured cross on the store front, Rasayi guessed that the shop would be selling medicines.

As she neared her destination, strangely enough, her mind was moving far away, to life in the village, and sweet, short memories of her father, his kind eyes, his care and concern, his enduring of hardship in the hope of a better day, if not for him, but his children. When her father had died, she had not felt the pain or the loss, only a strange emptiness.

She remembered ... as neighbours and relatives gathered that night in their ramshackle home, Venkaiah's wife had tactfully taken Rasayi out, and led her to her own home on the next street. There, sitting on the floor, the kind lady had mixed rice with dal, rolled the mixture into little balls, and fed Rasayi with a story ... of how her father had joined Devudu in a place called heaven. She said he would have enough money, food and happiness for ever. Rasayi had looked into her eyes and asked her if she could join him there. Her aunt had hugged her and cried. Rasayi had not understood why. Shaking herself out of her reverie, Rasayi debated her next step. She could turn in three different directions. Go straight - cross the road, reach the pharmacy. But no money, no medicine. Turn right - no shops, no lights and no hope. Turn left - a number of shops, so many people, there was a chance. She turned left, moved ahead by 20 steps and stopped. To her surprise, she found a row of shops below ground level. She had halted next to a flight of steps that led down, and from her vantage point saw a place below that seemed to be a hotel. Some people were making food, one was serving it, and many people were eating from brown plates, and drinking liquids of various colours from tall glasses.

To Rasayi, plenitude of food was an extraordinary phenomenon. People who did not have to fight at the water tap, worry about milk for the baby and how to feed three hungry people, were indeed blessed.

Two girls and a boy were seated right below. Brown cups were placed before them. The boy and one girl were smoking cigarettes and laughing merrily. The second girl was staring down at her cup without saying a word. As Rasayi watched from above, the girl picked up a small white and red box on the table, pulled out a cigarette and placed it, slowly but surely, on her quivering lips.

* * *

Dilip's jaw dropped. His face fell, and the cigarette drooped from his lips. He had always known girls were unpredictable. Expect them to swoon over a handsome six footer and they will not. Anticipate they will be cold, they turn out passionate. So, over a period of time, more by error than by trial, Dilip had learnt to expect the unexpected. When Ranjini picked up the cigarette, Dilip was not surprised, but disappointed. He had wanted to court a girl who was different from Rekha or the other girls he had known. An innocent girl from Basavangudi who would fuss over him, say things like he was smoking too much and yet not be too hard on him, urge him to study harder, or ask him to try out a new author.

Like many young men with a chequered past, Dilip fancied a girl with no skeletons in her cupboard. Ranjini, the comely, quiet girl from Basavangudi, with that cream and satin skin tone, seemed made to order.

"Are you sure you want to smoke, Ranjini?" he said apologetically. "We are not forcing you, you know."

"Let her try, yaar. Go ahead, Ranjini," coaxed Rekha. "I won't tell anyone in class. Here, let me light it for you with one single match. I hope I don't burn my fingers."

* * *

The evening air in Bangalore is cool. Daylight escapes early. The infant is asleep, lulled by the movement of traffic and a light breeze.

Rasayi pauses at the top of the stairway, and in a flash comes to a momentous decision:

She will beg.

She will ask for money from the two girls and the boy below. Ten steps and she is down. Two steps and in front of them. Left arm now clutching the infant, she extends her right hand outward towards the trio, palm facing the sky, eyes forlorn, one part of her family heritage destroyed forever.

Dilip upset at the sudden intrusion, waves her away. Rekha blows smoke into the beggar's face. Rasayi winces - from the fumes and the callousness. Ranjini on her third puff - nothing great - more hype than reality. Her face softens at the sight of the girl and the baby, blissfully asleep.

Rasayi turns to Ranjini and mumbles in Telugu: My mother is dying. Please give me money to buy medicine for her. This is the first time I am begging for money.

Peer pressure. Deep in her heart, Ranjini wishes to help and her mind gropes to understand what the girl is saying. She searches for an appropriate Telugu word from her limited knowledge gained from neighbours hailing from Andhra Pradesh. She blurts out "ledhu", no in Telugu, and a death knell for Rasayi. Eyes plead at Dilip, Rekha and finally, Ranjini. Dilip raises a hand menacingly. Rasayi frightened, turns, and climbs up the steps.

The cool air feels warm on her flushed face. No money. No hope. No mother, no future. The infant wakes. Rasayi holds him with both arms and closes her eyes in desperate prayer, shutting out the world.

* * *

In a distant suburb, the doctor sits down for his frugal evening meal, thinking of the little hut, the little girl, the little one and their big need. He wonders, should he have done more? Had the Lord intended him to be of greater service? When disturbed, it is his habit to find solace in the Bible. He opens the holy book, and wonders which part to read. An unseen hand guides him to Ezekiel 25:17.

"Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and goodwill,

shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children."

The doctor decides. The Lord is his shepherd, and it is His wish that he help the family.

He will talk to the Father about taking in the children and giving the mother a job in the orphanage kitchen. A woman particular about order at home was bound to be efficient at work. The family could live in the staff quarters, and of course he could look them up once in a while. Comforted by his resolve, but still anxious that he had not offered immediate assistance, he comes back to the table, says Grace and bows his head in prayer.

* * *

Ranjini is tired of Dilip, her first cigarette and herself. Her brain slowly translates the words she has heard, and if not every word, she understands the girl's mission. The Rs. 200 in her handbag feels like deadweight. She drops the cigarette in the ashtray, bids an abrupt farewell to her companions, and runs up the stairs. She almost collides with the girl holding the infant. Their eyes meet.

Ranjini is mesmerised by the eloquent eyes. The girl resumes her torrent of words. Ranjini unzips her handbag. Two hundred rupee notes emerge. Quickly, before she can change her mind, she pushes the money into the girls' hand and pats her shoulder, gently pinches the little one's cheek and looks again into the girl's moist eyes, capturing that moment in her heart forever.

Ranjini turns left to her bus stop, Rasayi turns right and crosses the road, heading for Cash Pharmacy.

* * *

So, now you know the events at the eatery on the evening of December 18. But if you have been reading keenly, you know there is something missing. Because at the start of this narrative, I had said three events happened for the first time, and you have come across only two:

Ranjini shedding her traditional values and lighting a cigarette, for the first time in her life. Rasayi ignoring her mother's commands and begging for the first time. So, what and when was the third?

It happened in that fraction of a second when Ranjini looked into the girl's eyes. When the good doctor said Grace, with a prayer for the downtrodden. At that precise moment, I like to believe, fate smiled on the family ... just once.

(Concluded)

R. CHANDRAMOULI

Author's Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters in the story do not exist. But the restaurant, the apple pie and plight of the poor are real.

(The first part of this story appeared on December 31, 2000.)

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