Anyone who visited the 50-bed Perambur Railway Hospital in the late 1950s could never have imagined it was destined for great glory — it was surrounded by dense woods, and looked more like a forest bungalow than a medical centre. My father, J. Sriramam worked as an anaesthesiologist at the hospital, and I grew up on the campus. The area was suffused with an eerie calm; dense greenery interspersed with small, secluded buildings stretched on from Perambur to Ayanavaram. The nearest semblance of modernity was Dasaprakash!
But for T.J. Cherian, the hospital would have stayed hidden in this jungle longer. Joining as its DMO in the early 1960s, he worked towards making it relevant to people around the country. He wanted to turn it into a premier cardiology centre. Until then, only the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in New Delhi, Christian Medical College in Vellore and a few hospitals in Mumbai performed cardio-thoracic surgeries in India.
This also started a trend of specialisations at railway hospitals. Along the lines the Perambur hospital developed in cardiac care, Howrah developed as a centre for orthopaedics, Mumbai for plastic surgery and Varanasi for oncology.
Watching the Perambur Railway Hospital — under TJC's leadership — go beyond its role as a primary health provider for the Southern Railway staff was enthralling. Cherian knew that developing people was the first step to building great organisations. By example, he showed them the commitment he expected. He spent day and the night at the hospital.
After TJC's advent, I rarely saw my father at home. Doctors had to report for duty at 7.30 a.m., when the siren was sounded for the railway workers.
But, TJC's enthusiasm for the noble profession was infectious and his team was willing to undergo any hardships and make the best of meagre resources. Perambur Railway Hospital had a dogs' lab, where experimental heart surgeries were performed on canines. During expansion, the lab was converted into a canteen for doctors! Nobody protested this move.
TJC also never let the dead hand of bureaucracy slow down the hospital's growth. Instead of relying on funding for purchase of sophisticated gadgets, he sometimes innovated with available resources and made his own. He had a diathermy unit made at the ICF workshop; it was later refined for greater efficiency. More remarkable was the making of a hypothermia unit. Used to perform open heart surgeries on children under profound hypothermia to protect the brain and other vital organs, this machine was made by harnessing the skills of the workers at ICF's air-conditioning unit.
Thanks to TJC, the doctors at the Perambur Railway Hospital thought out of the box. In 1977, the hospital was faced with a peculiar problem. I was on night duty when a patient with an aneurysm of the aorta — operated upon by the famous German doctor Meisner — was bleeding profusely. Those days, the need for blood could not be met easily, even if urgent. Through a relative who worked at Doordarshan, I contacted the television channel and requested that a plea for blood be issued immediately after the Oliyum Oliyum programme, and just before the news bulletin.
Volunteers answered the SOS call by the dozen, minutes after the announcement. After this, hospitals started using DD to request for blood. The Perambur Railway Hospital has many firsts to its name. And this one — less reported — is one of them.
J.S.N. Murthy Born in 1951, he is professor and head of the department of cardiology at Sri Ramachandra Medical College. He holds a specialisation in cardiology from Perambur Southern Railway Hospital, and served the institution from 1977 to 1994.
I REMEMBER: TJC did not get married because he did not want to divide his time between a family and his job. M. Sankaran, who worked with TJC in his early years at the Perambur Railway Hospital, once related how he was advised by TJC to remain unmarried and dedicate his life to medicine.
