When the ibuprofen stopped working, I was worried. But when the Zandu Balm, applied by my kindly neighbour Ambujam Mami, didn’t make the slightest difference, I decided it was time to see a specialist.
‘What’s the problem?’ said Dr Joseph Abdul Swaminathan.
An odd fellow, I thought, but he came recommended by my wife. And she knows a thing or two about doctors and sentiments.
‘It’s my sentiments, Doctor,’ I said, clutching the lower right side of my torso, where it had been hurting for a while. ‘I think they are injured from repetitive stress.’
‘Ah,’ said Doc Swaminathan. ‘And how have you arrived at this diagnosis?’
‘It’s the world we live in, Doc... and life,’ I said. ‘Twenty-four hours a day, one fellow is doing a hurtful cartoon about cows, someone else is saying terrible things about my idol Ilayathalapathy’s latest movie, another group wants to do an upanayanam for a pig, while someone else is refusing to stand up for Vande Mataram – how much trauma can my sentiments take, Doc? You tell me, doesn’t that count as repetitive stress? Don’t you think they could be severely injured?’
‘You’ve got a point,’ said Doc Joe, putting on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘Maybe we should examine your sentiments more thoroughly... all five of them... situated right there, behind your ribcage.’
‘Sure, Doc Abdul,’ I said. ‘But why the gloves?’
‘Oh, the easiest way to reach your sentiments is via your nether orifice, what we refer to in medical terms as the moolam .’
‘Will that be entirely necessary, Doc?’ I said, parts of me that had been seen only by my mother when I was a baby clenching like a hero’s fist in a fight scene.
Three profound, very thorough, deeply introspective, thankfully K-Y Jelly-aided, minutes later – during which time I pondered over things ranging from the Big Bang Theory to Big Boss – I had my pants back on. My dignity, meanwhile, had taken an Uber and left for an unknown destination.
‘Your sentiments seem perfectly fine, my friend,’ said Doc Joe. He sounded matter-of-fact.
I wondered what the social media etiquette was on such things. Was I supposed to send him a friend request or wait for his?
‘Are you sure, Doc?’ I said.
‘You want a second opinion?’ he asked. ‘I could call Dr Gajendran. But we call him Sausage Fingers, I must warn you.’
‘Er... that won’t be necessary, Doc,’ I said, tightening my belt a notch. ‘But what about the pain? Surely something is hurting my sentiments. Isn’t there anything you could give me for it?’
‘Sure,’ said Doc JAS Nathan. ‘There is one cure.’
‘Give it to me, Doc,’ I said.
‘Show me your little finger,’ said the doctor.
I did as I was told. In one swift move, Doc Swaminathan bent my little finger backwards, all the way to the back of my palm. Out of the blue, I heard yesteryear songstress P Susheela singing a KV Mahadevan song I couldn’t identify. I realised it was me screaming in Hamsadhwani. The doc held my finger like that for a few seconds before letting it go.
‘What did you do that for, Doc?’ I said, crying like I did when I didn’t get tickets for Baahubali 2, first day, first show.
‘Did it hurt?’ he said.
‘Like the time Supriyo Ghosh’s short delivery got me in the box when I was in Class 8, Doc,’ I said, still sobbing.
‘Well,’ said Doc Swaminathan. ‘How does this pain compare to the pain of your injured sentiments?’
‘What sentiments?’ I said.
‘See, you’re cured, then,’ said the doctor. ‘My receptionist will give you the bill.’
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli is a satirist, humour writer and co-editor of the anthology Madras on My Mind: A City in Stories .
