The doctor and the principal
In the small South Indian town in which I grew up, my father was a doctor at the local mission hospital and my mother was the principal of the only English medium school. When my parents visited someone's house together, the terrified children couldn't get to their hiding places fast enough. In those days the doctor was a convenient bogeyman armed with a large needle. And everyone knows about school principals.
On the rare occasions on which we went to the movies, the manager would fold his hands together and refuse payment. He would only accept, very reluctantly, when my dad insisted. We knew we would pay, he knew we would pay - the ritual refusal was meant as a show of respect.
(In fact, in the India in which I grew up, the offering and giving and taking of money was a delicate undertaking. If someone did you a favor, it was considered rude to offer them money. It was not only doubting that person's generosity, it was also suggesting that something as priceless as help from one person to another could be quantified in material terms. If you felt the need to make some recompense, you could always find an indirect way. A tutor was never "paid" by crassly handing over cash. Knowledge is not something that can be bought and sold! Nevertheless, tutors have to eat and pay their rent. So a parent would discreetly leave an unmarked envelop within the tutor's reach and any conversation about its contents took place strictly in the absence of the student.)
My father worked all hours of the night and day. The hospital was a busy place but some of those night duties must have been fairly monotonous. Maybe that's why he tried to liven it up once by writing up his case notes as the script for a play. "Lady enters stage left." "Doctor: How can I help you?" "The mysterious lady remains silent." "Doctor: I need to know what's wrong so I can take care of you." "Lady weeps but does not speak." Those were not the exact lines but it was something in that vein.
My mother loved the school but being principal was not always a breeze. Once a little boy fell in the playground and got hurt. The teachers washed and patched him up and sent him home. The next day a gentleman showed up at the school demanding to speak to the principal. "What kind of a school is this? Children get hurt and no one cares! My son was fatally injured yesterday!"
My mother's head spun and her heart almost stopped. She thought the boy had just had a couple of cuts on him. How did those turn out to be serious enough to kill him?
Then she had an inspired thought. What if the man did not know the meaning of the word "fatal"?
So she took a deep breath and said, "And how is the child now?"
"He's fine now but ..." My mother was not listening any longer. Luck had delivered this unfortunate ignoramus into her power and she let him have it. She put up a stirring defense of the school and the teachers who worked for low pay and little appreciation and had done everything they could for the child. I'm guessing that particular gentleman never came back to challenge her ever again.
My parents' professional paths rarely crossed. On one occasion, though, there was a boy who fell in the school playground .. and did not get up. They sprinkled water on him, fanned him, called his name but he lay there with his eyes shut and did not move. He did not appear to be bleeding or in pain, but they could not wake him up. The child had lost his mother a few months back and now something was obviously seriously wrong with him! The panicked principal (my mother) and other school staff somehow bundled him into a car and took him to the hospital where his mother had been a nurse and my dad was now the doctor on duty. My dad checked his pulse, held up the stethoscope to his chest and poked and prodded various parts. Then he stepped back solemnly and gazed at the motherless, attention-starved little kid. Then he bent down low, close to the boy's ear, and yelled at the top of his voice, "Martin, get up!!!" And Martin was up in a flash and cured just like that.
In my mind's eye I see those days colored in sepia, like an old movie. And the redolent air is laden heavy with rain.
On the rare occasions on which we went to the movies, the manager would fold his hands together and refuse payment. He would only accept, very reluctantly, when my dad insisted. We knew we would pay, he knew we would pay - the ritual refusal was meant as a show of respect.
(In fact, in the India in which I grew up, the offering and giving and taking of money was a delicate undertaking. If someone did you a favor, it was considered rude to offer them money. It was not only doubting that person's generosity, it was also suggesting that something as priceless as help from one person to another could be quantified in material terms. If you felt the need to make some recompense, you could always find an indirect way. A tutor was never "paid" by crassly handing over cash. Knowledge is not something that can be bought and sold! Nevertheless, tutors have to eat and pay their rent. So a parent would discreetly leave an unmarked envelop within the tutor's reach and any conversation about its contents took place strictly in the absence of the student.)
My father worked all hours of the night and day. The hospital was a busy place but some of those night duties must have been fairly monotonous. Maybe that's why he tried to liven it up once by writing up his case notes as the script for a play. "Lady enters stage left." "Doctor: How can I help you?" "The mysterious lady remains silent." "Doctor: I need to know what's wrong so I can take care of you." "Lady weeps but does not speak." Those were not the exact lines but it was something in that vein.
My mother loved the school but being principal was not always a breeze. Once a little boy fell in the playground and got hurt. The teachers washed and patched him up and sent him home. The next day a gentleman showed up at the school demanding to speak to the principal. "What kind of a school is this? Children get hurt and no one cares! My son was fatally injured yesterday!"
My mother's head spun and her heart almost stopped. She thought the boy had just had a couple of cuts on him. How did those turn out to be serious enough to kill him?
Then she had an inspired thought. What if the man did not know the meaning of the word "fatal"?
So she took a deep breath and said, "And how is the child now?"
"He's fine now but ..." My mother was not listening any longer. Luck had delivered this unfortunate ignoramus into her power and she let him have it. She put up a stirring defense of the school and the teachers who worked for low pay and little appreciation and had done everything they could for the child. I'm guessing that particular gentleman never came back to challenge her ever again.
My parents' professional paths rarely crossed. On one occasion, though, there was a boy who fell in the school playground .. and did not get up. They sprinkled water on him, fanned him, called his name but he lay there with his eyes shut and did not move. He did not appear to be bleeding or in pain, but they could not wake him up. The child had lost his mother a few months back and now something was obviously seriously wrong with him! The panicked principal (my mother) and other school staff somehow bundled him into a car and took him to the hospital where his mother had been a nurse and my dad was now the doctor on duty. My dad checked his pulse, held up the stethoscope to his chest and poked and prodded various parts. Then he stepped back solemnly and gazed at the motherless, attention-starved little kid. Then he bent down low, close to the boy's ear, and yelled at the top of his voice, "Martin, get up!!!" And Martin was up in a flash and cured just like that.
In my mind's eye I see those days colored in sepia, like an old movie. And the redolent air is laden heavy with rain.
Comments
Post a Comment