Kunju stepped in and declared, ‘I will try this one last attempt to save the baby’s life’. Kunju, I may not have lived to tell the tale. Subbulakshmi’s Meera bhajans. Ranade, and our Madrasi families patronised Dr. And when the needle entered the fleshy part of your arm, you howled as if you were entering the Seventh Circle of Dante’s Inferno. Talk about adding insult to injury. We would throw bread crumbs into the tank, just to show there was no ill feeling. Chadda, the Marathis Dr. It was the ugliest fish I had ever laid eyes on, with what looked like protruding front teeth, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the unprepossessing Mamaji.In the background stood the shadowy figure of the ‘compounder’, a grim, bespectacled Bengali gentleman with a hacking cough, dressed in the traditional dhuti-panjabi. He would first stick a thermometer into your mouth, and while the seconds ticked by, immerse himself in his favourite newspaper.So saying, he plunged a large syringe full of glucose into my stomach, and almost at once I recovered miraculously with a blood curdling scream that my grandmother swore sounded like the ragam Kalyani. Take Dr. It was just a natural coming together of like-minded individuals sharing a common background. The Punjabis had their own association, the Marathis herded together at the Maharashtra Niwas, the Parsee Club hosted the gregarious Parsees, and the south Indians congregated at the South India Club. Krishnaswamy.Another GP I fondly remember in Calcutta was Dr.What was unique about these family doctors was their simple, common sense approach to diagnosis and treatment. At which point, he would look up speculatively from his paper, draw out the thermometer, examine it closely, fractionally raise his eyebrows, followed by a sharp intake of breath along with a prolonged sibilant, hissing sound and finally, an even more disconcerting ‘Oho ho!’
The patient had by then given up the ghost.For which trouble, you were roundly chastised by your father, mother and the doctor. He also chatted over a cup of coffee, discussing politics, cricket and M.However, when it came to the family doctor, each community would gravitate towards its own. I end this ode to the family doctor with my birth. For reasons best known to himself, he would invariably deliver a prefatory remark, ‘Now this won’t hurt, you’ll just feel a slight prick’. I vividly recall his crowded waiting room where his chain smoking secretary Mamaji presided, and at times, helped us jump the queue. And irrespective of the complaint, I would come away with a bottle of bright, crimson mixture with a serrated paper strip stuck on to indicate the dosage. Our family was (is) big on Carnatic music. They were all ‘family doctors’, a concept as rare as hen’s teeth today. At times he would even forget there’s a patient sitting in front of him till you made some unintelligible, mumbling sounds from your clamped mouth. He could have been prescribing a harmless placebo, for all you knew, if you’ll excuse the persiflage. Without a word being spoken, he would then fish out his prescription pad, scribble a few lines which only he, his Maker and the man at the nearby pharmacy could decipher. Though it was always a matter of puzzlement to me that he hardly ever spoke. In God’s good time, you did get better. Rehman, who treated the affluent and the indigent rickshaw puller with the same cheery familiarity. While these ‘expatriate’ communities got along famously, and melded seamlessly with the native Bengali populace, the unique ethnic characteristic of each regional group naturally drew them together - socially and culturally. I owe my life to him — our family doctor. Krishnaswamy will always remain a conundrum. Krishnaswamy. Ghosh, for ministering to the health of its members. The story is told, umpteen times, that were it not for our visiting village physician, Dr. It mattered little to him what particular ailment was troubling you. The doctor’s visit mercifully over, I felt infinitely worse than prior to entering his ‘chamber’, with the vague promise that ‘every day, in every way, I will get better’. Within days of my mother giving birth to me in the rice bowl village of Tiruvalangadu by the banks of the Cauvery, it was a toss-up between my mother and I as to who would survive. Somewhat incongruously, the South India Club had a septuagenarian Bengali, Dr. ‘Don’t be such a fusspot’, being the general purport of their invective. Meaning if you came down with the laser weft feeder flu, the doctor came home and attended to you. The elders deemed that I was the dispensable one, till Dr. The doctor, for all his apparent eccentricity, knew his onions. Dr.S.
