COGNITIVE ANECDOTES: Story

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Tail Of The Silver Horse

"For Robin, Mervin, Vishak, Kannan, Ani, Noble and the folks from colony"

The wonderful lunch with fried fish, curry and rice left a jaded little Vaisakh heading to the bed for a siesta. As he stepped into his room, he was captivated by the brand new entry into his collection, The Silver horse, which he had won by exchanging ten potato chip wrappers from the market. It was a time when collectibles meant everything to the kids of Gandhi colony. From stamps, coins, stickers, sports cards, greeting cards, the list of collectibles went to almost every attractive article that would fit into these 8 year old kids palms.

It was a habit; rather an obsession of little Vaisakh to ogle at his priced collections before he jumped into his bed. He opened his shelf of belongings, which was overflowing with collectibles. He tried to find room for the Silver horse in the shelf but in vain and so decided to keep it outside the table, anyway he had to show it to his mates who would come to play later in the evening. "How elegantly the tail, body and limb pieces fit!" Vaisakh exclaimed as he proudly displayed his priced possession to his sister, Chinnu. "The tail is the best part !!" Chinnu added, which drew a big smile on little Vaisakh's face."Yea!" he agreed.

Vaisakh woke up to the noise of the bicycle bells of his mates. There they were, Noble, Robin, Vishak, Kannan and Meera, waiting for him to join the bicycle ride through the colony and the grass fields which was the first of the many activities to follow. After a couple of rides, everyone gathered in Vaisakh's home to show off their latest collections. Noble pulled out the dinosaur which he had won with the noodle pack while Kannan boasted his pack of cards which his cousin had gifted him and Robin exhibited the bear rubber which he won with a biscuit pack. Meera and Vishak were silent as usual, they never had the eye for collectibles.

Vaisakh pulled out his silver horse which stole the show. Its beautiful color and contours made every kid look at it in envy.
" That thing is not even half the size of my Dino!" remarked Noble arrogantly,
"Oh yea? Its certainly not as ugly as your Dyyyno" Hit back Vaisakh, clearly not amused by Noble's statement.
"Its beautiful Vaisakh!" remarked Robin.
"Lets play Ludo, I cant bear the sight of that sick horse!" said Noble. Vaisakh frowned, though Vaisakh hated to play with Noble, he joined them so that his other friends won't feel bad. After the game, everyone returned to the table to take their belongings. Vaisakh screamed in horror, "The Tail is Missing!"

Tears pouring down his face, Vaisakh searched desperately for the horse's tail. Noble laughed wickedly. Vaisakh ran towards Noble and hit him in the nose. "I know you stole it. Give the tail back!!" Vaisakh yelled and Noble started crying too. The chaotic scene made Vaisakh's mum rush to his room from the kitchen.
"Look what you did to poor Noble, You evil kid!!" Mum yelled angrily at Vaisakh.
"But he stole my horse's tail Mama!!" complained Vaisakh.
"Ssshhh!!!!!"
said mum. She cleaned Noble's wound and sent the children to their homes.

Vaisakh sat devastated staring at his tailless horse and wept the whole day. It was a limited edition offer, there was practically no chance of winning a similar horse again.

Years passed, the kids crossed their teens and now each of them studied in a different part of the state. Rarely did they get a chance to meet each other. In one such rare meetings, Vaisakh, Noble and Meera sat in the grass field, chewing the cud of sweet old memories. Vaisakh broke the silence. "hey Noble! I wanted to ask you, Did you really steal my old silver horse's tail?"
Noble laughed, "No dude, Why should I take it huh? I never liked that stupid horse!". Meera grinned and held out her clenched fist to Vaisakh, "Open up!". To the boys amazement, there it was, the Tail of the silver horse!
"I never thought It would be coincidental, but anyway I wanted to return your 'precious tail', Vaisakh!" Meera laughed.
"My Innocence has been proved!!! You Evil Girl, You Scoundrel !!" Noble Shouted and chased Meera who was running to avoid the outraged Noble.
Vaisakh stood smiling with the horse's tail in his hand as he watched Noble chase Meera.

Inspired from my childhood

"The Suburbs- Arcade fire"

Who? Surgery? ME????

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Standing in the operation theater [OT] as a student, with nothing to do; not even having irritation from the houseflies is a tough task. It was yet another long day in the OT, standing and dreaming. Its amazing how thoughts from various fields of interest cross your mind while standing and watching a surgery! My mind wandered from the much waited football match I was going to see to the new rock single that has captivated my mind. Just then, the surgeon finished his first case. I hummed a mellow song as he let the intern do the suturing. After that was done, I settled down with my mates in a corner of the OT. As we relaxed, cracking jokes and sharing opinions about the doctors, the Surgeon approached us and asked,

"So who is going to assist me in the next case? Its a fibroadenoma of breast"

I wasted no time in informing him that he had been mistaken and that we were just undergraduates, not residents or interns. To our dismay, we learnt that he had meant what he said and he was well aware that we were students. As none of us were ready to step up to this gruesome task, the surgeon himself decided to choose his assistant and much to my horror, he chose me!

He showed me the proper way to wash hands and I mimicked every gesture of his like a silly chimp. The bad omens were starting to show as I opened the door with my hands, forgetful about the fact that I had just washed to make my hands sterile. A strange feeling hovered about myself, something that said the surgeon has selected the wrong person. I was happy my mask covered my nose and mouth completely as I was too embarrassed to face my mates [I'm sure they would remember the day when i cut the big Internal carotid artery of a cadaver into 2!]. I washed my hands again and thankfully, this time I thudded open the door with my leg [So forcefully that it reminded me of the old Wild Wild West films]. The next tedious process would be the gloving of hands. The surgeon had a horrid time explaining how to get my hands gloved up in the right manner. Much to my relief, no...his relief, I was able to do it on the third attempt.

I watched him incise the skin over the breast, blood gushed from the cut capillaries, I was asked to mop it with cotton, he was not too impressed with my mopping as it was more like pampering the cheeks of a supermodel with powder. Rest of my job was pretty easy, I was busy retracting the skin while he worked meticulously with his skilled hands and removed the tumor. It was a great experience, something very different from working on the cold clammy cadavers. You could feel the pulsations, you could feel the warmth of blood and of course the agonizing cries of the patient whenever the surgeon transgressed to an area which had not been anesthetized.

As my mates crowded around me to get a view of what was going on, my embarrassment started giving way to pride. I started feeling thankful to the surgeon for choosing me to assist him. After all I can proudly say that I assisted a surgeon. The surgery finished, the patient well and fine. As I changed my theater clothes, My phone rung, It was my best friend he asked

"Where were you mate? Iv been trying to get you on call for half an hour!"

I replied with an air of confidence

"Oh dude! Sorry, I was assisting in a surgery you know!".

Dead Darts

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Its been years since I and my twin brother started venturing into the forests of Amazon. We would return only with the tastiest meat for our family to feast upon in the evening. Hunting was a passion for us, while I enjoyed hunting agile targets like rabbits and other small mammals, my brother loved hunting larger prey like the capybara and tapir. We used to hunt in the way that our ancestors taught us, by nailing the animals down with poisoned darts. The Poisoning of arrows or darts is a delicate process and the poison is obtained from the deadly dart frogs, which came in a myriad colors.

The wretched incident took place on a calm evening. The light was fading and we couldn't resist our urge to hunt the best capybara. I shot a fast dart at the target but unfortunately, it hit my beloved brother who was hiding in the bushes. I rushed my brother to the medicine man. By that time, father, and the priest had also gathered there. Our medicines were exclusively obtained from plants, the medicine man did not seem too confident about his efforts or his medicines. So an equivocal decision was taken to give some serious medical attention from the local hospital.

We seldom go to the urban areas, as our ancestors have taught us to live depending only on the forest. I found it extremely uncomfortable wearing the clothes that were provided to me by our elder, Ochai, who was the leader of our clan and who sometimes visited the township. Elder, Me and my brother reached the township after walking for a couple of nights. Our elder was a very eminent person and it was great to see him talk to the doctor in the white peoples language.

Elder conveyed the message that my brothers condition is critical and he had to be shifted a bigger hospital in Manaus as fast as they could. I agreed to go with my brother anywhere, as my brothers life was at jeopardy. The doctor offered me some Cruzados and a pair of clothes [which I hated to put on]. I was told that the funding of our travel and hospital stay will be paid by our elder statesman.

The journey was very hard with brother by my side, wincing in agony. I could see the skin on his back had turned dark purple. we reached Manaus within a few hours and my brother was rushed to the hospital. The doctor took my brother into a closed area and asked me to remain outside [I had hell of a time comprehending the white mans language]. It looked like a totally different world. No signs of green plants or any brimming brooks or any sound of wild animals. Wherever you look you find sick bodies and people covered in white coats.

Soon , the doctor appeared and I saw a man who looked like a fellow Boro accompanying him. The man spoke in our language that my brother had to be kept in observation for a few days. I wondered how I would manage with my sick brother. I spend whole of the time observing the extremely attractive people with fair skin walking to and fro. As I dozed off by my brothers bed side, I was woken up by a group of young, tall white people covered in white coats. I couldn't understand what they spoke. A young masculine boy uncovered my brother and looked at his back while a girl was pressing her fingers against my brothers chest. I found out that the girl was extremely attractive. She realized I was gazing at her and she greeted me with a smile. I returned the smile but with little energy. I pictured her in the Boro costume with huito painted on her face, she would have been the most beautiful girl in our clan. Soon they went away, my thoughts menacingly changed from the ill health of my brother to the girl I saw few minutes back.

Days passed by, Its been almost a week since we arrived at this hospital. My brother rarely spoke anything, I could see drops of tears running down his cheek every now and then. Everyday, I saw the white people, their fascinating style and the beautiful girl whom my mind has been uncontrollably dreaming of. We were given food by the people in white coats, which tasted better than the best of meats we ever hunted. I reflected how helpless we were, caught in a dark world in the forests, without clothes, without hopes, fighting to live, day after day.

Again she came, to press my brothers chest and to hear his heart sounds, I noticed she always stood near an equally good looking white boy which made me envy him. As they looked at each other and cracked jokes and looked at each other lovingly, I wondered if my brother had any benefit from all these rituals. My mind doubted if my brother would live again, if we would be able to hunt again.

Unfortunately,my doubts were to be true. My brother died soon and I felt as if I was left standing all alone in this alien world. I went through what its like to be when you have nobody by your side to console you. The 'Boro' man asked me to leave home with my brothers dead body. Just before leaving, I took one last look at the white people, I saw her, frolicking about with the handsome boy, everyone unperturbed after my beloveds death. 'Maybe the people in white coats didn't have emotions', I reflected. As we reached the township, I saw our elder, completely weak after seeing my brothers corpse. We made our journey back to the forest, carrying the weight of my brothers corpse but with an unbearable lightness haunting my head, a hollow feeling that told that I was all alone in this world.

A Capricious Blunder

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After all the toil and hard work we put in bringing out the medical exhibition, we were delighted in opening it for the public. It was a totally new challenge for many of us, as we have been just getting acquainted with the art of effective communication with the society; a quality we ought to master having to spend our entire lives treating the common mans ailments. I was posted in the Paediatrics stall and was fully relishing it. As it dealt with children, Paediatrics had always attracted me but I had least idea about this department as I had not been posted in the Paediatrics clinics. Nevertheless, I was ready to face the challenge and the fun filled atmosphere around our stall never made me break a sweat worrying about my absolute lack of knowledge in this branch of medicine.

Some half a dozen people came and went by during the initial hour. I was pretty happy explaining about the functioning of some neonatal care devices such as the warmer and the photo therapy unit; something that I had been prepared for, with the help of my seniors.

A middle aged man came in with a pleasant smile, I returned the smile. I prepared myself mentally as I sensed this gentleman was itching to pepper me with some questions. As I fancied that explaining something to him might relieve the slight tension building between us, I started briefing about the importance of a warmer. I could see it in his face that he was least interested in hearing my theory and soon he shot a question which caught me off guard. He asked about the causes of spina bifida and about the role of Folic acid in a pregnant woman. Well I knew this disease, It was basically a congenital anomaly, having defects in the neural tube. Confidently, I started explaining that the disease might be due to teratogenic substances. I also wondered why he asked about folic acid as I told some of the general functions of folic acid that I had learnt in my 1st MBBS. Just then, a final year student entered our stall, so I quickly asked him if I was right. To my horror, I learned that I had mixed it up with the causes of another disease, phocomelia and the correct cause was deficiency of Folic acid.

I was embarrassed. I dared not to look into his face. He turned away from me, murmuring the following words to me under his breath

" My kid died of spina bifida".

I stood there ashamed, my mind scampering for words in return, but in vain.

A Consolatory Rumination.

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May, 2000

It was on a warm Sunday morning that I set out on my brand new 'Hercules MTB'. Don't think I'm boasting but I had the most attractive bicycle in the town; a sleek silver and blue metallic beauty. Naturally, being a youngster, I got carried away by the irresistible urge to show off ( Holy Cow! Now I wonder whom I was so intent on impressing, Even a stray dog wouldn't pass by in the deserted neighborhood of my ancestral house). Yes, so in the midst of the spectacular exhibition of my biking skills, I took a nasty turn with one hand on my bike and the other in thin air. To my dismay, the adrenaline rush was short lived as my forearm was cut by the sharp projecting edge of the fence and I went down with my bicycle to the barren ground. I had bruises all over my body but the cut on my forearm was worst of the lot. Grandmother came shrieking, grabbed me up and pulled me to her bosom. I was crying and grandmother tried her best to comfort me.

Grandfather was quick to react, he set out on foot to our small town Pulappatta, came back with an auto-rickshaw and rushed me to the hospital. En route to hospital, I was regretting my daredevil stunts. Grandmothers presence itself was a great relief.

The doctor was quite adamant on getting my cut stitched. I had overheard this when the doctor was speaking to my Grandpa. I was determined to resist the doctors decision. I would not let him stitch my skin! I cried out again. Grandma came to the rescue. She protested to the doctor, she would not let the doctor hurt me(much to my relief) and finally the doctor gave up. He ordered the nurse to dress my wound and let it heal by itself. The wound handicapped me for almost a couple of weeks. Grandmother did all she could to make me feel comfortable, in fact, I never felt my left hand was weak. The care I got then was overwhelming and is something I will cherish in my whole life.

November, 2010.

I returned to my village from Calicut, hoping to spend a joyous week with my beloved Grandparents. As usual, I found my grandmother waiting for me in the front porch. She greeted me with a rather weak smile and hugged me feebly. As she spoke to me, her voice was quivering. I sensed she was in some agony. She told me she was sick and wanted to go to the hospital. I consoled her with affectionate words and told her to get ready.

It was hard watching my grand mother pack up things, wincing in pain all the time. From the symptoms she told me, I guessed she was suffering from urinary tract infections and cystitis. I could tell the physiology behind the disease but I didn't know the medicines to cure it. I never wished more to be a doctor so that I could treat my Grandma at this very moment.

We reached the hospital in a few hours time and the doctor prescribed medicines and some diagnostic tests. Nevertheless, Grandma continued to be in pain. Neither could I console her the way she did to me ten years ago nor could I intervene in the doctors way to alleviate her pain. I felt helpless and laid all my trust on the doctor and of course, the Almighty. "What is medical science if it fails to relieve a persons mental or physical agony?" I reflected while standing in the veranda of the hospital, my eyes set on Grandma; in obvious distress.

As I glanced at the scar in my left arm, I ruminated upon the care and love she bestowed on me, when I was hurt. Now, that she is sick, there is not much that I can do but to pray and hope for her well being. The scar on my left forearm stays a mark of affection and care she gave me and I'm happy It will live with me till I breathe my last.

Grandmother - by Albert Anker

Istanbul

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The Blue Mosque, Attribution: Source-Wikimedia,Image author:Jeremy Avnet

It was as if I was seeing myself for the first time! As I stood in front of the mirror, admiring myself, I caressed my magnificent black beard and glanced at the beauty of my golden colored skin. I had bought a Turkish cap last week from Osman; the clothier and I was going to wear it for the first time. Just then, Gulben, my beautiful wife entered. She had a glass of red cherry sherbet in her hands which I had ordered her to fetch. She looked even more beautiful in the slight ray of sunlight that hit the room. Her red veil though, hid her perfect face.

"The Sultan wants me at the palazzo, I'll have to leave, dear" I said and made my way out of my mansion after kissing my beloved's cheek.

I worked as a minister in our Sultan's palazzo and people called me Hikmet; meaning wisdom. Ten years ago, I would have never even dreamt of living in Istanbul and serving the Sultan. My actual name was Ishak and I came from Persia, ten years ago. I had been a good scholar then and soon was deputed as one of the Sultan's ministers.

As I peregrinated towards the palazzo, I was occupied by the bustling activity in the streets. I observed children running and playing with the toy swords, the beautiful maidens gossiping and few street dogs languishing in the front of food stalls. I could hear the sound of musical instruments as i walked past dervish houses. Osman was busy persuading customers to buy the new arrivals at his garments store. What a clever tradesman! I thought. During my melancholy walk, I wondered why the Sultan had commissioned an order for me to arrive at the palazzo, as I knew I had completed all my work and was looking forward to spending a day with my wife.

The city was as beautiful as ever. I saw that the stunning minarets, tombs and mosques acquired a golden tinge in the morning sun. The cherry and Pomegranate trees had icicles on them. Nature was recovering from yesterday nights heavy snowfall. I couldn't help praising Allah and the beauty he has endowed in earth. The air was cool, fresh and had a sweet smell of lavender dispersed in it. The gorgeous maidens smiled at me as I glanced at them, their coquettish instincts showing off, probably being intimidated by the handsomeness I possessed.

Having walked for few minutes now, I could now see that I was approaching "Sultanahmet Camii" or the Blue mosque. With its 6 magnificent minarets, it was one of its kind. I stood gazing at this architectural marvel for some time. "The Ottomans were really gifted by Allah" I thought. I was awakened from my state of awe when the thought of Sultan's letter crossed my mind and continued walking to my destination, the palazzo.

Sultan's men were waiting for me at the gate. They informed that a masterpiece of the great miniaturist Ismail Effendi that Sultan recently received had been stolen and I was one among the many suspects. I had seen the painting. It was a true wonder and to be honest, I had wished if I possessed it. Its exquisite work and embellishments would have had any person longing to possess it. But I had not stolen it. I wondered why the Sultan would suspect me. It was so harsh, being a loyal servant of the Sultan for years, how could he distrust me!?

The only way to find out the culprit was by torturing methods. The torturers took me and others branded as suspects into a dark room. We were stripped naked, Now, awaiting the torture, I cried to Allah. "How can they punish me? I am Innocent..Allah ! give me strength!! " A man closed in me with a dagger, or was it a dagger? I was not sure. I didn't dare to look.Soon I felt sharp pain, wincing, I jumped, and screamed at the top of my voice.

The pain subsided, I opened my eyes, to my amazement, I was sitting in my bed, sweating. I didn't have the long magnificent beard nor the fair, golden skin nor the ostentatious Turkish clothes. Grandfather was lighting the lamp. I saw the beautiful picture of lord Krishna, Ganesha and other deities in the room. Grandfather had just started praying.

I shoved the blanket and discovered the book I had left half-read last night- "My name is Red" by Orhan Pamuk. I took the book in my hands and buried my face in its pages. I reflected again my time in Istanbul and its mystic beauty, the people I met there, Gulben, the smell of lavender that hung in the air, the blue mosque and the handsome Hikmet or..Ishak.

Grandfather was getting irritated of the fact that I had not bothered to get up and offer my prayers. I quickly got up, prayed to lord and hurried downstairs. I stared aesthetically at the gorgeous morning sky, still, very different to the amethyst sky I saw in my dreams, where Eagles hovered over the myriad tombs and minarets of Istanbul. A strange hollow feeling haunted me, I wish I was still there, to prove my innocence to Sultan and continue my life as Hikmet, in the city where east meets west and which happens to be the most intelligent city of the world, Istanbul.

Lessons From The Dead

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It was a warm Sunday afternoon. Rahul sat in his bed, hunching over the bulky Anatomy book, trying to learn the relations of axillary artery. The 1st average examinations were just around the corner and he was determined to live up to the expectations of his family. He was the first ever medico his family produced, so the pressure of expectations on him was huge. Though his eyes were fixed on the large text book, his mind transgressed to various thoughts, from the good looking girls in his class to the beautiful places he wished to visit. As he sat musing in his thoughts and occasionally in the anatomy of upper limb, a sudden, sharp pain bolted across his lower abdomen. He winced in pain and hurriedly examined his abdomen. The bulge which he had discovered in the inguinal region few days before was now more prominent. He had also been experiencing pain in his genitals and attacks of constipation but refrained from revealing it to his parents due to his shy nature.

The agonizing incident brought a great deal of anxiety in him and he decided to consult Dr.Ramachandran; who was the Associate professor of surgery in the medical school that Rahul attended. Rahul succumbed to the embarrassment of exposing his private parts as Dr.Ramachandran carefully examined the lump in the scrotal region with his index finger. As the doctor found the boy experiencing a "catching" pain during straining efforts, he confirmed his diagnosis as "Inguinal hernia". Rahul's parents were soon called upon and Dr.Ramachandran conveyed the news for operating it at the earliest. The surgery, by no means was a jeopardizing one, but it meant that Rahul would miss his examinations and a few classes. Meanwhile, Rahul enjoyed the care and attention he got from his fellow mates while he was admitted in the hospital.

The surgery went on as scheduled. Dr.Ramachandran had no hiccups as he performed herniorraphy meticulously, reverting the herniated coils of intestine back to the abdominal cavity and closing off the Hassalbach's triangle through which the hernia had occurred. Rahul wondered what the doctor did as he lay anxiously under the influence of the local anesthesia. The surgery concluded in few hours and Dr.Ramachandran was all smiles.

" Did I scare you son? I just put a wayward coil back on track!" Dr.Ramachandran said with a gentle grin.

Rahul recovered soon and within a fortnight, he was back in medical school. He had a lot of pride sharing his experience and was totally relishing being the center of attention among his mates. Nevertheless, at the back of his mind, he was terribly sad not to have given a shot at the exams for which he had prepared well.

The first two hours were lecture classes on Nerve and Muscle physiology by Dr.Rita; something he never enjoyed. Rahul was extremely passionate about Anatomy and was waiting impatiently to get into the dissection hall. Just as Dr.Rita finished delivering the Physiology lecture, Rahul got up with exuberance, put on his white coat and joined the mass exodus of bodies covered in white coats to the dissection hall. As he climbed hastily the fleet of stairs, he sensed the familiar stench from the cadavers, up in the dissection hall begining to permeate his olfactory mucosa. He looked at the notice board and was surprised to find that the dissection of thorax had finished and that of the inguinal region had started.

The notice board read

"Today's dissection-INGUINAL REGION"

This was the region that caused him miss almost a week of dissection and a series of exams and the very reason made him eager to learn about his anatomical shortcoming. As soon as he entered the dissection hall, he occupied his seat near the cadaver and began reading Cunningham's manual of anatomy. He avidly waited for the Professor to arrive at the table. Soon Dr.Asha arrived, greeted all the students, inquired about Rahuls recovery and gave directions to carry out the dissection. It was Rahuls turn today to dissect as he had missed several dissections off late.

Rahul grew nervous, his hands shook as he carefully marked the points of incision. Then with the scalpel, incised the dark, cold, wrinkled and hardened skin of the cadaver. The whitish layer of superficial fascia began to show as he reflected the skin. He exposed the superficial inguinal ring and soon Dr.Asha came in for a closer look. She examined the structures coming out of the ring. There was obviously, the spermatic cord and the Ilioinguinal nerve but there was something else, large and uncanny. Dr. Asha was excited, "Yes! It is a hernia!!" She exclaimed. Rahul was awe-struck. He was witnessing the case, which taunted him for days, right in front of his eyes! He couldn't fathom his state of mind, was he happy? Excited? or Scared? His mouth became dry, Dr.Asha looked at him in amazement. Soon, Rahul became busy showing off what he just discovered to his mates and a very eventful dissection concluded. As Rahul packed the dissected region with glycerin and cotton, he stared at the face of the cadaver.

"Strong man, died with the agonizing hernia, untreated.." he thought. It was for the first time that Rahul actually thought about the human which once lived in the cadaver, a human being, with ambitions, feelings, emotions and senses as his very own. But now, it lay cold and naked, waiting for its body to be eviscerated. He finished packing the inguinal region with utmost respect to the cadaver. As he left the dissection hall, chattering with friends, he glanced at the quote embossed in the wall, that he always cherished.

"Let the laughter flee and the talking cease, this is the place where death delights to help the living"

Philately In Its 'Death-bed'

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Dredging up the caliginous memories of those times, I find the day my father introduced me to the world of philately. I was a small kid then, just over 6 years old. As I had the habit of collecting any ken-speckle object which was small enough to keep in my shelf, I welcomed this offer whole-heartedly. Much to my delight, father presented me with a plastic box full of stamps. The beautiful colors, the various dimensions in which they came and their characteristic serrated contours made me fall in love with stamps.

As years passed by, I became more inclined towards collecting stamps. My father helped my collection robust. Initially, by presenting me with an inoculum of stamps and gradually he added more to the collection by bringing home stamps from the letters he encountered at his workplace. He also taught me the procedure to carefully peel off the stamps from their envelopes by dipping in water for sometime and finally drying them over a towel.

Stamps introduced the world to me. I would keenly study the names of countries and places which were imprinted on the sealed stamps. The European stamps attracted me the most. Their intricate designs and the portraits of good looking, pink colored people easily made them my favorites. Growing up in a very modest town, I had little opportunities to learn about the world. We had a television set with channels which were mostly indigenous and at those times, internet was totally alien for most people including me. However, each of the stamps i collected added a drop of knowledge in me. Stamps provided me with multifarious information. I learned about the countries, cultures, the flora and fauna endemic to a region and on occasions the capitals and even the famous personalities and events of a particular country. The stamps were actually a kaleidoscope through which I viewed the world.

One day, as I lay in my bed appreciating my stamps, a particular set of 'ugly' looking stamps in my collection caught my attention. They did not have the date on them but certainly appeared very old. Most of them had British Kings on them which suggested they might be those at the times of the British Empire. I was shocked to find that in one of them, the script was in Malayalam. I had never come across a stamp scripted in Malayalam. I inquired about these particular set of stamps to my father and learned that these were passed on to my father from my great grandfather. It was then I realized our family had a legacy of philately and what I possessed in my shelf was a treasure inherited from one generation to another.

But I had found only a few of these uncanny, old stamps! "My great grandpa's collection could not be so meager" I reflected. The next time I visited my ancestral house, I was determined to explore my great grandpa's trunk. As I had severe dust allergy, I had a lot of trouble persuading my grandfather to allow me to access the old trunks. Owing to my persevering efforts, he finally gave in. Enthusiastically, I climbed up the narrow, rickety old stairs, and headed straight to Grandfathers room. As I explored the trunk, I was dumbfounded to find more of these small old, soiled stamps. So my mission was accomplished. But that was not all, to my surprise, I found a handful of brownish copper coins. In various coins I appreciated the embossed images of King George, Queen Victoria, Elizabeth and the bald figure of King Edward who interestingly didn't have a crown. I didn't know how to thank my late great grandpa. I was in sheer jubilation, in a state of mind that a pirate would have been in after unearthing a treasure. This event also helped me take an active interest in numismatics.

For few more years, the stamps came in nice and handsome into my big "stamp stock book".
I managed to establish trade with some of my friends and was able to build an impressive collection. As I entered my teens, for some strange reason, my collection ceased to grow. It would be the beginning of a crisis, father no longer brought stamps, I too started losing interest as I seldom got any stamps. "It's the couriers" father would reply to me whenever I asked him why the letters don't come. "Couriers!!" I cursed, whatever that meant, I hated them. I wondered why the couriers didn't bear stamps. Later I found that the couriers were a faster means of sending information. By this time other means of written communication like e-mails, sms, faxes, etc had also become well established. I winced in these developments for they ruined my kingdom of philately. I felt like a powerless King in a democracy.

Today, as I browse through my priceless collections, I virtually find myself sailing through the chronicle of my life. Each stamp has a memory to go with it, a story to tell. I wonder what the present day kids will have to imbibe and preserve from the couriers and the e-mails other than the mere information that they carry. Still, it is a pleasure to see philately communities and actively trading enthusiasts in the internet. It would be the only ray of hope, for the perishing philatelist in me.

The Ailing Mendicant

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It was a heavenly morning in my village; Pulappatta. As I brushed my teeth, I saw the sun rays scatter, hitting the methodically arranged rubber trees; perfectly demonstrating the Tyndall effect. I always feel myself more content in my village; free from the irritatingly boisterous city life and of course, the hectic studies. I crossed into oblivion as I mused in the nature around me. Soon, I saw grandfather gathering flowers for the morning rituals. By the time he finished plucking them, I had managed to finish bathing in the pond. Days without my mom, dad and sis have always been monotonous but nevertheless being alone with grandparents always helped me to reflect upon myself.

As I sat occupied with thoughts in the verandah, my eyes set at the gate, I saw a conspicuous red figure emerging through the lush green surroundings. I wondered if it was an oracle, but there was no jingling of bells. As the figure approached our house, his looks made me realize it was a mendicant. He didn’t seem to take notice of me as he ignored our front door and walked towards our accessory door. I moved hastily towards the mendicant, he looked straight into my eyes and exclaimed “Ah, you must be Vaisakh, son of Sasi!” I was shocked; I asked in disbelief “How do you know me?” He didn’t reply, but continued staring at me in amazement and finally offered a wide grin. He quietly settled himself in the door step. I could see him reciting holy verses under his breath. Owing to his untidy beard and mustache, the contours of his face was extremely tough to make out. I tried to recollect this person, but in vain. Finally he asked me to fetch grandfather. I ran to the pooja room, grandfather had not finished praying.

“Some beggar is at our doors, he called out my name!” I said frantically

“It must be Appu” Grandfather replied.

Even though I’m seeing him for the first time, I had heard about Appu, the mendicant. He had been associated with our family for generations but it has been years since he had last visited us, probably the reason why I don’t recall him. I remembered granny saying that this mendicant was particularly fond of my dad. But I still couldn’t fathom how he recognized me, ‘may be because I resembled my father in looks’ I reflected. We soon approached the mendicant; with much effort, he stood up as a token of respect and greeted my grandfather. It’s now that I realized he was terribly old.

“I’m not the same any more, I just turned 80!”

The mendicant spoke with a slight humor, embarrassed with his paroxysmal efforts to rise up. I felt sorry for him. He pulled me closer, made me sit beside him and asked me when we returned from Varanasi and as I expected, enquired about the well being of my dad. Like a baby, I replied politely to his questions. His body had a mystic odor. Though he looked as if he hadn’t bathed for months, his body smelled fresh herbs, a smell so captivating that no other deodorant could match. I enjoyed his company. As we talked; he explained to me how much he longed to go on a pilgrimage to the holy city of Varanasi, which is considered to be the final destination of most yogis and mendicants. I wondered how blessed I was to spend 3 years at this city.

My grandmother soon came with a banana leaf and started serving the specially made items for the mendicant. As he ate, he shared a lot of experiences, from the various temples he had been lucky enough to visit to his own family matters. The innocence with which he spoke, the compassion and benevolence in his eyes made me wonder how men like him with divine virtues could thrive in this devilish world.

The mendicants are devotees of Lord Subramanian. On the 1^st Monday of a new Malayalam month, they beg, moving from house to house collecting food grains, money and even clothes. Families having a good liaison with the mendicants, like ours would offer free meals to him. A custom known as “aandi-oottu” involves presenting the mendicants of this clan with food and valuables, prior to their pilgrimage.

“I had wished to come to Varanasi when your family was there, now since you have come back, my chances of making it is very feeble” he said, I could feel a regret in his tone, which made my heart weep. Again, wrestling with his own body, he got up, placed his hand on my head and blessed me. Then he gave a handful of the holy “bhasma” to each of us and finally completed the thankful gesture by blowing the white magnificent conch.

I desperately wanted to spend more time talking to this genuine and lovable old man. But then, it was a long walk back for him and I didn’t expect him to have the luxury of being driven in a vehicle. He wished me good luck and again pressed me to convey his regards to my dad, I promised him I would and sincerely wished in my mind he would make it to Varanasi. The ailing mendicant now walked back to the lush green from where he emerged, dragging him along the way.

Today, the mendicant is just a memory, his dream of making it to the holy city, unfulfilled …

A Canine Bond

Posted by Vaisakh comments (6)

I had my first encounter with a dog at the tender age of 9, we had just arrived home after spending a weekend at our ancestral house. The desperation to join my cricketing friends made me run ablaze towards the ground, only to be chased by my neighbor’s unchained Pomeranian. It would have been a very comical scene for a spectator but only I knew the horror I was going through with the fuzzy critter going mad behind me. Lady-luck was not by my side as I tumbled after stamping on a clumsily placed stone and fell chest first. The dog dug his teeth into my knee, rest was all tears. I was also embarrassed. The thought that I would face those needle pricks made me make a meal of the situation. My friends rushed to me, drove the dog away, examined the wound and carried me home for I didn’t have the mental strength to rise up. Soon my dad and uncle took me to the district hospital and I faced the inevitable anti-rabies injections.

This Incident evoked in me an extreme sense of canine phobia, I was sick at the site of dogs, even a dog’s bark would get my heart pounding in my throat and I never dared to go to any of my friend’s houses guarded by dogs.

Years passed by and during one of our routine visits to our ancestral home, I learnt through our house-maid that my neighborhood friend, Pravi had adopted a new dog! That’s the last thing I wanted, a dog in the neighborhood would definitely restrict my freedom. I had my first look at this dog when Pravi came to showcase his pet to our family. Light tan colored common Indian puppy, I examined him closely and was not amused as he was a mediocre type, nothing special and he was a bit shy too. My dad, a big dog-lover immediately became fond of him, thanks to the dog’s looks and mannerisms. The dog was named “Tinu”.

Owing to the very sparse population in and around our area, Tinu had the luxury of being set free. Much to my horror, he even managed to find stray friends. Once Tinu started developing qualities such as loyalty, I found it very hard to co-exist with him patrolling the area just in front of our house, where I and my cousins played cricket. He was soon becoming an obnoxious little animal (at least for me). As my grand mother used to feed him, Tinu extended his loyalty and territory towards our house.

My extreme fear and anxiety to interact with Tinu made my Grand mother make an effort to get Tinu acquainted with me, and so she made the dog come close and sniff me, I was terrorized as he moved his muzzle towards my shin but after his gesture, I felt better,” maybe all dogs aren’t too bad after all” I thought. The very next day, I made a very courageous effort to visit Pravi’s house, hiding my sub-conscious phobia. I opened the gate, there was no sign of Tinu, maybe he was sleeping, I was not aware if he had a kennel, so I tip-toed on to the front door and rung the calling bell. The door opened and to my horror, Tinu leaped towards me, I didn’t have a second thought, my sympathetic system made me run as fast as I could and luckily, I succeeded in reaching home before the dog caught me.

I was shell-shocked. How on earth can a dog who behaved so nicely to me yesterday react in such a manner! Pravi came running behind the dog and asked me if I was all-right. I turned away without a reply. “Hell with the dog” I thought, my dad tried to convince me Tinu had mistaken me for someone else and unsurprisingly, defended the dog. I cursed the dog and I wanted him to be chained.

My wish was not to be granted, Tinu continued to come to our house to take his daily share of eatables, which made me sick. In fact, after the incident, he started becoming more ubiquitous. Soon with every visit, Tinu started becoming a part and parcel of our family. Even though I tried my best to keep away from him, he would cross our cricket pitch when we play or interrupt our games or chase our ball. His favorite hang-out though, was the cemented floor we had outside our kitchen as some one would be happy enough to feed him if he sat there gazing towards the kitchen. Sometime we kids used to feed him with home made crunchies or the traditional “idli” and on rare occasions, leftovers of the meat and bones.

It’s during one of my recent visits that I found Tinu walking with a she-dog. I immediately sensed love in the air; his girl-friend though, was disliked by my family as it had a very bad habit of urinating in our backyard. Soon, she gave birth to Tinu’s 3 cute little puppies.

Recently, I sensed the aging in Tinu as he was not as active as he used to be. Lethargy had crept in him and he spent most of the time lying down. Nevertheless, he was not a mellow; there was not a question about his loyalty. He protected both his master’s house and our house. He barked ferociously and scared almost any stranger who would pass by, be it a post man or the common vagabonds.

Few months back, I went to my village alone to meet my grand parents, I spend a couple of days and had good time out but some thing was missing, some strange feeling of evanescence, I ignored it as I thought maybe it was because my parents were not there. Just prior to my departure, when I was tying my shoe laces I asked grand mother, “Where is Tinu? I didn’t see him this time around” almost instantaneously she replied with a long face “I actually hid from you as you may get sad, Tinu is no more, the dog catchers took him away” I felt so hollow, "so, that was the strange missing in the air" i thought. His face flashed across my mind, It was then I realized I had an attachment towards him, in fact we were all attached, I thought about Pravi and how distort he would be. As my Grandparents were alone most of the time, Tinu was a source of happiness for them and I knew his absence brought a great deal of sorrow in them.

I did not dare to ask more about him or to think where he might be, where ever he is, he will miss our beautiful village and his puppies. I wanted to curse the dog catchers but it’s of no use, Tinu will never return. I fastened my backpack’s clip, bid good bye to my grandparents and started walking, this time, without the fear of Tinu shadowing me, but with a handful of memories of our beloved dog, who will live in our hearts for a long time.

Tinu…

The Oracles Of Pulappatta

Posted by Vaisakh comments (4)

It’s the festive season in my village; the temple is all set for welcoming the oracle. Dressed in bright red and holding the holy sword, the oracle starts his day with energy and vigour, likely to get more intense as the day progresses. Few local villagers accompany the oracle to collect rice grains and money from the houses that lie in the vicinity of the temple. It is intended to benefit the temple workers and the poor.

The festival means a lot to the villagers. It is meant to bring prosperity and good luck to the village and so, the oracle is considered to be a person through which the mighty goddess conveys her blessings to the people [Oracles are usually associated with temples that worship goddesses].

Anxious people await the oracle to arrive in their houses and bless them. Tension is always in the air when the oracle arrives at the house. He runs around the house maneuvering him through the narrow corridors throwing rice grains. This ritual is believed to purify every corner of the house. Children hide desperately, too afraid of the oracles enthusiasm with the sword in his hand. The long hair, dark skin and bright red clothing with an enterprising sword in his hand make a fearful prospect for the kids. The blessing ceremony is traditionally done by placing the blunt end of the sword on the devotees head, often turns out to be a nightmare for the younger members of the family. This marks the end of the oracles duties, now the family head shows his gratitude by offering the oracle rice grains and money. The oracle is now all set to move on to next house and repeat the rituals.

The oracle finishes blessing the houses by dusk and starts his venture towards the temple along with the local villagers who accompanied him to the houses.

The jingle of bells as he walks on vigorously cuts through the tranquility prevailing in the village. His energy levels now begin to increase in an exponential fashion as he approaches the temple. It reaches its maximum on arrival at the temple. The people greet him with prayers. The deafening sound of instruments and the mystic smell of holy smoke create an atmosphere that sets fire to the dynamite waiting to explode in the oracle and he bursts into dancing and jumping vigorously. A strange energy runs through his blood, he cuts his head time and again and blood pours out like lava overflowing from a volcano. The temple now would have definitely evoked a sense of chaos in a young individual. The oracle continues to dance in the bedlam. Villagers pray with desperation and after several minutes of self-mutilation, the oracle calms down. The people cover his wounds with turmeric powder to check the overwhelming bleeding. The oracle sits exhausted.

The villagers believe God himself incarnated into the oracles body as for he knew no pain when he cut through his head. The oracle was in another world for several minutes, where he had no family, no belongings, no emotions, not even a body of his own. The power of faith in the goddess, the rigid feeling that the goddess will bless the village through him made his soul imbibe an energy that is alien to the world of science.
It has been a long day for the oracle, his deeds done, mission accomplished. Now he walks back carrying his humble share of rice grains and money through the murky night to his home, where his family awaits for his selfless soul.

COGNITIVE ANECDOTES

An effort to recapitulate and share my ideas,views and thoughts in words...

Tail Of The Silver Horse

Who? Surgery? ME????

Dead Darts

A Capricious Blunder

A Consolatory Rumination.

Istanbul

Lessons From The Dead

Philately In Its 'Death-bed'

The Ailing Mendicant

A Canine Bond

The Oracles Of Pulappatta

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Acknowledgement

The Amethyst

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