A Collage of Champions.

 It was cusp of 1988- 89. A 12-year-old girl was making her way through the asphalt jungle of a miniature township of the metropolitan suburb of Mumbai. She was hurrying to the ‘posterwala’ around the corner. He had promised her to get the not much in demand poster of an Indian athlete. It was only a week ago when she had sprinted for 100 meters and had missed the numero uno position by a whisker. Her lean body and slick runner mark decreased the wind resistance. She sprinted like an arrow shot from an overstretched bow yet she couldn’t feel the ribbon on her chest.  She was inconsolable.

 ‘I never wanted to be an Olympian. All I wanted was to keep breaking my own record. I never competed to defeat anyone.’ these were the words of P. T Usha, the Indian field athletic legend when she had missed the Olympic bronze by mere nanosecond in 1984 Los Angeles.

These verses reverberated in her mind as she walked home with drooping shoulders that day; and since then she wanted the poster of this Golden girl. She had paper cuttings from the newspaper but she knew that a wall length colored poster would look good in her bedroom. She passed by an Irani cafe now, where the jukebox played the freshly brewed songs of ‘Qayamat se Qayamat tak.’ Next to it was a shanty of the ‘posterwala’. It hosted array of paper bound celebrities ready to be stuck on the walls of admirers and aspirants. Unfortunately, she had to return empty handed.

Today, 30 years later this girl is trapped in Monday mundane; making lunch boxes for her kids, running behind the corporate success, and bragging about the exotic vacations. The innocent pride and passion for the sport has long gone and the void has been filled up to the brim, by self-absorbance. Today she doesn’t even know the concurrent counterparts of P. T. Usha.

Sadly, the glamour has out- paced the achievements. Many people know about Mary Kom because Priyanka Chopra played that role. People have rekindled affection about Milkha Singh because Farhan Akhtar played the part. I guess many would have heard about the hockey wizard Major Dhyanchand after seeing the Shaharuk Khan movie ‘Chhak De India.’ It would amaze you that in the first half of the previous century Indians played Hockey with grandma’s stick and hailed supremacy. The cult Nazi Fuhrer was in awe of this man to the point where he was asked to join German forces at a much bigger rank and pay. The bare footed but firmly rooted Dhyanchand had said no while still on German soil.

Where have all these stories gone? Like Amir Sohail- Venkatesh Prasad spat of world cup 1996; why these and many other stories and achievements are not on the tip of our tongues. Where they not archived or where they not propagated? Whether it was loss of interest among the commoners or lack of integrity among the media moguls?

I guess it all started when the press institutions became entrepreneur-ships run by business minded. The crowd has a gold fish memory. Like piranhas they hog on anything and everything without much of a thought. All you have to do is put forward a sassy show, numb their thinking nerves and extort emotional catharsis from them; pretty much like the magicians do. The choreographed news focusing on certain sects more; then let these sects be empty shadows of dwarf achievements. It is like you create a need and then sell your product.

The show stoppers of news channels encash the mentality of the masses very well. The constant illusion of insecurity mints profit. The parched audiences come back for more and more. The news makers feel elated to act like the creators. Creators of success, glamour, fame and also the creators of misfortune, ill fate and conspiracy for the few unfortunate. They exercise a singular power to decide between right and wrong and often it is twisted to the likes of their political masters and TRPs.

Otherwise liberal media becomes stingy and mediocre when something uncomfortable to their likes rises and gains momentum.  It nonchalantly ignores the goodness and continue the puffery of the same old nepotism. To amuse and entertain they debate which itself is an utter mockery. The print media is no behind. All the goodness is vanquished to the latter pages, in the small font and the negatives are high lightened. The goons and their managed mischiefs see the light of the first page right next to the advertisements of flamboyant products. The illegitimacy and one sidedness continue.

As a matter of fact, every matter has an anti- matter and, hence it doesn’t matter if the blame is shared. Remember, the butchers cut because people eat. We choose to ignore languidly and allow them to shove information into our throats. We only make a shallow attempt to cherish the starlets. We forget their names and achievements partly because of lack of hammering from the digital portal and partly because of our half blood attitude. We get floaters in our eyes while watching kaleidoscope of the world. We run behind the glitter but not behind the gold. We have abated to the miserable recognition of many sport personalities. Their stardom and glitz we simply fail to accept. We reduce these superstars to mere fossils of deprivation. We deny them appreciation and appreciation is encouragement.

The juggernauts like Dutee Chand and Hima Das win unnoticed. Neeraj Chopra pierces the earth with his Javelin to win gold, but who knows. Shuttle queens like Saina Nehwal and P. V. Sindhu are famous but who cares about the para- badminton champ Parul Parmar. When Mirabai Chanu lifted 4 times her weight, her golden efforts were put to dust. The eyeless girl Kanchanmala Pande swam to medley in style and yet we remain blindfolded and unsighted. Manpreet Singh and Rani Rampal, that’s correct who? The hockey counterparts of Virat Kohli and Mitali Raj never get to savior the glam. Sakshi Mallik and Sushil Kumar grappling to success, Sarita Devi, Dingko Singh the pugilists, Deepika Kumari, Jayant Talukdar and Dola Banerjee whose arrows cut through the air and hit the bull’s eye and Gagan Narang and Jitu Rai who do the same with artillery pieces. The list is exhaustive. You dig a bit and unearth so much.

The brunt of this unfair tilt is multifaceted. It is felt by defences, doctors, small scale philanthropists, law enforcers, scientists, socialists and right upto the simple average citizens. The irony is that we still continue the monotone and keep on snoozing the alarm. When are we going to break the mould and be the shooting stars, that’s the question?

An unopened envelope.

18^th hour of the on call duty and 20 minutes into the REM sleep, Dr. Charvin was trying to snatch a nap between the troubled phone calls from the wards. His semi- athletic body was sleeping on the battered mattress and the torn bedsheet; unchanged for at least 3 of his calls now which meant good 7 to 8 days. The pillow was naked and smelly. One had to keep it under the head as tangentially as possible to avoid the humid olfaction. He was sleeping on his right side in a foetal position, his palms tugged under his armpits. The stethoscope still lingered around his neck. The feet were continuously rubbing each other to generate some heat to counter the effect of chill as a clean blanket was a scarce commodity.

The mobile phone rang and within 2 rings it was picked up.

“Sir bed 438, its bleeding. Continuously bleeding, spurting.” A frantic nurse passed on the broken information.

Dr. Charvin calmly asked his own set of questions to investigate the authenticity of the worry; “SISTER! Which patient and under whom? Where is the bleeding from?

The team leader had taken the receiver now, more confident tone continued “Today’s post plasty patient under cardiology team. Spurt from the right femoral site.”

Within the split second Dr. Charvin was on his feet. The brown pupils were dilated, the conjunctiva red. The shabby, unshaven stubble itched and the hair were skewed to left. His feet were well versed for this drill so without the visual assistance he pushed on to his slip on shoes and sprinted. From the 6^th floor to 4^th floor Dr. Charvin climbed down each flight of stair in just 3 big steps and hurried. He knew he had to reach soon.

When he reached the room one sister was applying pressure at the right groin area. The relatives were vulturing around with unhelpful questions. In stern voice he asked the relatives to step outside. Donning the brown latex, he asked the nurses to start IV fluids, to give IV bicarbonate and to send basic blood labs. He made the bed flat and with all his ounce pressed 2 cm above the site of prick. The drowsy aunty howled making the relatives outside more nervous.

The timer ticked 15 minutes. The bleeding was controlled. He called the relatives in and explained the entire episode. The relatives who seemed hostile some time ago were now humble and mellow. The aunty was pain free, thanks to IV analgesia. The Fahrenheit had decreased low.

“CODE BLUE. CODE BLUE. ROOM 411. CODE BLUE.” The wooden speaker at the nursing station clamoured. Dr. Charvin’s adrenaline rush was just settling when he got this bolus. He switched the places with the team leader and ran towards the distress call. From the corridor echoed the parting orders “Immobilise the right lower limb and don’t forget the tight dressing.” The foot steps pacing away were soon unheard.

It was unresponsive Mr. Pattrick in room 411, whom he had admitted at around evening time. He had clinically seen the patient, his ECG, his labs. Apart from relapse of leukemia everything seemed sorted out. The differentials sprung into his mind heart attack, brain bleed, hypoxia but he needed to act first and wonder latter. He himself pulled the bed forward and went to the head end. The pulse was feeble but nonetheless present. He held the AMBU mask in a perfect ‘C’ made out of his thumb and index finger. He shouted “somebody check sugars.” While squeezing the AMBU bag aat every 8^th count. The frail, wrinkled tip of the ring finger was pricked and the drop of blood was taken on the gluco- strip; the glucometer showed the number. It was 28.

When the Code blue team from the ICU arrived, the diagnosis had been already made and treatment had already begun. The second bottle of 25% dextrose was running rapidly into the system and the wakefulness was already better. Mrs. Pattrick glanced at Dr. Charvin; an anticipatory thank twitched her angle of the mouth.

Mr. Pattrick was a strong headed army personnel who had killed a few in 1965 and few more in 1971. It was his 6^th or 7^th admission in past 21 months, approximately the same time when Dr. Charvin had joined the hospital as medicine resident. Each admission was with pancytopenia where the haemoglobin was low which made his features pinched and sallow. The white blood count was less which made him more prone to infections and the low platelet count made him easy to bruise and bleed. He had fought the blood cancer well so far. The factory, production house of these cells ‘the bone marrow’ was dysfunctional. He very well knew it.

“Good I didn’t have the disease in the war days; or else even a nail cutter would have killed me” he always clutched his left clavicle while saying this. A fall from the cliff of the height of about 3 storeys had crushed the slender bone into pieces for which he had undergone many corrective surgeries in the past. “I am in the enemy field and my ammunitions are getting over, isn’t it?” he often asked. Dr. Charvin would only grin in return.

By the time he finished the paperwork about the events, it was 3:30 am. He returned to the bed and crashed. He snored out of tiredness. The fan made the synchronous sound ‘tak tak tak.’

In the morning at around 8 am, half fresh, half fed Charvin had started with his rounds. The room 411 was all together a jolly room today. Mr. Pattrick was sitting upright in the bed. An English breakfast was lying on the side table. Like always he cribbed about the lukewarm coffee and crisp toast. The dental brigade was only a handful now and he found it difficult to chew. His wife was speaking to their son, an army man too but posted far away somewhere. Who would have guessed that only a few hours ago the man was unconscious, hypoglycemic, had given high five to the death and came back?

On seeing Charvin he said “Hello doctor!”

The man shook hands with Dr. Charvin and the grip was still tight. Leukemia had not taken the firm handshake from him. Charvin’s hand ached and he consciously tried to keep the handshake as minimal as possible. He could only try.

“I see, you are pretty favourite among the females around? You are a sweet tongued doctor so you must be good at flirting.” Mr Pattrick pulled Charvin closer and naughtily asked “What is your score?” He winked further tightening the grip.

Charvin blushed a bit, his ears and right hand both became pink and before he could say anything, Mrs. Pattrick added “We know dear. Who is she? The pretty fair girl you were talking to yesterday when uncle was being wheeled into the room. She held your hand very cutely and you looked at her similarly. Common now spill the beans. Not the first admission where we are noticing this budding love story of yours.”

“I will tell everything, but first ask uncle to let go my hand. His grip is too tight.” Charvin complained. A jolly chuckle and the clasp ungripped.

Charvin continued “She is my junior. She works in the emergency department. And yes, she is cute.” Charvin glowed and continued further while sheepishly playing with the ear piece of the stethoscope. “In fact, a week more and we are getting engaged.”

“Oh! that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Mrs. Pattrick. “You must invite your uncle, for the engagement and the wedding both.”

Mr. Pattrick said snarly “For that you have to discharge me soon.”

“OK, but first things first, let me check your vitals.” Charvin said.

“Ahh! The vitals can wait. Tell us her name. Where is she? Is she around? Common get her up. Let us meet her.” With a tinge of panting and exhaustion Mr. Pattrick argued stubbornly.

Charvin by then was already applying the BP cuff on his right arm which were flabby now but were bulky and muscular once. He pumped the air to 150- 160 and started lowering it down. Then again pumped it until 120 and lowered it. The third time he pumped only up to 100. The fourth time Mr. Pattrick seemingly irritated grunted “Are you taking revenge of the tight grip?”

“No Mr. Pattrick, you are hypotensive. Your blood pressure is low.” Charvin said with a concern.

“What rubbish? You check again.” Mr. Pattrick coaxed but the discomfort, the dyspnea had only increased by now.

The sister came with fresh set of investigations. The yesterday’s lab reports were already stale. The labs were horrible today. There was evident worry on Charvin’s face now. The up tight concave smile was convex grin now. Mrs. Pattrick looked confused. Charvin dialled a number and walked off the room.

When he was back, he gestured Mrs. Pattrick to come near the door. In the hush tone he said “Aunty, he is very sick. The BP is low, he is breathless. I saw the charts the urine output is low. The haemoglobin, WBC, platelets everything is rock bottom. We need to shift him to the ICU. We may need to put him on ventilator. We must hurry.”

Mr. Pattrick shouted in delirium “NO ICU, NO VENTILATOR.”

Within the matter of few minutes his chest was wheezing. The chest muscles were indrawing and trembling. The neck was falling now and it took a lot of effort to look up. The saliva dripped from one side of the mouth and Mr. Pattrick was unnoticed about it. Mrs. Pattrick was at the bed side now. She held Mr. Pattrick’s hand. “I know pappy, its probably your time to go now. As promised, no ICU, no ventilator for you. You have lived your life with dignity and if it is your time to go it would be with dignity. I promise Pappy. I promise. I love you.” She kissed him on the forehead. Her vision blurred due to tear drops.

Charvin was not ready to give up that easily. He argued “No we can save him. We shift him to ICU put him on ventilator. We give him blood products. We give him medications to increase the blood pressure and heavy antibotics. I have arranged everything. Like always he will see through it. He is a solider after all.”

Mr. Pattrick in a coherent mumble said; Charvin had to get closer to listen “I want to die looking at my wife, holding her hand. I don’t want to die among the unknown faces. They would give me chest compressions as soon as my heart stops. My lingering soul won’t be able to see that.”

Clenching his left clavicle as always he continued “You…, you are a good kid. I don’t mind dying in front of you.”

For the first time Dr. Charvin noticed the magnanimity of the helplessness. Without the last fight he was not ready to accept defeat while the war veteran very well knew that not all battles are won by conquering; some are won by surrendering too.

When the consultant under whom the patient was admitted came for rounds, she was sympathetic, soothing. She warmly smiled. She gently patted on Mrs. Pattrick’s shoulder which outweighed thousands of words said by Dr. Charvin. She simply said “take negative directive for escalation of treatment. Keep him comfortable and pain free.”

Dr. Charvin drafted the negative directive. Mrs. Pattrick signed it without even reading it and only shallowly hearing it. The little time which he had, she wanted to be there with him. Their decision was clear and unanimous. Till death do us apart but until then conjoint they would be in mind heart and soul.

Dr. Charvin drank the routine 11 am coffee which used to come from the hospital canteen. As the show must go on, so is true with the life. Dr. Charvin finished his rounds and wrote couple of discharge summaries. His attention was towards the phone call which he would get from room 411 at any time. A part of him thought “please God, don’t take him away; not on my guard.” The other part said “you have admitted him, you declare him; complete the circle of life.” None was in his hands; he knew it very well.

At around 2:30 pm, about 12 hours after the Code blue, he got a call for the room 411. He was in the OPD on the ground floor. He ran blitzkrieg. When he reached the room, Mr. Pattrick was gasping for air. His eyes widened with each gasp. The air hunger was visible. Charvin gave the chest rub to the old man. He barely moved. His body was cold. He was pale like a peeled apple. His nose was cyanotic and the toes showed discolouration.

Mrs. Pattrick requested “Dr. Charvin you have been helpful and kind throughout. Don’t be so harsh on yourself. You tried. We all tried. Mr. Pattrick is really very fond of you. He wanted to attend your wedding but that is not possible now. He wanted to give you something. To you and to your fiancé. May you grow old and grey in love as we did is all I can bless. Please don’t deny it. It was his last wish.”

Saying this she forced an envelope in Mr. Pattrick’s right hand. “Pappy Dr. Charvin is here. You wanted to give him something. Here it is. Give!”

Mr. Pattrick couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe but he did shake the hands tightly for one last time. The blood cancer couldn’t weaken his grip ever. He had won. Two hours later the monitor showed zero in each of the department. The ECG showed flat line. All Dr. Charvin could say was “its over.” And then he bit his lips, pinched his left elbow with right hand. Due to continuous use of socks and shoes, his left toe margin was swollen with pus pocket. With the second toe he pressed the first one really hard. He wanted to divert the tears. The physical pain was only a dam for it.

The envelope still remains unopened with Dr. Charvin. The name of his fiancé still remains unspoken to the Pattrick family.

Water Extreme!

Rain, rain go away

Come again another day

Our Jonny wants to play!

Actually no. Our Jonny doesn’t want to play. All he wants to do is to go home and be with his family, his surroundings; because alike many other Jonnys, our Jonny was stuck in chest deep water. The merriment and excitement of the drizzle had long gone. Now what shaped in was the immense fear of the roaring thunder and the gargantuan rain drops.

It had been around 400 minutes now and the life had been completely dark and stagnant except for the rising water levels. Jonny had lost the sense of belongings. All he could feel was a glob in his front pocket and another one in the back pocket. He just assumed that his valet and mobile had not slipped out. There was a nagging prick on his left thigh which suggested that the keys were intact.

It seemed like the nature had complete disregard for compassion and why would it have any. Off lately this is what it had received from humans. It was like vengeance falling apart. They say that revenge is the dish best served cold, and indeed cold it was. The strong winds made the wind wane epileptic.

It had all started when Jonny had punched out early that afternoon. While entering the movie hall he had seen only lilliputian water collections. Their growth chart was tremendous. From toe tip deep clear stream of water to a muddy puddle; then a small lake with little islands of concrete on which people were tip toeing like a ballet dancer. A lake, a river and finally the water coalesced with Arabian.

When he came out of the theatre, he was greeted by grey tinted sky, obviously heavy rains and scanty luminous. The traffic was typical Mumbai traffic, crowded like an ant heap but no one was honking the horns. No one seemed to be in hurry and there must have been hundreds of automobiles but they were mute. Just the natural crackling sound of water thuds echoed.

As the commotion increased, incomprehensible sounds started making sense. The flustered and perplexed faces were greeted with bits and pieces of information which concluded to only one thing that there was water logging everywhere. The electronic maps only glowed red lines. The signals were pathetic and even if the call got through the conversation was stuttering.

Jonny started flipping through the mental address book and narrowed a safe house for night. It was a mere business acquaintance whom he had met at a lunch meeting in the recent past. They couldn’t crack the deal at that time. Jonny was skeptical whether it was a good idea to barge in uncalled, but it was a desperate attempt. It was the only logistically feasible place to go nonetheless 3 miles away.

Jonny folded his trouser knee length, uncuddled his umbrella and with tentative steps entered the mud pool. He joined the long queue of people walking one after the other. When the water got deeper the line dipped and when the water got shallow the line rose creating a little Mexican wave. Only if the people could maintain this disciple when rainless; Jonny wondered.

The water currents daunted higher and higher. From ankle to knees and then from knees to waist, making each step heavier than the previous one. The linear convoy abruptly turned left at a point where a slender stick emerged from the water; a red cloth tied to it. This subtle hint was marking a grave danger of open man hole. A middle-aged man, roughened looks was helping and guiding the people to steer pass the open danger safely. A colloquial abuse to his locality mates suggested that he was there for at least 3 hours now and needed a replacement. He grabbed Jonny’s hand in the Roman handshake and helped him forward. Momentarily their eyes met and Jonny’s grip tightened in appreciation. Only a warm smile reflected from other side.

The walk was getting tough as the water was above the diaphragmatic level and little further one would only see the floating heads. Two youngsters were standing and giving continuous instructions “HOLD THE ROPE. WHATEVER HAPPENS, DON’T LEAVE THE ROPE.” A fistful thick shipping rope was tied to the tree bark some 200 yards away and these boys had tied the other end of the rope to their waist and then to the adjacent tree. The water currents swayed the people in one direction or the other; pretty much like the wet clothes hanged to get dry. The sore hands gripped the tentaculate rope, it ached, it burnt but life clanged to it. No one left the rope.

The saucer like road ended and the wrath of the drifting water settled a bit. The umbrellas were long gone. The senses of the blind legs were heightened. Each foreign touch was analysed with fear; may be someone’s shoe, ragged clothes, a twig, carcass of some rodent, may be water snake, the permutations were countless.

There aside in a small blue hash back car were two youngsters dripped in the fog of merry marijuana and crazy cocaine. The party had begun when the water was just touching the lug of holes of the wheels. The rain had gate crashed the party long back but the cocktail of booze, drugs and hard rock music had made them stuporous. To conceal their nefarious activities the windows were tight shut. The slumber party got over when the air conditioning duct got chocked. Suffocation woke them to horror of being trapped in water filled grave. They tried to open the door, they couldn’t. They tried to break the window, they couldn’t. The tried to scream for help, but the sound waves never travelled. Helplessly they continued tapping and kicking the wind shield and screaming frantically. Luckily someone noticed and soon a mob gathered. After about dozen strikes of the dislodged pavement block, the window gave away. The young adults were rescued. Jonny could never forget their scared faces.

Jonny wished that he was the part of the mob that saved the kids, or like the guys with the rope. May be at the giving end of distributing compassion. Like a group of people who were offering tea and small packets of biscuits and words of consolation. The people had opened their homes so that stranded travellers could relieve themselves; especially the females. The give and take were so overwhelming that both the giver and the receiver had moist eyes.

The herculean human efforts to reach the destination had failed. Now what remained were the survival instincts and prayers. The nature had showed its veto power but time held its trump card too. Every good or bad things, they do end eventually. Nothing is perpetual, change is inevitable. The tables tilted. The sun smiled once and the rainy anger melted. The ocean again started accepting the water. A small whirlpool and the water began to recede at snail’s speed. Finally it was dawn.

The communication and transportation were still limping. The wet money in the pockets had no use. It was again a long painful walk back home but it ached less this time. Jonny reached railway station, the stampede shook the bridge and the tracks were still unseen. Jonny started to walk on the tracks, crossed a railway bridge meticulously. He doesn’t remember how he came on the road. He took a lift from a biker, triple seat and somehow reached closer to that coveted thing called home.

When he reached home water marks suggested that there was good 4 feet water in his house. He had never thought that water would actually invade his property. He rang the bell, luckily the electricity had resumed to work by then. There was no reply and with each passing moment Jonny was getting apprehensive and worried. His wife, his baby, where were they? Had the water extreme had engulfed them. He hurried out of the wing and ran towards the back door. He got hold of the grill of the window and pulled himself up. He called for his wife; the empty walls echoed back. The tiles were broken, the sofa had toppled and the dirt lay all around. The lump of fear floated in his throat. He again called for his wife. 

This time he got the reply. 

The neighbours from the third floor replied “relax Jonny, they are safe over here. We were worried about you. Now come up quickly and take rest.” This was followed by the child’s happy giggle.

The society’s janitor was cleaning the society campus, lot many debris and muck.

Jonny asked him “why are you working?”

“Sir I myself was stuck in the waters. I stayed on the staircase here. I was sheltered, fed and was kept safe. The place where I stay is still water logged. I would be able to go only by later this afternoon.” He said

“And your family, are they safe?” Jonny asked.

“Yes sir, they are. Spoke to them in the morning.” He replied.

Jonny opened his bag removed a plastic bag from it. It had an extra packet of biscuit which that man had given him with force yesterday night when his stomach was growling. They both sat on the bench. Jonny offered the biscuits to the janitor. He took one. Both sat there unmoved, unspoken. Jonny’s child continued giggling and chanting ‘Da da da!’ from the window atop.

The Demigod!

The Demigod

We among-st all the creatures of the planet, are so diabolic. We have rubbed the fine line between need and greed. We can transform a stone into divine and vice a versa; and all this is based on favor-ism where greed supersedes the need. The celestial proverb ‘To err is human, to forgive is divine’ has long changed to ‘To err is human and do not forgive the divine.’

The theorem of faith and love is highly opulent and sparse at the same time. When someone is in sublime touch, he is heavenly. If someone at the helm of the ship saves you from the storm, he is heroic. And then when the same someone is lack lustred by tick of the time, he is tarnished. He is no more the savior; for that matter he is not even a human anymore. Beyond the basic instincts to live, to be protected and to propagate; what remains is an effigy of pseudo- success, egotism and self-indulgence. Outwardly visionary but inwardly blind folded that is the mirror image today.

Today the worship is selective and the faith is shallow. We bribe the God to avoid atrocities and yet the mercenaries of Satan aggravate the miseries. The terms are losing their exclusiveness. We love God but we also love our clothes, belongings, shoes, food. We trust people but we also spy on their digital footprints. We have the insatiable urge to control the chaos but we fail to understand that a chaos for us is an orderly cosmos for others. In the bigger scheme we and our narcissism are just a needle point.

They tell me, you are a God because you are a healer by profession, but what they forget is that I too am a believer by choice. I do not play God; you carve one out of me. Yes, I am a Demigod but my temple is different. When your Gods rest in churches, mosques and shrines I toil hard in the hospital. I mingle in disease and pain. I pray with you to the God of your choice so that I could be mere instrument to prevail. You pray to God when you bring in your sick, I do the same while trying to save the last flamed wick.

When your Gods sleep at night, I am wide awake in order to keep the rhythm of life sound. Among the grunts and delirium, I sip my beverage as I am mortal and I need fuel too. I become a listener when you talk, a preacher when you are bogged down. When you are impatient, I am patient. I lend you my shoulder in grief. I do not hold your hand when you are dying but I am there. I am there when you weep on the death of your beloved one; I shed a tear too.

We pray daily but are seldom blessed. We dream daily but rarely fulfilled. The firmament smiles upon us but not always. We all are etched with dubious destiny and fate. May be a Demigod or simply a mortal, but each and every storm I cannot abate. Even I am at the mercy of force unknown. Like you all I want to do is to say my prayers and do my job. I am a human, find humanity in me not divinity.