Of fairies and farces...

Having pulled out my wisdom tooth, the dentist straightened up, beaming, his own crooked, white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. "Here you go!" he held out what was, till moments ago, a part of me- my tooth. "You might want to keep it... Maybe the Tooth Fairy will give you something for it!" he chuckled. I could only glare back in reply. The guy had caused me immense pain, and was now chortling. You don't do that when a fellow human being is in pain. And in any case, Tooth Fairies wouldn't want wisdom teeth.

The Tooth Fairy is, today, probably one of the most loved and most popular fairies. In the United States, Britain, Canada and Spain, she supposedly visits in the night and leaves money or little gifts in return for milk teeth placed under a child's pillow. Nobody seems to know when exactly tales of the Tooth Fairy began, but it was in the early 20th century that this little fairy started gaining popularity. However, the association of teeth with gifts dates back to over a thousand years ago, when Viking children were given a 'tooth fee' when their first tooth grew in. In the nineteenth century, European children often placed their teeth in mouse holes, under kitchen shelves and other such places where their 'Tooth Mouse' might find them. These Mice not only left behing coins and candies, but also made the child's new tooth as sharp as a mouse's!

The word 'fairy' itself comes from the Latin word, fata, which refers to the three mythical women (Fates) who spin the threads of life, controlling all our destinies. Fairies often participated in the lives of mortals... Sometimes helping humans out of sticky situations, and sometimes doling out huge servings of misery. So much so that during the Middle Ages, fairies were blamed for more or less everything that went wrong- from bruises to paralysis to missing babies. By the 16th century, the fear of witches grew to be more prominent, and fairies began to be seen as benevolent and fun-loving creatures. But they still engaged in their share of mischief- upturning trash cans, smashing dishes, and so on.

In July 1918, Elsie Wright and Frances Griffith from Cottingley, England, produced the world's first photograph of actual fairies. The picture showed Frances sitting in a forest with several tiny, winged fairies around her. Though Elsie's father suggested that they had staged it all, the girls swore they'd seen the fairies in the woods, and not just that once.

Elsie's father didn't believe the photos, but her mother mentioned them to her friends, who were rather inclined towards the supernatural. The story spread quickly, catching the attention of many, including that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes. Doyle and equally interested others consulted several experts to determine if the photographs had been faked. Except that the fairies' hairstyles looked a bit too modern, no evidence of fraud could be found. In 1919, Doyle published an article in the magazine Strand- 'Fairies Photographed- An Epoch Making Event'. While the article fueled much excitement, leading to a heated debate between the believers and the skeptics, the girls surprised the world by coming up with three similar photographs in 1920.

The debate as to whether the photographs were 'real' raged on for several decades. Finally, in the early 1980s, Elsie and Frances both admitted that they had constructed the fairies out of paper and had used hatpins to secure them to tree branches. They said they themselves had been shocked that so many individuals had believed their story. As she said, the pins were visible in a few pictures- and nobody ever noticed!

Kissa kiss ka

I frowned down at the India Today in my hands; the cover story was about the Richard Gere-Shilpa Shetty kiss that's sparked off a huge controversy and has created a lot more ruckus than sanity allows. I mean, come on! It's just one little kiss! Why do the ego-maniacal, self-appointed moral police of our country have to split hair over an issue as trivial as this one? If anyone has the right to complain, it's Shetty herself. Why then, as the cliche goes, are we making a mountain out of a mole hill?

I've often wondered why kissing in public places, or anywhere, for that matter, is condemned with such relish. Aladdin was handed an 'A' certificate by the Censor board. Why? Because of the passionate kiss that Aladdin and Jasmine share on the balcony, right at the end of the movie. Apparently, Indian women don't kiss!!! Saying the word 'sex' aloud is often accompanied by titters and nervous giggles, and even more often, met with throat-clearing and 'Chi!'s and 'Ssshh!'s. Why, people are even against sex education (I'll be airing my opinions on that issue soon)! One teacher wanted condom ads to be banned, as they were instilling 'wrong ideas in the youth'. Talking about sex is a no-no. Because it's just not 'Indian' to do so, you see!

Kamasutra was written right here in India, by an Indian. I haven't read it myself, but if public opinion is to be trusted, it's the most comprehensive sex manual ever. It's here, in India, that we have a temple whose walls are carved with orgies and depictions of the umpteen positions in sex. Yet, when it comes to discussing safe sex, AIDS or even kissing, we're terribly prude. If this isn't hypocrisy, what is?

I always thought the right to express oneself, feelings and emotions included, was universal. It's sad to learn that our 'culture' (the same culture that created the Kamasutra and Khajuraho) represses our freedom of expression.

What kind of an image would Gere have of India now, after being quagmired in our royal cultural mess? What is the world going to think of India, a nation progressing fast on the path to development and modernization, if we continue to adhere to rather medieval values?

If we don't learn to draw a line between being morally right and being ridiculously conservative, we might as well kiss the picture of a 'modern' India goodbye.

"There's someone else..."

The words seem to echo slightly, quickly disappearing into a silence so loud it’s near unbearable. But the words themselves convey nothing to her, just at that moment. He could have blabbered jargon, or recited the first few lines of ‘Jabberwocky’, for all the sense it makes to her. She just stares for a moment that seems to last an eternity, then continues to sip her coffee as she waits for the enormity of what he’s just said to sink in.

Sink in it does, too early to numb the pain and too late to stop him from leaving. Him- her friend, her confidante, her husband. The man that she’d loved… no, worshipped ever since they’d played together in his backyard as five-year olds. He was leaving her now. What is she like, she wonders. Does she know he doesn’t like yellow? That he likes his food slightly on the salty side? She wonders about that other one… Is she pretty? Intelligent? What was it about her that made him break a million promises he’d made?

She frowns as she reaches for the toothbrush in the morning. If your toothbrush is still wet, you obviously haven’t slept much. When she looks at herself in the mirror, she sees a tired face, eyes heavy with tears that refuse to come. A defeated woman, she thinks as she turns away.

She gazes absently at the card on the mantelpiece… the one he’d given her for Valentine’s Day. It was a card that didn’t overdo the mush and yet didn’t underplay the sentiment behind Valentine’s Day. It hits her all over again, like an unpleasant wave, the realization that this time, it’ll be with someone else that he shall have a candlelight dinner; it shall be someone else who gets the red roses.

How could a love so strong have failed? Where did she go wrong? She still remembers the day they’d first met, and the current of love that went through her every time she saw him after that. She remembers the way he’d brushed her hair away from her face, looked into her eyes and said he loved her. She remembers the way he had breathed her name into her hair many a night. Try as she might, she cannot push away these memories. Try as she might, she feels no anger, no jealousy… Just overwhelming fatigue and emptiness. She loves him… Loves him too well, but not wisely. Absent-mindedly, she picks up a blade, and holds it over the pale skin on the inside of her wrist.

Was he worth the pain? Was he good enough to die for? Indecision stays her hand. Should she, or shouldn’t she? She remembers all the happiness he and she had shared together… The number of times they’d been giddy with laughter. She sighs. Life wouldn’t be the same without him, but it would nevertheless go on. The blade is down, for good.

She doesn’t know it then, but for years to come, she continues to wear black, a color he loves. She continues to wear her hair the way he liked. That card lies on the shelf, gathering dust, for years to come.

And those words, those damned words, “There’s someone else” continue to echo in her ears, for years to come.

One mother's story

Case file in hand, I walked out to the patients’ waiting room and called out for (Patient’s Name). A thin, middle-aged woman dressed in a tattered sari stood up. She then pulled the fifteen-year old boy sitting next to her to his feet. One look at the boy, and I could tell that he was severely retarded, and also had cerebral palsy (as a clinician, I know I’m not supposed to make such diagnoses without the appropriate assessments and without administering certain standard tests, but in some cases, one just knows).

Assuming the most professional manner I could, I sat down behind my desk and started asking the mother the usual questions- what the problem seemed to be, whether he could carry out day-to-day activities without any assistance, how he got along with other children, so on and so forth. After scribbling down her answers, I turned towards the boy.

He was sitting exactly as his mother had left him. He seemed supremely unconcerned about the ongoing clinical interview, staring at the ceiling as if it were enormously fascinating. I tried to talk to him, but he paid me no attention. He just sat there, staring and grinning, saliva dribbling down his chin.

“Why didn’t you consult a doctor earlier?” I asked the mother. “Why didn’t you bring him here before? He’s fifteen years old!”

“Ayyo, avva… what do I do? People said I should bring him here, but…” she trailed off, wringing the pallu of her rag of a sari.

I pressed on, “You must have noticed that he’s not like other children his age. He can’t walk, he can’t talk… Why, he hasn’t even achieved bladder control yet! We can help you, but we could have done so much more if he were… say two or three years old.”

She was silent for a while. When she spoke, her voice was hard- “I was hoping he would die. I waited all these years, but he didn’t die. So I brought him here, hoping you could give him some sort of treatment.”

I’d be making an understatement if I said I was shocked. I was enraged, too. Isn’t a mother supposed to be the epitome of love? And here was this woman, waiting for her own flesh-and-blood to die! How cruel! Inhuman! How could she wish death upon her own son?

I had a few (well, more than a few, to be honest) angry words with her. She was his mother, for Heaven’s sake! Didn’t she realize it wasn’t his fault that he was this way? How could she be so heartless as to hope for his death?

She turned away and gazed out of the window, the sheen of tears in her eye. “You wouldn’t understand, avva. I scrub toilets in that private school over there for a living. How much do you think I earn? Close to nothing. I’ve made my children go hungry for days on end.

“My husband comes home once in a while. He’s always drunk. He beats me up, forces himself upon me, then takes all the money in the house and goes away. He comes back only when he needs more money to buy liquor.

“I had eight children to feed, avva. I didn’t want so many sons and daughters. I didn’t want to give birth to the offspring of a man I hated so much. Moreover, I was pregnant so often that I couldn’t work regularly anymore. When I was pregnant for the fourth time, I went and had an abortion without telling him. But he found out. He was very angry, avva… Look! Look what he did!” She held up her left hand… The monster had chopped off her little finger and ring finger! She was now sobbing heavily. “He cut them off, avva… He said it would teach me a lesson. After that, I never objected to anything he said or did. I just didn’t have the strength to!

“But when I was pregnant with my twelfth child- this boy here- I decided enough was enough. My eldest daughter was 14 then, working as a maid. There wasn’t sufficient food in the house to feed even half of us. I didn’t want to bring another child into this loveless marriage. I couldn’t bear to have another child wailing in hunger. I wanted to get rid of him right then. I took some pills; I had heavy bleeding all through my pregnancy. But it didn’t work. I was unlucky, he was born.

“He was a sickly little thing, avva… Thin as a skeleton and his face black as coal. He was scary to look at. The doctor said he wouldn’t live, but he did. He somehow managed to survive. But…

“Look at what I’ve given birth to, avva! Just look at him! What sort of a life is he to have? His father beats him up, hits him so hard that his fingers leave welts on my little boy’s arms. But the poor devil doesn’t even realize he’s in pain! Is he to live this hopeless life, this wretched life of poverty, misery and hunger? I have no money. I don’t have anything to give him, not even food. I can’t bear to see him like this, avva… I just can’t take it anymore!

“You were right. He is my son. But let me tell you, I would’ve wrung his neck and killed him if I had the nerve to do so. Because I love him, and I don’t want him to suffer.”

The story is an old one, but I still felt sick and miserable as I heard her retell the story of thousands of mothers in our country. When would it all end? I wondered. The poverty, alcoholism, domestic violence, sexual abuse, lack of education, the stigma associated with contraception… How does one tackle all these? Where would one begin?

In my happy, fun-filled life, there was no room for such despair or anguish. There was no way I could relate to the pain this woman had endured, and would continue to face. I felt (and still do feel) inadequate, out of my depth. Eyes stinging, I wrote “CERTIFICATE TO BE ISSUED” on the top of the case history sheet. The money from the government might bring at least a little cheer into their gloomy lives.

I promised the woman that we’d do our best to make her son as independent as possible, that we would train him to be able to take care of himself. I told her about the concessions available to him, the facilities he could avail, and the pension he would receive from the government upon procuring the required certificate. And then, chucking all ‘professional etiquette’ out of the window, I walked over to that brave woman and gave her a hug. It was the least I could do.

Frankly, I needed one too.

Misplaced priorities

Indomethacin, isoniazid, methaqualone, metronidazole, misonidasole, n-hexane, nitrofurantoin, parathion, pentachlorophenol, perhexiline, phenytoin, stilbamidine, streptomycin, sulphanilamide, triorthocresylphosphate…

I groan as I bury my face in my hands. I’m absolutely sure I’ll NEVER get those names straight. At least, not in time for the exam tomorrow. I mean, come on!!! Triorthocresylphosphate? Which reasonable person would expect a poor, tired and worn out (anti-chemistry) student like me to remember such stuff?

It’s nearly 3 a.m. I can’t even read my own handwriting anymore. My bed seems to glow softly, invitingly, with a strange kind of iridescence. I then realize it’s my eyes- everything’s a little blurry. I rub my tired eyes frantically and squint at my notes, pushing myself to study. But even as I scan the first line, my fingers creep towards my mobile, all of their own accord. I tell myself, no. I try to pull myself together and do what I’m supposed to do- STUDY!

But it’s too late. The mobile’s in my hand, my disobedient fingers have already typed out an SMS, ‘Up?’, and sent it to half a dozen people. In the next 60 seconds, my phone buzzes thrice. Three friends awake at this ungodly hour. I wonder why. I ask them. There, I’ve started three conversations now.

Quite in vain, I try to juggle SMSes, studies and music. No luck. It dawns on me that I’ve read the same sentence 6 times, without taking in a word of it. A few minutes later, my phone rings. Actually rings. I frown; I never get calls, let alone at 3 in the morning. Perplexed, I look down at that accursed, yet adored phone, to see a much loved name flashing on the screen, little hearts popping all around (both on the screen and in my head :P). I smile, albeit a little guiltily. With a sigh, I snap my book closed, give up trying to organize my incoherent thoughts and resign myself to the inevitable… I reach for the phone.

Triorthocresyl-whatever will have to wait till morning.