ALTHOUGH BOTH OF US began our days within thirty minutes and thirty feet of each other, our circumstances were dissimilar in so many ways it still surprises me to think that we ever managed to talk. I could see him through the blinds that lined my office window; his slightly stooped frame appearing and disappearing with every swivel of the shutters—forming and vanishing at my will. Repetitive and meaningless it may have been, but, to me, my actions felt therapeutic, even calming. It gave me a feeling of being in control of something, never mind that that something was just an illusion. Besides, those days, having little else to do, that was how I killed a lot of my time.
He’d arrive exactly at quarter past six just as the evening crowds would begin to assemble outside the entrance of the huge shopping complex … the Millennium Mall as it was called. He would join his ilk; one of the many vendors gathered similarly at the perimeter—business equivalents of scavengers, hoping for leftovers from the feast of spending that occurred inside this architectural marvel of glass and steel. Had a good meal in the restaurant inside … wouldn’t you like to freshen your mouth with a delicious paan from the quick-talking paanwala? Or how about a quick cup of masala chai from the effeminate chaiwala? Feel like a light snack … what could be better than a plate of tangy bhel-puri overflowing with puffed rice, cut onions and tamarind chutney prepared in front of your eyes by the mustachioed chaatwala? If you still had time to spare, you could buy the afternoon tabloid from the paperwala, have your shoes polished to a mirror like shine by the bootwala, enjoy a relaxing massage from the maalishwala, or, of course, buy some balloons from the balloonwala.
He would stand at the corner nearest to my window, hoping to attract the fancy of passersby with his colourful balloons. He carried them on a staff, arranging them around a bamboo lattice by intertwining and winding them in such a fashion that whenever he made a sale, all he had to do was unhook a few and the desired balloon would be at the buyer’s hand without much fuss. Once money changed hands, his first order of business was to replace the sold balloon with another one, and he would begin the process of inflating one right away.
That … was a sight to see.
The first couple of times I watched him inflate one, I felt faint. I’m still surprised that he managed to accomplish his objective without the services of a pump, forcing air into the balloons with his lungs when his frame looked so meagre that you’d be pardoned for thinking that he’d have difficulty breathing in. He’d dig into a plastic bag (Bubbly balloon, 100 count), stretch out the thin piece of rubber, purse his lips against the open end, puff his scalloped cheeks like a blowfish, and exhale so forcefully that the balloon would immediately begin to show signs of engorgement. He’d pause to refill his lungs, somehow coming up for air just when it looked like his suffused face with its distended veins were about ready to burst. He’d repeat the process—in and out, in and out—till the balloon had reached the desired level of tumescence. He’d twirl it around a couple of times, inspecting it closely for any defects or blemishes before fashioning a knot with his long, adroit fingers at the spot his lips had huffed and puffed a minute ago. Often the shapes were complex and convoluted, and he would stretch and twist the balloons into secondary and tertiary figures, fashioning a lion or an apple or a mace depending upon what needed to be replaced. He would then lower his staff, situate the balloon exactly where he wanted to and begin his search for a new customer.
I know, I know, this description doesn’t sound very taxing. But if you had seen his short, wiry, octogenarian frame, you’d be left wondering what a man like that was doing selling balloons. His stubby white hair sprouted in unkempt, shaggy patches on a progressively balding pate. His dark skin was thin and wrinkly—doubtless a hangover from his days under the sun. He wore the same combination of a light blue shirt and white cotton pajamas every day, and I never knew if that was meant to be some sort of a uniform or because that was all he owned. I would guess the latter, pointing to other hints of penury on him, starting with his thick spectacles that turned his stare into an exophthalmic glare. You know, the kind where the lenses look like powerful magnifying glasses; the kind that people get at free cataract surgery camps when they cannot afford to pay for intra-ocular lenses. How do I know? Well, I’m a doctor, that’s how. And that is why I said our circumstances were so inherently dissimilar, I’m still surprised we ever managed to speak.
It happened towards the end of the second month of my beginning private practice, when the heavy rains that afternoon ensured that business was slow for both of us. I had spent my evening waiting for a patient, any patient, to knock on the door of my consulting chamber. While I waited, I watched the balloonwala. I felt sorry for the old man—running and enthusiastically twirling his wares to attract the attention of the few people who walked past him as though he was transparent. I made a game out of his efforts, assuaging my own idleness by betting for or against a sale whenever I saw him approach a customer. And even though I didn’t keep track of my bets, the results were always the same. No one wanted to buy a balloon from him that night and so, in the end, I decided I’d oblige.
Those were the days I manned the consultation chamber myself. Given that other than my bills nothing much had picked up in the first few months, I could hardly afford a secretary. Like every other day I bolted shut the examination room, switched off the lights and locked the entrance before heading towards my motorcycle parked in the lot. On the way I stopped to buy a couple of balloons.
‘Give me those two,’ I said, pointing to the bright red ones at the top.
‘Five rupees, sahib,’ said the balloonwala. His voice was thin and staccato, typical of elderly edentulous people who’ve lost the timbre of a larger oral cavity, and, with it, their confidence of speech.
I was a little surprised that the balloons cost next to nothing. Five rupees a day certainly wasn’t enough money for anyone to make ends meet.
‘You can charge me ten,’ I said.
‘Why?’ he asked, staring at me with those owlish eyes. His face was retracted, defensive, as though I had asked him to give them to me for free. I was sure he had heard right and so I interpreted that look as the faint pride that questioned whether my purchase was charity in disguise and somehow an affront to his dignity.
‘My kid will never be happy with the red ones alone,’ I said. ‘He’ll want those blue ones too.’
His face broke into a toothless smile and he said, ‘A boy, hah?’
‘Yes,’ I said and smiled back.
He retrieved the balloons for me. He twisted them into one bunch so that I could hold all of them together and said, ‘boys like these colours. Let me know if he likes them, and then I’ll make special ones for him … lions, tigers, monkeys … they are sure to make his friends jealous.’
I smiled and paid him the money.
I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that I was unmarried and there never was a boy. I dumped the balloons as soon as I was a good distance away from him. It is difficult to drive a motorcycle with the balloons flapping in the wind and bonking on my helmet. I burst them, making for easy disposal at the next dumpster on the way. I wanted them to be untraceable. The way his face had reacted to my insinuation of charity, I was sure it would hurt his self-esteem to find his balloons floating freely in the middle of the road somewhere. I couldn’t blame him: often when poverty has taken away everything, all that a self-respecting man is left with is his pride and dignity. Besides, what would I do with so many balloons in my small one bedroom apartment where there was barely enough space for me and my two dogs?
‘Did he like it?’ was what he asked me the next evening when I was entering my chamber.
‘Who?’
‘Your son … the balloons.’
‘What … oh yes, he liked it very much. One of them burst and so he wants me to get another one for him tonight,’ I said.
‘Blue or red?’
‘I can’t remember,’ I said. ‘Either one is fine.’
‘No, no … it has to be matching, no? Otherwise there will be three of one.’
I nodded. ‘Let me find out,’ I said. ‘I’ll call and ask his mother. I’ll pick up another one from you on my way home.’
And so it continued: every night I’d pick up a few balloons, stopping to burst them some distance away before continuing on my way home. He’d oblige willingly, happy with my meager but consistent patronage. He’d stand there with an indulgent smile, his face scrunched up behind those thick spectacles, holding out balloons of different colours or stripes or patterns based on what he thought my ‘son’ would fancy that day.
I’m not exactly sure why I continued this charade; why I couldn’t tell him that my son had had enough and didn’t want more balloons. It wasn’t like I was doing much better with patients or earning a lot of money. But I suppose deep in my heart was the knowledge that I, as a doctor, had the potential to do better, whereas he had already reached his. His life, with all its attendant troubles, was going to end with what he did—blowing and selling balloons. I felt claustrophobic just thinking about how life had trapped him; how it made him work so hard at such an old age just to eke out an existence. For him there was no escape, no retirement, and the day he’d drop dead would also be the day he would be set free. And this thought, that his work was his cross to carry, his world to shoulder, made me feel very sorry for the old man.
One evening he came into my chamber. He looked around: the absence of a secretary, a nurse, and the unoccupied chairs staring vacantly at him, weren’t a subtle clue. And although I wasn’t ashamed of my light practice, a vein of worry would run through my head every now and then.
He folded his hands, and staring at me though those unnaturally magnified eyes, said, ‘Doctor sahib, my wife and I both suffer from diabetes. I take insulin but she takes this medicine that someone said she shouldn’t be taking because she also has kidney trouble. I cannot find the time to go to the diabetes doctor and my wife is too sick to travel. Can you suggest an alternative?’
I looked at the medicine. It was Metformin, an anti-diabetic medicine that is contraindicated in patients with advanced kidney disease for fear of excess production of acid in the body. It can be rapidly fatal.
I nodded. ‘The person is right. If your wife has kidney failure, she shouldn’t be taking this. Like you, she should be taking insulin.’
His face lit up appreciatively. ‘What a good doctor you are,’ he said. ‘I will stop this medicine at once. See, for this little bit of advice I’d have to pay the specialist three hundred rupees whereas I can get the same advice from you for … how much do you charge?’
I waved my hand absently and said, ‘There is no charge. I haven’t seen your wife so really I haven’t done anything.’
He smiled and said, ‘Doctor sahib, if a horse makes friends with hay, what’ll it eat? I can pay, you know.’
I smiled, enjoying his folksy wit. ‘Fifty rupees,’ I said, quartering my regular fee.
He dug into the waistband of his pajama and pulled out a grubby pouch. His face crinkled up and he peered into it for a few seconds before pulling out a much folded fifty rupee note. He straightened it out between his fingers and handed it over to me with the care and concern reserved for a family heirloom. I accepted the amount and began to write a receipt.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said suddenly, a knowing smile on his lips. ‘They will come soon. It was very difficult for me in the beginning too … not many people want to buy balloons. But now they know me and I get by. I make a hundred rupees easily in a day!’
I smiled at him, humouring him despite the absurdity of his comparison. Our jobs, backgrounds, outlooks, prospects were about as comparable as a pauper’s with a professor’s. But I knew his intentions were benign and that he meant well, and so I indulged him and his thoughts as though they were relevant.
Before he left my chamber he asked me if I wanted to buy another balloon for my son.
‘Sure,’ I said, feeling better that I would have a chance to return some of his hard earned money. ‘He enjoys playing with them very much.’
‘What is his name?’
I pretended to look for money while I racked my brains to come up with a good name quickly. ‘Nikhil,’ I said, suddenly remembering my good friend from school.
He smiled. ‘What a nice name! Which class is he in?’
‘He is only three years old,’ I said, rather surprised at my ability to keep lying so glibly.
‘Ahh … does his mother work?’
His inquisitiveness began to annoy me. Even otherwise, I am a private kind of person and would have normally excused myself from his company with the ‘I’m-kind-of-busy-now,’ lie, the services of which I unfortunately couldn’t avail of at that moment.
I shrugged and said, ‘No she doesn’t.’
He nodded and said, ‘It must be hard with a family. But it is during difficult times like these that one truly understands the little mercies of life. Don’t give up hope. You are a good doctor and one day you will have patients lining up the corridors waiting for you. Mark my words.’
I could have marked his words and proved him wrong for the next four months. His prediction obviously hadn’t taken into account my situation or the fact, that, as a general practitioner, it would be very difficult for me to make my presence felt in an area dominated by specialists? How could I explain to him that I had leased the chamber under the influence of a glib estate agent for more money per month than I had generated in the previous four? What would he do even if he knew that it was my foolishness that had led me to open a consulting room in an area where healthy people came mostly to shop? Of course the idea had sounded nice when presented as a radical new approach by the real estate agent … tremendous name exposure in the heart of the city, beautiful upscale office rooms, round the clock technological and customer support, ample security and plenty of free parking. But, reflecting on it now, I should have realized that the likelihood that someone would see a physician’s signboard on their way to get their weekly groceries and decide on the spur of the moment to get their thyroids checked out didn’t pass the cold, hard reality test.
I was getting increasingly tense. I had had a total of twenty-six patients over the last six months, going by which it would take me a couple of years to pay back the one year lease amount. I spent a lot of my time staring outside, hoping—even praying—that some of those who walked past would somehow deviate towards my room. But, of the visually stalked, a significantly discounted number knocked on my door and a majority number of them turned out to be confused shoppers asking for directions or enquiring about the parking rules in the area.
My only consistent patient was the balloonwala who would walk in every other week or so and refill a prescription for Insulin for himself or his wife. While carefully depositing the prescription into an empty packet of Bubbly’s Balloons, he’d bring up any other issues he thought needed to be addressed. He’d insist on paying me the fifty rupees as fees while I felt obligated to buy a few balloons for my ‘son.’ And on each visit of his he never failed to reassure me that greatness was written in my stars simply because I had lent him such a patient ear. As he put it, ‘sometimes goodwill takes a little time to be recognized.’ I’d agree, nodding lightly to myself, never pointing out the unintentional irony of his situation hidden in his words.
One day he came in saying that he had nearly passed out the previous night after taking his usual dose of insulin. An upset stomach had caused him to eat less than the usual quantity of rice he ate at night. When he described his sweating and tremulousness, I was fairly certain it was hypoglycemia—the condition where one’s blood sugar drops precipitously to critically low levels. His wife, herself a victim of such similar situations in the past, had had the presence of mind to feed him some sweets.
I examined him and even though his tremulousness hadn’t quite completely disappeared, he didn’t appear to be in any danger. I asked him to reduce the dose of insulin should he not eat or drink like usual. He thanked me and got up to leave the room.
Just before stepping out, he asked me, ‘Should something like that happen again, should I give myself something … some injection-binjection?’
‘It is best if you can eat something sweet immediately like your wife made you yesterday. An injection of glucose is usually necessary if someone loses consciousness. But that has to be given in the veins … do you know how to give an injection in the veins?’
He shook his head to indicate he didn’t.
‘Well, with both your wife and you being diabetics, it is probably a good idea if you learn how to do it. It can be life saving. Do you have intravenous glucose at home?’
He repeated the gesture with his head again. Then he asked me, ‘Do you have in your office?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I always keep some vials of dextrose with me. Never know when you might need them. Why don’t you pick up one on your way home tonight? I’ll even teach you how to give it if it is ever necessary.’
He smiled at me, particularly pleased with my reply. He thanked me before walking away. I saw him occupy his usual spot on the busy pavement.
The next time I looked up, he wasn’t there. Instead, there was a crowd gathered where he should have been. I could still see his balloon-crammed staff leaning against the wall right next to where he had been only a minute ago. I stood up to afford a better look and saw him through a forest of legs, lying on the ground, convulsing.
I rushed out. Shouting that I was a doctor I broke though the cordon around him. People immediately parted a path for me.
He was lying on the ground, unconscious. His thick spectacles were askew on his face, covered with saliva that had frothed around his mouth. The paanwala was sprinkling cold water on him while the chaiwala was slapping him lightly, calling out his name.
I took charge immediately, asking paanwala to desist from sprinkling water and ordering the chaiwala to call for an ambulance. I turned the old man’s body to one side to prevent him from breathing the contents of his mouth. I instructed the crowd to not do anything till I returned from my office.
I ran back inside and drew out the vial of twenty-five per cent dextrose. I quickly pulled out a needle and syringe and ran out. I whipped out the tie from my neck and used it to tie a tight tourniquet on his arm. I plunged the needle into the veins of his forearm and watched the flash of blood regurgitate into the syringe. I released the tourniquet and emptied the contents of the vial into his vein.
There is nothing as dramatic as the body’s response to glucose after it has been starved of its favourite nutrient. One minute ago he was lying on the floor convulsing; the next minute he sat up, adjusted him spectacles on his nose, slurped his saliva, and began looking around like he had just woken up from sleep.
The turning point in a man’s life is usually so ill-defined that it may take long periods of introspection and a fair amount of debate to define that historical juncture where things started taking a turn for the better. Yet, in my case, I can point to that moment with the precision of an atomic clock. My life changed that instant: that exact moment when I snatched the old man from near death while a thousand faces looked on—faces frozen in admiration, amazement and respect—faces that will be etched in my memory till the day I die. I think the necktie as a tourniquet was the icing on this cake of medical heroism. From the very next day a steady stream of patients began to arrive at my chamber, starting with those who had witnessed my actions, and slowly spreading by word of mouth to those who hadn’t. Common ailments, undiagnosed problems, esoteric maladies and second opinions … nothing was too big or small to solicit my opinion. After a few weeks, the chairs in my chamber were almost always full and I had to hire a nurse to assist me with procedures. Within the next six months there were lines in the corridor waiting for me to open up my chamber. Soon I had to hire another nurse and an office assistant to help me manage the crowds.
Other than getting a second lease on life, things didn’t change much for the balloonwala. True to tradition, I kept buying his balloons every day. Now, instead of bursting them on the way, I’d take them home and put them in the extra room of my new three-bedroom apartment for my dogs to play with. It is so much easier to carry balloons in a car.
That was around when I began seeing Roma. She was someone I had met on an online match-making site and, thanks to a gorgeous photograph, was instantly attracted to her. In real life, she was even prettier with large almond shaped eyes, long slender face and full, sensuous lips. She worked as an English teacher in the local women’s college and had claimed on the website that she was looking for ‘personality’ in a man; which is fine because other than personality I’m not much to write about.
We had been out on a few dates and had enjoyed each other’s company very much. Were it not for the terribly busy practice that I had built up, I’d probably have found more time for her than I could. She didn’t complain but I could sense her disappointment when turning down that chance to catch a movie or the new theatre in town simply because my availability was restricted to just one day a week—Sunday. She would nod and say she understood that I was in the process of building up my practice and that made demands on my priorities. In my position, on the other end of the line, it wouldn’t take a therapist’s intervention to point out that her statements, although addressed to me, were actually for her benefit. And so, when she called me one evening to say that she wanted to meet me and give me a surprise ‘gift’, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was busy and it wasn’t a good idea.
As usual my chamber was still full of patients when I noticed a taxi stop outside and Roma emerged from it. She was holding a bouquet of flowers in her hand and looked gorgeous in her red salwar-kameez. I saw her walk onto the pavement and look around for my nameplate on the walls.
That’s when I saw him. He was looking at her through his thick glasses like watching an apparition. His mouth was open, exaggerating the hollow of his scalloped cheeks that now looked like ice-cream scoopers. His balloons were waving in the wind but he paid them little attention. Nervous, I prayed for one of them to pop or float away.
The patient in front of me was droning on about a backache that I listened with half-hearted interest. I kept stealing glances at Roma as the balloonwala approached her and asked her something. She nodded. He pointed in my direction. She smiled at him and was about to leave when he mimed some more questions. I groaned instinctively.
I began to write some medicines quickly for the patient in my chamber even before she was finished with her symptoms. My eyes were trained outside and I saw the balloonwala point to his balloons and query Roma—questions that left her looking more and more confused. She looked in the direction of my window and I could see the confusion in her eyes slowly turn to anger. The patient in front of me was busy describing another problem when I noticed Roma toss the bouquet of flowers on the ground and return in the direction she had come from. The balloonwala now mirrored her confusion, staring after her and then staring in my direction with that same flummoxed look on his face. I shoved the prescription into the patient’s hand and ran out to stop Roma.
I was too late. I could only watch as she got into a taxi and took off before I had the chance to call out to her even once.
The balloonwala saw me and came running towards me. ‘She was looking for you,’ he said.
‘What did you tell her?’ I asked angrily.
‘I asked how your son was …’
‘Why, damn it! Why?’
‘I thought … she … was …’
‘Who asked you to ask her? Who do you think you are?’
‘I just wanted to know if Nikhil … liked his balloons.’
‘There is no son! There is no Nikhil, you old fool! I’m not even married!’
‘But you said…’
‘I said it to keep you from feeling bad! I didn’t want you to feel bad that I buy your balloons to help you out! I go home and burst them! But you can’t keep anything to yourself, can you? Now that I’ve bought a few balloons from you, who do you think you’ve become … my friend? I was trying to help you … help your sick wife at home! Bah … you fool! Keep your nose out of my business!’
I had clearly overreacted. After all, a clarification was only a phone call away. In fact Roma actually liked my explanation and said what I had done for the balloonwala showed my personality.
I didn’t think so … primarily because from the next day onwards, the balloonwala stopped making an appearance. I’d look out at the spot he usually occupied, craning my neck every few minutes in the middle of a conversation with my patients to see if he was there with his colourful staff. But he never was. Every time I saw someone pass by that spot, I would immediately look up, hoping for a glimpse of that frail figure in the blue and white outfit. My patients noticed my distracted demeanour and few even complained that I was only listening half-heartedly to them and seemed like I longed for them to leave. I reassured them that wasn’t the case although, in my heart of hearts, I couldn’t disagree with them at all.
After a couple of weeks I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked the paanwala if he knew where the balloonwala lived. He did and directed me to a shanty at the other end of town.
I took the next day off from work. I could afford to. I had my manager call up the scheduled patients to tell them that I would be out for the day, and we gave a hundred rupee credit to the ones who showed up unannounced.
On the third floor of a decrepit chawl was where the balloonwala lived. I walked up the rickety stairs to find the door shut and a heavy padlock hanging outside. I knocked on the neighbour’s door. A balding, middle-aged man stepped out and folded his hands immediately upon seeing me dressed in a suit.
‘Do you know where this man is? He was this old fellow who sold balloons at the shopping complex.’
‘He … he died about a week or so ago, sahib.’
I felt a heaviness descend upon my heart. ‘Died? How?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure, sahib. We didn’t meet him for many days and he stopped coming out. Then, when he stopped responding to our knocking on the door, we finally broke open the door and found his body on the bed … all cold and quiet.’
I took in a deep breath. ‘He must have another episode of hypogly … I mean low blood sugar,’ I said. ‘His diabetes was not under good control.’
‘Diabetes? He didn’t have diabetes…’
I ignored the man’s opinion.
‘What about his wife,’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she notice anything?
Didn’t she help him or call for help?’
The man looked even more surprised. ‘His wife?’
‘Yes, she had saved his life the last time he had the same condition…low blood sugar … she also had diabetes and…’
‘She had diabetes, he didn’t. But she died long ago, sahib … almost six or seven years ago!’
I suddenly had a sinking feeling in my stomach. ‘Died? From what?’
‘She was taking some medication for her diabetes that she wasn’t supposed to. The doctor didn’t tell her and then something happened to her … too much acid or something. Poor lady suffered a lot … was in a hospital for almost three months. But he wasn’t willing to give up. Can you imagine how expensive it was for him to keep paying for her care while she was in coma in a private hospital for three months? He spent all his money … every last paisa he had saved in his forty years working as a teacher. He tried desperately to save her life … sold off his house and moved to this shanty to raise money for her treatment, read up everything about diabetes, contacted all the top doctors, tried all different treatments. When he exhausted all his money and everything they sent her home … here, where she lay in coma for a week or so. After that she died … right here, in that room … about six or seven years ago.’
A headache—slow and throbbing—was gradually materializing over my temples. I tried to bite down hard on my jaws. ‘How can that be? I used to write prescriptions for both of them—’
‘Oh, sahib … you are a doctor?’
‘Yes … yes, I am,’ I said, unsure of why that mattered.
‘Is your office near where he worked?’
I nodded, even more perplexed.
‘Oh, doctor sahib … please wait here, I have something for you.’ The man turned back inside and returned with a used Bubbly’s balloons plastic packet. He handed it over to me, a slightly uncertain and apologetic look on his face. ‘Two days before he stopped coming out, he gave me this and said that I should give it to you. He gave me your address and all, but I haven’t had the time, sahib … I’m sorry … but it is a good thing you came by yourself.’
I overturned the bag to empty its contents. The first thing to spill out was a neat roll of papers that turned out to be all the unused prescriptions I have ever written in his and his wife’s names. Then, with my heart beating loud and fast, when I put my hand inside and felt around, I pulled out a half-empty, partially used vial of Insulin.