Two Stories

"Heparin, a powerful anticoagulant, is a drug discovered in 1916 by Jay McLean, a second year medical student in John Hopkins University."

Prof. Rajendra "Hitler" Holla, Associate Dean

and Head of Department of Pharmacology

"Hear that? He’s only in second year and he made such an awesome discovery. What have you done so far in second year? I’ll bet that your greatest achievement to date is to not die in the first 10 minutes of a DOTA game."

Me, whispering to Shaki

"Dude, had DOTA been available in 1916, this McLean guy would never have discovered Heparin."

Shaki

Okay, this post’s quotes have nothing to do with its contents. Just thought I’d share a bit of light-hearted in-lecture banter before I dive into today’s picture-less wall of text.

Let’s do things a little differently here this time. What I’m going to do here is share two separate experiences of mine with you. I will not offer my usual narrow point of view on them. I will not attempt to entreat you to think as I. And I promise that I will try my best to present to you as objective a narration of the events as I’m able to.

I want your unaffected and uncontaminated opinions on the two happenings - and so as to not let others’ subjectivity alter your own, I will turn on the comment moderation function of this weblog.

I will later approve your comments for Joe Public after an unspecified number of days of my own choosing and whim. But if you do not wish that, tag your comment with "for your eyes only" and I’ll take it as a private message to me, and keep it confidential indefinitely.

Give me your commentaries, your two-cents, your two-rupees, your one-liners, your death-threats, your ransom notes, your whatever! Just talk!

Humor me.

Story One

Manipal is the home of many universities and colleges, and a great number of these institutes are of the healthcare persuasion – like medicine, nursing, dentistry, pharmaceutical sciences – and naturally, a substantial slice of the population is students hailing from these lines.

Besides that, Manipal is also a regional hospice Mecca comparable to the likes of big-ass cities like Bombay and New Delhi. The streets are practically crawling with white coats. Take a brick and lob in it any old direction and you’ll probably kill a doctor.

Okay, enough back-story.

I was walking home from my solitary lunch at Dollops when I saw a scruffy man lying on the asphalt road where a great number of vehicles traverse daily. He was not propped up against the sidewalk, or lying with his back against a tree, or chillin’ on a particularly shady spot. In fact, he was lying flat on his back, his limbs sprawled at odd angles with a beam of the blistering noonday sun spotlighting his face and chest. I am quite positive he wasn't enjoying this.

I wondered if the man was ill – or worse – dead. I observed him for a quiet minute from a distance, seeing many men and women garbed in medical white coats and stethoscopes around their necks walking pass that man as if he was simply not there.

That man was lying on the road right in front of the International Centre of Health Sciences (ICHS), where most of our lecturers have their own private offices. Most of them are doctors in their own rights. Many of them also walked past that man without offering so much as a glance.

It was as if that man was simply not there. I know I am repeating myself, but that was precisely the eerie sensation that scene gave me. I just want you to know that.

An unexplained feeling of urgency rose in me and I homed in on Lying-On-Road Beggar Guy. I called “Namaskara (which was “Hello” in Kannada, the local dialect),” loudly for several times before he woke up with a start, squinting because the sun’s ray was shining right into his eyes.

Having no linguistic means of asking him whether he needed any medical help, I pulled out a 20 rupees note from my pocket and gave it to that man.

Then, I walked away.

End of Story One.

Story Two

This one is short and simple.

I saw an old beggar woman sitting on the pavement right outside Saiba, where I had my dinner. She looked weathered, undernourished, emaciated – more deadwood than human. I knew life is tough for people holding a bowl for a living, but it seemed to me that she had it much tougher than most others.

My curiosity was piqued when I saw an old beggar man sat down right beside her, so I decided to watch them for a bit from across the road (I observe people; it’s like a hobby of mine), where they won’t notice my looking.

The pair of beggars talked a bit, and from the woman’s gestures, I guessed that that day wasn’t quite as productive as she would have liked. It must be pretty hard for a woman her age to go begging on the streets – an occupation more suited for the hyperactive (and very, very persistent) beggar kids.

The man then untied a bundle he was carrying, uncovering the paraphernalia of objects that a pauper would number as his possessions. From among them, he selected a battered-looking, half-eaten corncob which he probably have been saving for later. He then gave it to the beggar woman who tucked in with gusto.

Then, gathering all his stuff, he stood up and left.

End of Story Two.

Both the events happened last year.

Thoughts?

[Edit: The comments are published. Thank you for playing. This post is a study in humanity, both of the people in the stories, and of the people who reacts to them.]


Am listening to you,
k0k s3n w4i