Nurungukal: Nurungukal…… A licensed Medical Practitione...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal……      A licensed Medical Practitione...:   Nurungukal……      A licensed Medical Practitioner, a Judge, a few advocates, some Gujarati merchants, traders, teachers, a church etc an...

 

Nurungukal……

     A licensed Medical Practitioner, a Judge, a few advocates, some Gujarati merchants, traders, teachers, a church etc and the schools in which I had the education were all that I could claim as part of my childhood social fabric of Ponnani, my native place, during 1940s and 1960s. Among them our doctor, a family friend stood apart on several counts to me. He was gentle, soft spoken and very humane. Even a mere touch or caress by his feather like fingers soothed you and kept the illness at bay. Every day on our way to school he would be seen negotiating the country roads in his black car with dexterity and pride. He was on his usual schedule of visiting some of the elite families. The black framed spectacles balanced down on his nose, could catch any ones attention against the background of a rosy face. He was one of the few who wore pants and shirt those days, apart from a few advocates, who preferred to be in their drab black and white.  Whenever somebody fell ill we used to go early in the morning to his house to request him for extending his morning visit to our house. Simultaneously we have to request a rickshaw puller to bring him, as there was no motorable road in those days to our house. We used to wait for him at our gate, casting our eyes on the other end of a paddy field . As soon as he was sighted we rushed to carry his bag in which there used to be some essential medicines and stethoscope, thermometer, torch, etc.

          I very vividly remember the way he conducted the examination.  A look at the protruded tongue, then a peep into the throat with the help of the torch light, reading the temperature by inserting the thermometer below the tongue while counting your pulse rate were his usual symptoms analysis. Then one or two taps with a folded forefinger on the back side of the palm, placed on the stomach and back at vital points.

          Our mother will be going on narrating the illness lucidly, often distracting the attention of the doctor. In the case of our father, he will answer in mono syllables to the queries of the doctor.  Once his observations are  over, he would take down a yellow pad and scribble one or two medicines after a subdued briefing. On several occasions I had struggled hard to make out the contents of what he had written but in vain. It was a coded communication between him and the dispenser. He would then excuse himself without waiting for mother to complete her narration, with a nod to my father, who by that time might have adequately compensated the expenditure of his advice.

      It was our duty then to rush on foot to the only medical store which was a few miles away. The compounder on seeing the prescription would without any hesitation disappear into the next room, in which were wooden racks full of big bottles and clay jars, containing basic chemicals. He would come back with one or two green cut glass bottles with full of colourfull medicinal mixtures. On reaching home it was our duty to paste strips of paper in order to apportion the contents according to the prescribed doses.        

             Looking back now, I wonder how he managed to arrive at his choice of cure, by a mere tap or touch. In fact the other day when I was hospitalized with a fever and body pain, the doctor’s decision to arrive at the treatment came after an analysis of the functioning of my whole system. It was a safe and sure procedure. It reveals the extent of advance which the medical science has progressed over a few decades. The young doctor and his enthusiastic team who attended me worked like a well oiled engine, leaving nothing to be over looked before arriving at the correct decisions. I always keep their services in high esteem, considering the volume and variety of diverse cases requiring a large amount of comprehension and understanding to maintain a level of balance before arriving at the course of action in each case to be adopted. Comparing its challenges, it’s a service par excellent. To acquire a degree of acceptance among their stake holders requires perseverance and tenacity of purpose clubbed with cost consciousness and constant awareness of their commitment to the society.  I offer a big salute to the medical fraternity.

        Then it was kaipunnyam

         Now it is  Naipunnyam

   

            

Nurungukal: Nurungukal……… ...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal………                                   ...:   Nurungukal………                                        A miniature easy chair sent to me by my daughter a few days ago rekindled my memori...

 

Nurungukal………

                                      A miniature easy chair sent to me by my daughter a few days ago rekindled my memories about a bigger version, which was adorning the front portico of our majestic Naalukettu. Of all the names we have given for a seat, like “stool”, “sofa” or “chair”, I think the most apt one was “easy chair”, when we consider its purpose and utility. Although it has disappeared nowadays from the list of essential piece of furniture, to a few like me it still holds a covetable place, because it was in such a one my father enjoyed to spend most of his day time, either reading a news paper or in conversation with others. It remained proudly in our front portico for many years till recently a plastic chair replaced it, to my utmost despair.

     An easy chair, left alone is not an attractive piece of art.   It is a folding type wooden chair, with an armrest which can be elongated to keep the legs while intending to take a deliberate sleep. It may not even capture a position in the list of an antique. Yet it attains a pinnacle of glory depending on its occupier. Many writers have opted for its comfort to roll out their best creations. So were many political leaders. I have seen my father reclining on it to devourer the “Hindu” news paper or in a deep siesta. I can even today visualize how he used to rest his head on the thump and little finger and forking the nose with the middle and pointing fingers. None of the youngsters in the house usually ventured to rest on it when our father is in the house. It was his exclusive abode, revered, sanctified and proud status symbol. The positioning of the chair enabled him to police any movements and nobody could pass the portico without his notice.

      Its position would change as the sun lowers down in the Arabian Sea. For him, its time to rest a while under the old tamarind tree in the courtyard, whistling a few stanzas of Kathakali Padams. By dusk, he will once again move up to share the company of mother and Chathettan, our neighbor and a distant relative of mother to sip a glass of warm soup. On rare occasions we used to squeeze into their company. Relaxing on the arm chair father would occasionally make some harmless and sarcastic comments about the proceedings in which mother and her relative would be the active participants.

        A cry of the mottled wood owl from the nearby sacred grove would alert father to call it a day and the trio would slowly disperse gently to meet again next day. These sessions made a great imprint in us to take stock of the important national and local events which I feel has contributed much to mould our character and social commitments. Thanks to the easy chair and the one who had designed it.