maid in india

                                                              Maid in India

                                                    By

                                          Vivek Hande

We are a working  couple and  have two growing sons.  Consequently , a major issue in our lives is the availability or the lack of domestic help. The Maid assumes larger than life importance in our lives. The availability of an appropriate and a reliable  maid governs our social life and several other facets of our life. With erratic working hours and ill timed visits  to the hospital on account of emergencies, the maid assumes a central role in our existence.

              What my parents could not teach me, several years of domesticity and dealing with maids of all shapes, sizes, caste, creed, temperament, religion and linguistic preference has taught me in abundant measure. Patience ,tolerance, humility, generosity, fortitude and a forgiving nature have become an intrinsic part of my  character. My mother can’t recognize me and my wife wonders where these sterling traits disappear when it comes to my behaviour with her!

               It has been a long journey and each of the ones on a very long list of maids had something to teach me. Many years back, Shantamma, who was our maid then, made it clear she would watch ‘Ramayan” in the mornings and “Santa Barbara”(a juicy American soap) in the evenings on my newly acquired TV and work had to be squeezed in between the two television offerings. Alice, a misguided spirit was under the impression that my home was the local center for “Alcoholics Anonymous”. After several trips to the hospital with her perennially inebriated husband, I became an expert on Alcohol related liver diseases but we had to march the couple on to someone more spirited than myself. Lata was very religious and that was a good omen till I realized she was serving the good lord more than us. Monday, she would want to visit the Lakshmi temple; Tuesday was devoted to the famous Hanuman mandir; Wednesday was for the Hande family; Thursday- a busy day; Sai Baba in the morning and Pir Baba at the Dargah in the evening; Friday was immersed in Chitala Devi and after some respite on Saturday, Mass at the Good Shepherd Church on Sunday was mandatory. Unfortunately our needs were more earthly and we had to let this spiritual soul drift away from us. Then came Saira; things seemed alright for sometime till I started discovering a lot of people in town wearing my favourite shirts and looking rather smart and trendy. She had to leave after depleting my wardrobe considerably. To be fair ,there have been many who have been warm and kind and affectionate and some have been sincere and honest too.

                        Needless to say, it has taken a lot of tact and patience dealing with the lot and one has learnt many lessons along the way and one continues to learn each day . I must let you onto a little secret. Knowledge of my tremendous experience in dealing with maids has reached the precincts of  the Indian Institute of Management. The various IIMs have approached  me to launch their new MBA program on Maid Management  and take over as the faculty head in view of the tremendous interest and demand for the course. Needless to say , I shall keep you posted on developments….

no sneezing matter

                                            No sneezing matter!

                                By Vivek Hande

                                                    

                                             

Some people are compulsive liars; others are compulsive shoppers or walkers. Well , I am a compulsive sneezer. My sneezing habits and abilities have made me a legendary figure among friends, colleagues, family and acquaintances. My fame , if I may call that, has spread far and wide. My record of maximum sneezes on the trot is likely to be verified shortly by the authorities at the Guiness Book of world Records and is going to find a honorable mention in the 2013 edition!

Some unexplained biological rhythm wakes me up at quarter to five in the morning with the first of a series of sneezes. Thereafter , as the day progresses, the frequency and intensity of my rhinological explosions goes on mounting. Neither me , nor my neighbors have used an alarm clock to wake up in the morning for several years. The neighborhood departmental store has long since given up trying to cope with my requirement of tissue and napkins. Many of the companies vie for my nose with the latest in heavy duty tissue paper and four ply napkins and try them out for performance scores and quality control before introducing them into the market. Pharmaceutical companies are invariably trying to woo me with their latest antihistaminics and try to buy my loyalty with gifts of expensive pens and silk ties. When I shift allegiance to a rival company , their stock ,inevitably soars on the share market. My friends seek me out constantly for information on ‘insider trading’.

My wife, however , has been threatening divorce for several years. My parents are on the verge of disowning me and my friends greet me as strangers when they are with friends and classmates. We do get exceptional service in restaurants and sometimes they even waive the bill, as the mangers want me to finish quickly and leave . The real estate agent has a tough time convincing folks to move into the next door flat. More often than not , it remains vacant; very few survive beyond three months. My boss finds it more convenient to promote me rather than sit across me  and analyze my performance face to face.

I have tried everything under the sun and the moon. Allopathy; Homeopathy; Naturopathy; Ayurveda( I could have bought a Honda Civic with the  amount I spent); Reiki , yoga and what have you. I have consulted rhinolgists, psychiatrists , psychologists, proctologists bit to no avail. My maid recommended a mouthful of hot chilies and standing barefoot under the sun for an hour. I developed ulcers in the mouth ; blisters on the foot; sacked the maid and continued to sneeze. I am beginning to get depressed; my patients (incidentally I am a doctor) are leaving me and my clinic wears a deserted look. I have very few friends and family left and things are getting worse by the day. I would like to appeal to readers to send suggestions/ advice/ prescriptions at hande@sneeze-sneeze.com  and bail me out of this terribly sticky situation !!

the patient is always right

                                                         The  patient is  always right!!

                                       By Vivek Hande

Having spent more than two and a half decades in contact with patients in one capacity or the other, I am convinced of the oft repeated statement , “the Patient is always right!”. Often, one may tend to disregard the complaints of the patient, if one cannot find a straight forward clinical correlate for the symptoms. One often finds the cause of the symptoms after spending much time, money, effort and considerable agony to all concerned. I have no doubts any longer that the patient is always right even though at times, the narrative of the symptoms may be bizarre , ridiculous , far fetched or improbable.  Very often what the patient tells you may be beneficial, for reasons other than clinical! The patient is always right, that is for sure…

Many years ago , when I was appearing for my Medicine Viva Voce  for my MBBS degree,  Francis , an Anglo –Indian was my patient . It was my first major clinical exam but he was a   veteran of examinations. I was desperately trying to get my very confused thoughts about the patient in some semblance of order.  Francis was rather amused with my efforts. He told me, “I am a case of Cirrhosis of Liver with Portal Hypertension. My Liver is enlarged which is not consistent with a diagnosis of Cirrhosis.  The examiner is going to ask you about the causes of enlarged liver in a case of Cirrhosis. If you answer well, he will ask you about Drugs which can cause hepatic damage. Don’t waste your time and efforts on other issues. Just concentrate on this and you will do well.”  I took a calculated risk and focused my thoughts on the matter suggested by him and put the rest on the backburner. Well, as predicted , the examiners were consistent with their line of questioning and I did rather well. Francis was proud of me and I had the fact reconfirmed-the patient is always right!

Then , there was this patient – Jagadish. He was a tall. well built strapping Jat. He cut a very impressive figure in his uniform . He used to suffer from repeated episodes of pain abdomen. He would keep coming back to the casualty and the Medical and Surgical OPDs. Each time he was evaluated in detail. The examination was always unremarkable. The investigations were always normal. He underwent repeated Endoscopies and Ultrasonographies and CT Scans and Barium  studies , but everything was always normal. Somebody though he was malingering and trying to avoid duties. He was evaluated by the psychiatrists as well, but nothing seemed to work out. He continued to be symptomatic off and on.  During the symptom free periods, he was absolutely normal and would play in Unit games and discharge all his duties well. However,  the pain would return and a couple of times , it coincided with his detailment  on temporary duties. He was branded a poor team man and nobody took his abdominal complaints seriously any longer.  He suffered from a loss of self-esteem and went into depression.He was hospitalized yet  again with pain abdomen and he was re-evaluated in detail. Virtually, every cause of pain abdomen in the book was looked up and he was evaluated for the same. He was finally diagnosed with Acute Intermittent Porphyria, a condition which does not produce too many clinical signs and shows up normal on almost all tests except the very specific Blood tests which have to be specially asked for. Jagadish was happy that a diagnosis was finally found – he was actually happier that he would no longer be regarded as a malingerer! The patient is always right!

And then there was this very astute clinician ,  much senior to me. He had a very sharp clinical mind and was rather proud of his clinical abilities. He developed a pretty chronic cough and he diagnosed himself to be suffering from Allergic Bronchitis and treated himself for the same. His cough persisted and his colleagues pointed out to him that he was losing a little weight. He assured himself and his colleagues that it was due to his strict dietary regime that he was losing weight. He was confident about his diagnosis and refused to show himself to anyone. One day , during ward rounds, one of his patients , a grey haired veteran of several hospital admissions and the proud owner of many morbidities told him, “ Doctor  Saheb, get your blood tested and get an X -Ray. You have Diabetes and I am pretty sure you have TB!”  The Clinician scoffed at the suggestion and moved on. But later in the day , when he was having his second cup of extra sweet coffee, the words of the patient kept ringing in his ear. He thought back about his symptoms and his problems. The next morning he gave his blood samples and got an X-Ray. His Blood Sugar was 385mg/dl and he had a   cavitatory lesion on the X-Ray. He responded to Anti –Tubercular therapy and his sugars gradually came under control with medication. Yet   again , in a manner of speaking , the patient is always right!

In our clinical practice we see all kinds of cases and all kinds of patients. As clinicians, it would always do us good to remember two things-Primum Non Nocere-First do no harm !  Also ,  the patient is always right!!!

the hand that rocks the cradle

                                            The hand that rocks the cradle!!

                                                                             By

                                                                    Vivek Hande

It was a very long time back, in the very early nineties, when I was stationed in Assam. The thoughts of that lovely North Eastern state always evokes memories of lush green stretches of verdant forest. Rain forests, heavy monsoons, clean unpolluted air and simple ,affectionate people going about their business of life is what I remember fondly of that beautiful place. Another memory , which is inevitably linked in my mind , is a lesson in the expression about looks being deceptive and a delightful lesson in Queen’s English!

 My elder son was born while I was stationed there. After a few months , there rose the necessity of acquiring a pram for the young man. Guwahati, where I was headed  for the necessary purchase, was nearly a hundred and fifty kilometers from my location. Armed with a list of specifications from my wife regarding the pram , I reached the fabled Pan and Fancy Bazaars of the  city. It was hot , humid and dusty by the time  I reached , but I was a man with a mission. I was initially surprised and then increasingly dejected and dismayed as I drew a blank in shop after shop. I told shopkeeper after another I needed a pram. They looked at me without comprehension. I gave a graphic verbal description of what I needed ;I drew what I definitely thought, looked like a pram and showed it around and then finally an effective demonstration  of an imaginary baby in an imaginary pram being pushed by a proud father. But , inspite of my best audio-visual presentations, no luck , no pram. My descriptions produced everything other than a pram and I was offered a bed pan, a washing machine and an Idli maker , but no pram.

I had almost given up and was now scouting some of the smaller dusty by-lanes of the market. I approached a Lungi –clad disinterested elderly gent in a small shop

and launched into my well honed pitch for the elusive pram. He spat out a mouthful of betel juice, put on his spectacles, scratched his groin and peered at me through his thick glasses. He then spoke to me in an amazing baritone, in the clearest English diction , I have ever heard, “Young man, why are you making all these funny gestures and making a fool of yourself? You want a perambulator and that is  what you will get!” I could not believe my ears –that was perhaps the last time I have ever heard the word in all these years. The pram / perambulator turned out to be a Victorian relic with a lace canopy and lace trimmings on the wheels and the Union Jack emblazoned on the head rest. It was a monstrosity and no where near the stringent specifications given by my wife but it was a pram, or should I say perambulator .

Well, the young man had his distinguished carriage  and I had a lesson in Queen’s English in the most unexpected of places and incongruous of surroundings. Life never ceases to amaze!

the hand that rocks the cradle

                                            The hand that rocks the cradle!!

                                                                             By

                                                                    Vivek Hande

It was a very long time back, in the very early nineties, when I was stationed in Assam. The thoughts of that lovely North Eastern state always evokes memories of lush green stretches of verdant forest. Rain forests, heavy monsoons, clean unpolluted air and simple ,affectionate people going about their business of life is what I remember fondly of that beautiful place. Another memory , which is inevitably linked in my mind , is a lesson in the expression about looks being deceptive and a delightful lesson in Queen’s English!

 My elder son was born while I was stationed there. After a few months , there rose the necessity of acquiring a pram for the young man. Guwahati, where I was headed  for the necessary purchase, was nearly a hundred and fifty kilometers from my location. Armed with a list of specifications from my wife regarding the pram , I reached the fabled Pan and Fancy Bazaars of the  city. It was hot , humid and dusty by the time  I reached , but I was a man with a mission. I was initially surprised and then increasingly dejected and dismayed as I drew a blank in shop after shop. I told shopkeeper after another I needed a pram. They looked at me without comprehension. I gave a graphic verbal description of what I needed ;I drew what I definitely thought, looked like a pram and showed it around and then finally an effective demonstration  of an imaginary baby in an imaginary pram being pushed by a proud father. But , inspite of my best audio-visual presentations, no luck , no pram. My descriptions produced everything other than a pram and I was offered a bed pan, a washing machine and an Idli maker , but no pram.

I had almost given up and was now scouting some of the smaller dusty by-lanes of the market. I approached a Lungi –clad disinterested elderly gent in a small shop

and launched into my well honed pitch for the elusive pram. He spat out a mouthful of betel juice, put on his spectacles, scratched his groin and peered at me through his thick glasses. He then spoke to me in an amazing baritone, in the clearest English diction , I have ever heard, “Young man, why are you making all these funny gestures and making a fool of yourself? You want a perambulator and that is  what you will get!” I could not believe my ears –that was perhaps the last time I have ever heard the word in all these years. The pram / perambulator turned out to be a Victorian relic with a lace canopy and lace trimmings on the wheels and the Union Jack emblazoned on the head rest. It was a monstrosity and no where near the stringent specifications given by my wife but it was a pram, or should I say perambulator .

Well, the young man had his distinguished carriage  and I had a lesson in Queen’s English in the most unexpected of places and incongruous of surroundings. Life never ceases to amaze!

the wagener- clime flavor

                                     The Wagener –Clime flavor

                                              By Vivek Hande

I have always loved ice – cream in any shape, form, size, color or flavor. I could gorge  ice- cream at any time of the day and it could well substitute any meal.  A constant battle of the bulge and the fear of a generous waist line prevent me from indulging as often as I would like to. However, my eternal favorite has always remained fresh strawberry. For many many years, fresh strawberry has always been the Wagener –Clime flavor for me.  There is a little story behind it.

It was more than two and a half decades ago when I was doing my internship after medical school in Delhi. I attended the World Congress of Neurology. It was a glittering affair and it attracted leading neurophysicians from across the world. It was a stimulating week. The lectures were top grade and it was intoxicating picking the brains of the leading authorities on various subjects. In addition to the academic activities, there were a host of lavish lunches and dinners. As a very junior medico. I would at times feel a trifle overawed and a bit out of place at times. My discomfiture was noted by a white haired old lady. She was very elegant and carried herself with great dignity. She introduced herself as Dr. Wagener-Clime, MD from Copenhagen; a rather modest introduction for one of the leading neurophysicians from Denmark.

We hit it off very well and notwithstanding the difference in age of more than fifty years, we became friends. We discussed everything under the sun-Neurology, Indian customs and traditions; marriage, politics, music and cinema. She was thrilled with snake –charmers and cycle –rickshaws. The Qutub Minar fascinated her and she found the Saree highly intriguing. She found Hindi film songs pleasing to the ear. She even picked up a smattering of Hindi and I introduced her to the nuances of Kannada. She was turning into quite an Indophile.

However, come mealtime and her sense of adventure would abandon her and nothing would convince her to try anything cooked in the hotel. She showed me her suitcase full of tinned food-sausages, ham, salami, baked beans and cheese. She even had an amazing supply of Danish pastry and bottled water. She had a mortal fear of getting food poisoning and acquiring a deadly strain of Salmonella or Cholera or some other tropical infection.

With considerable difficulty, I persuaded her to overcome her fears and try some of my favorite strawberry ice-cream. She was hooked thereafter. “Indian ice- cream is so much better than back home”. The next few days she attacked strawberry ice-cream with lip smacking gusto for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She devoured strawberry ice-cream with a maniacal zest. She returned a few days later to Denmark and we remained in touch over the years. She is no more but for me strawberry ice cream can be nothing other than the Wagener-Clime flavor!!

what is in a name?

                                                           What is in a name ?

                                                            By

                                                    Vivek Hande

What is in a name, you might ask? I talk about nicknames or pet names or whatever you may call them. These names have so much of a story to tell. They tell you often about regional affiliations, religious inclinations, musical preferences; at times about size, shape, color or even a state of mind. Well, sometimes   they convey nothing at all. Some names are distinctive of a particular region and you could almost fix a personality and a face to the name by merely listening to the name. An analysis of these names is as fascinating as the names themselves!

                     Classic nicknames like Tony, Rocky, Bunty,  Pinky , Dolly ,Sweetie invariably remind you of warm , hearty ,affectionate, energetic folks invariably from Delhi, Punjab or thereabouts. Jhumi, Tinku,  Rinku, Jhumpa, Jhumpi, Bulu , Toolu, Baapi and Khoka-the list is endless and   takes you to the Bengalis, who are one of the great masters of the nickname business. A Goan couple I knew, had their first two kids named Bunny and Sunny and when they were blessed with a third one, a little late in life , they had no option but to call the young fellow Funny!

            Chotu, a very popular name might have been alright for the kid but just seems a little incongruous when a hurly six -footer with a thick beard responds to this epithet. Also, somehow, most waiters in hostels, canteens and cafes just somehow are always Chotu. Baby, need not necessarily be of  diminutive size and delicate disposition- I have seen enough who  are neither baby-like in size or behavior. Tingu ,is more often than not a short , wiry individual. A subtle one was AB Singh ,a Sardar ,a trifle whimsical but who was rechristened ‘Ab-Surd’ for life!

       Some names, invariably transform into abbreviated names and that sticks for life. Bharadwaj almost always is Birdy; Subramanian is either Subbu or Mani. Saxena, is often Sexy(regardless of sex appeal); Venkatesh is Venky; Chopra is more often than not Chopsy; Parthasarthy is Partha and Pattabhiraman is obviously Pattu. Krishna Kant Prem Kumar is KKPK; Dayaram Naresh Arolikar is popularly DNA and   Algappa Baindraj Chellaiah Doraiswamy has to be ABCD and nothing else!

        I may get confused with the real names of some very interesting personalities in college. But their nicknames are still fresh in mind. I don’t remember whether it was their physical attributes or behavior or persona which prompted these names but they sure got engraved in memory. Bull; Gainda (Hindi for Rhinoceros); Chipku(sticky); Moti(pearl) and the trio of Aadu, Maadu and Khadu- I don’t have the foggiest idea regarding the significance or the origin of the names but these names have survived time and tide.

            Another set of interesting names are those based on gastronomic delights. One of my favorites was a set of twins, Kaju and Kishmish! Nobody can take away the thrill of calling out to Jalebi or tenderly beckon  Jamun. HS Nath became Nuts for life and is quite nutty in his own way. A little out of the usual, a passionate mango lover, who had three boys fondly responding to Langda, Dasheri and Aapus- believe it or not!

Each name has a distinct character, flavor, identity and at the cost of disagreeing with Shakespeare , Rose can certainly not smell as special  as Gulab!!