Hi everyone!
Came across a senior citizen recently whose cataract operation was botched up by a charitable eye hospital in the city. An all too common occurrence no doubt, but that's precisely why we need to take a close, hard look at what ails our delivery systems.
If you ask me, there's only one word for what's wrong with all our work-- we're too damn unprofessional in our attitude and behaviour. It's bad enough to be shoddy and lazy in our thinking but it's far worse when we project that in our behaviour as well.
What helps such unprofessionalism thrive is our general laidbackness as consumers. That's why we get the quality we do and have to fight every inch of the way in the courts, which of course are another story.
Coming back to the case in question, the elderly man began to see three of everything, saw flashes of bright light, and generally had disturbed vision. He consulted two eye surgeons, who told him the operation had damaged his eyes. His case papers record the fact that the operation was conducted by an intern of the charitable hospital and not the surgeon himself.
While he sank into depression, I called the hospital superintendent and told him the story. Barely had I completed the second sentence than the manager barked, ``How does he know this surgery was done by an intern? His eyes would be closed. He's talking rubbish.''
First demonstration of offence being the best defence, (a textbook no-no when it comes to customers.)
Having by now understood the score after dealing with so many such cases, I yelled back. He shut up a bit, heard me out and said he needs to see him. I requested the senior citizen to see this gentleman who seemed to be clearly thinking a way out of the mess.
Sure enough, when the senior citizen visited the hospital, he was forced to see the medical director of the charitable hospital, who gave him a clean chit and said there was nothing wrong with him and a change of glasses would do the needful.
When I called again to say there were three expert opinions on record saying the hospital had gone wrong once, and that the hospital could accept and pay up the costs of his future operations and treatment, the superintendent directed me to a trustee of the hospital who had been briefed.
Though, as a journalist, I neednt have done so much calling, I called the trustee and asked him for his take. He turned out to be a shrew. Knowing well he was cornered, he opted for orchestrated aggression. ``You don't have to teach a doctor how to treat my patients. We do so much charity, we treat people free, we get lakhs in donation, how dare you teach me?''
I was momentarily taken aback and said, ``I am not teaching you anything, only asking you if you will compensate him for the damages he has suffered.''
``How can I say that without looking at his case? How can you call me up saying you are a journalist? You're blackmailing me!''
Huh! ``But I didnt- I havent said anything about blackmailing you. I am only saying-''
``I have reputed, US-trained doctors working in my hospital. What do you mean by saying you'll expose me? This is not right. I have 25 years in this field, own a 30-bed hospital, I am..''
``But I am not saying anything about exposing you. I-''
``What do you mean, you are a journalist, So you can write what you want?! You're saying you'll expose me. I will not blah blahhhhh.''
``Will you hear me out? Hello? Listen please. What's your problem? No. Hello? I have to tell you I am a journalist because I am one! How does that amount to-''
``You cant call up and demand compensation. You're going to expose me? We have the best doctors blah blah.''
``But the best doctors goof up. The consumer courts are full of such cases. And here, it was an intern-''
``Oh, so you want to take me to court? You're threatening me? You'll expose me?I dont tolerate this blah blah.''
``But I havent said anything about the court. I only-''
Somewhere during the course of these parallel tracks of monologues, I realised I was defending myself for things I wasnt guilty of! Wisening up to this defence mechanism at last, I began yelling at him as well. This continued for while and when I found I was not getting anywhere with this Shylock, I decided to hang up with these grand words, ``You should thank me for giving your hospital so much time on such a simple case. But since you dont spare any sympathy even for your patients, I shouldnt expect anything better.''
I rest my case. My only worry is I may need an ENT surgeon. The word, ``expose'' keeps ringing in my ears.
Friday, December 21, 2007
We visited another world last week.
It was dense with tall, green trees, the earth was red and pebbled, the horses hawed and neighed and galloped all the time, and an army of monkeys walked along chirping continuously. The majesty of the mist-capped hills held us spellbound, the gentle nip in the air teased and titillated, the snowy sky dropped dew even as the moon slithered away with practised ease.
We came back to earth every few hours for replenishment. And the lavish Gujarati thali seemed to soften the blow.
Afternoons were spent on nowhere land as the peace and quiet within and without grew to lull us into a satiated slumber. A sharp zing of ginger in the tea, sipped on a swing, would equip us for another road of discovery. Each time we walked to an end, the visual tapestry unfolding before us would hit us anew. Mostly, it was the ridged terrain that compelled awe in our highly unyielding selves. Sometimes, it was a quaint, old dam that defined one side of the green waters framed by lush trees, or an ancient temple which was all yours for all the time you need.
I have been a virtual resident of this many-splendoured land in my childhood, when a week-long vacation was a must for the family every few months. We travelled first class, stayed in the best hotel in peak season, rode horses like maniacs till the horse tired of us, and, then, ran with their hooves till dusk broke to dawn.
When we did walk, we locked arms and blocked the road, chanting in sync, ``I left, I left, I left my wife and 48 children in the ....'' (for the penultimate step, you took a step backward, and psyched everyone around out of their wits.)
All the while, we would be bathed in the red dust that continually rose and settled on the stony paths all leading to some panoramic points. Echo Point, Monkey Point, Sunset Point, Sunrise Point, Charlotte Lake, Louisa Point, Rambaug Point, and some ten others-- each sharply rivalling the other in the regalty of the view it proffered.
As kids, we had to reckon with the monkeys hanging close to our rooms, waiting for a half-chance to swoop on the mangoes in the crate that inevitably accompanied us in the summers. Outside the hotel, they hopped around you, and, making a mockery of your self-belief, scratched and snatched that peanut packet you had held in a tight fist. I firmly believe that we have a huge hand in the continuation of this ancestral tribe.
Riding was a high that has never since been breached. Our loyal horseman would pick some thoroughbreds, who were either preparing for the Mahalaxmi race track or were done with it, and we'd set off for a wild run, winding up on at least one occasion each time with a heart-pounding gallop on the deserted race course of the place.
At times, the horses got moody and wanted to nick at you. Mine tried that once mid-trot, stopping right in middle of the bazaar and turning its long neck to have a go at my legs. Even as I tried reining him in, someone cut across the road and took charge of my wayward ward.
I am loathe to be back in this concrete hell even though I no longer sit on horses, or do I covet monkeys as much (I see enough of them in the city). What I do miss are the red soil, the imprints of hooves on it, and the smell of horse and horse shit in the air. I miss the easy ambience where nobody cares what you wear because it all looks red anyway. I miss the lazy walks and the tread along the edge of endless cliffs. Most of all, I miss watching the sunset without feeling guilty for doing so.
In case you still dont know which place I'm talking about, it's called Matheran.
It was dense with tall, green trees, the earth was red and pebbled, the horses hawed and neighed and galloped all the time, and an army of monkeys walked along chirping continuously. The majesty of the mist-capped hills held us spellbound, the gentle nip in the air teased and titillated, the snowy sky dropped dew even as the moon slithered away with practised ease.
We came back to earth every few hours for replenishment. And the lavish Gujarati thali seemed to soften the blow.
Afternoons were spent on nowhere land as the peace and quiet within and without grew to lull us into a satiated slumber. A sharp zing of ginger in the tea, sipped on a swing, would equip us for another road of discovery. Each time we walked to an end, the visual tapestry unfolding before us would hit us anew. Mostly, it was the ridged terrain that compelled awe in our highly unyielding selves. Sometimes, it was a quaint, old dam that defined one side of the green waters framed by lush trees, or an ancient temple which was all yours for all the time you need.
I have been a virtual resident of this many-splendoured land in my childhood, when a week-long vacation was a must for the family every few months. We travelled first class, stayed in the best hotel in peak season, rode horses like maniacs till the horse tired of us, and, then, ran with their hooves till dusk broke to dawn.
When we did walk, we locked arms and blocked the road, chanting in sync, ``I left, I left, I left my wife and 48 children in the ....'' (for the penultimate step, you took a step backward, and psyched everyone around out of their wits.)
All the while, we would be bathed in the red dust that continually rose and settled on the stony paths all leading to some panoramic points. Echo Point, Monkey Point, Sunset Point, Sunrise Point, Charlotte Lake, Louisa Point, Rambaug Point, and some ten others-- each sharply rivalling the other in the regalty of the view it proffered.
As kids, we had to reckon with the monkeys hanging close to our rooms, waiting for a half-chance to swoop on the mangoes in the crate that inevitably accompanied us in the summers. Outside the hotel, they hopped around you, and, making a mockery of your self-belief, scratched and snatched that peanut packet you had held in a tight fist. I firmly believe that we have a huge hand in the continuation of this ancestral tribe.
Riding was a high that has never since been breached. Our loyal horseman would pick some thoroughbreds, who were either preparing for the Mahalaxmi race track or were done with it, and we'd set off for a wild run, winding up on at least one occasion each time with a heart-pounding gallop on the deserted race course of the place.
At times, the horses got moody and wanted to nick at you. Mine tried that once mid-trot, stopping right in middle of the bazaar and turning its long neck to have a go at my legs. Even as I tried reining him in, someone cut across the road and took charge of my wayward ward.
I am loathe to be back in this concrete hell even though I no longer sit on horses, or do I covet monkeys as much (I see enough of them in the city). What I do miss are the red soil, the imprints of hooves on it, and the smell of horse and horse shit in the air. I miss the easy ambience where nobody cares what you wear because it all looks red anyway. I miss the lazy walks and the tread along the edge of endless cliffs. Most of all, I miss watching the sunset without feeling guilty for doing so.
In case you still dont know which place I'm talking about, it's called Matheran.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
What is the point of all we do?
Hey, does it ever hit you that we are all caught in a web of our own making, that we strive and strive endlessly to meet ends that we need not have set in the first place. And at the end of the day, what's the fuss all about?
I often wonder about the number of people who go around saying, ``I was determined to do this..'', ``This..award..post..blah blah.. means the world to me,'' ``My children are my world,'' ``I can't think of giving up what I have,'' ``I had to prove a point..'' etc. etc.
Does anyone of them pause to think: what is all this effort and involvement in aid of? Like everyone else before us, we too shall perish, and with us, shall perish our priorities, our pet peeves, loves, lifestyles, everything.
All we shall be left with is Shunya, Nothing. Except your soul and your karma, if you believe in both or either. So, why chase a mirage? Your material world may or may not disappear but you will. That's a given. So why spend so much energy figuring out whether your neighbour's having an extra-marital affair or not, whether your children will stand first all their lives, whether your face will radiate the same glow forever, whether people like your cousin more than you, whether your colleague earns more than you. Why agonise over ways to make it big, ways to be recognised, ways to scheme your way up the corporate ladder when all of this will come crashing down one day-- the day you are not there. Believe me, even our precious children will not be there forever, terrible as it sounds.
There's no one on this planet yet who has never gone away. Unless you're talking of the cockroach (Now there is a strong possibility It will endure).
I must be some kind of a freak that I keep pondering over this facet of life --our deaths-- and never cease to be fascinated by the amount of effort we put into irrelevant things completely believing that, like diamonds, life is forever.
I am often berated for never remembering everyone's names, lives, what they told me, what they were wearing, and what they do for a living, etc. etc. And I automatically blame my disgusting memory for behaving so peremptorily that only I seem important in my scheme 0f things (and sometimes not even I.)
But over the past few years, I have begun to appreciate my lack of interest in people and their lives as a tacit acknowledgement of our transient lives. When nobody will last, why take the pain of behaving as if everything everyone does is just so important? What, seriously, is important in a world of make-believe where the only permanent thing is change?
Many get foxed at my lack of ambition-- for not plotting to become something. This ties up with the same problem-- what do I have to prove to whom and for what? Why pursue some ephemeral end for someone else? Part of the problem, of course, is my comfort level with myself. I have never felt the need to prove anything to anyone and believe it's only those with feelings of inadequacy who have the urge to achieve something.
In my mind, I am what I think I am (sorry, Descartes, but this is not really anything to do with you). So why worry about what others think?
To be sure, I labour over most things I do, but that's because it's a job to be done and a shoddy job is simply not happening. If I do it right, there are no brownie points to be scored or points to be made to any one. If at all, I find a challenge, I do feel kicked, and go all out. But there's never any idea even at the back of my head, or the fringes of my hair, that if I succeed, people will notice me. It's nice if they do, of course, but if they don't, it's fine too.
No recognition outlasts you unless you are a trail blazer like Mahatma Gandhi. And even that will last at the most till the end of time on this planet.
Even the midst of a big project, I pause to think what the worth of it is. I continually ponder over the ultimate aimlessness of our existence. Perhaps there is an aim and we're still to discover it. Or perhaps, as some say, salvation is our goal and we don't know.
I don't know. Do you?
Hey, does it ever hit you that we are all caught in a web of our own making, that we strive and strive endlessly to meet ends that we need not have set in the first place. And at the end of the day, what's the fuss all about?
I often wonder about the number of people who go around saying, ``I was determined to do this..'', ``This..award..post..blah blah.. means the world to me,'' ``My children are my world,'' ``I can't think of giving up what I have,'' ``I had to prove a point..'' etc. etc.
Does anyone of them pause to think: what is all this effort and involvement in aid of? Like everyone else before us, we too shall perish, and with us, shall perish our priorities, our pet peeves, loves, lifestyles, everything.
All we shall be left with is Shunya, Nothing. Except your soul and your karma, if you believe in both or either. So, why chase a mirage? Your material world may or may not disappear but you will. That's a given. So why spend so much energy figuring out whether your neighbour's having an extra-marital affair or not, whether your children will stand first all their lives, whether your face will radiate the same glow forever, whether people like your cousin more than you, whether your colleague earns more than you. Why agonise over ways to make it big, ways to be recognised, ways to scheme your way up the corporate ladder when all of this will come crashing down one day-- the day you are not there. Believe me, even our precious children will not be there forever, terrible as it sounds.
There's no one on this planet yet who has never gone away. Unless you're talking of the cockroach (Now there is a strong possibility It will endure).
I must be some kind of a freak that I keep pondering over this facet of life --our deaths-- and never cease to be fascinated by the amount of effort we put into irrelevant things completely believing that, like diamonds, life is forever.
I am often berated for never remembering everyone's names, lives, what they told me, what they were wearing, and what they do for a living, etc. etc. And I automatically blame my disgusting memory for behaving so peremptorily that only I seem important in my scheme 0f things (and sometimes not even I.)
But over the past few years, I have begun to appreciate my lack of interest in people and their lives as a tacit acknowledgement of our transient lives. When nobody will last, why take the pain of behaving as if everything everyone does is just so important? What, seriously, is important in a world of make-believe where the only permanent thing is change?
Many get foxed at my lack of ambition-- for not plotting to become something. This ties up with the same problem-- what do I have to prove to whom and for what? Why pursue some ephemeral end for someone else? Part of the problem, of course, is my comfort level with myself. I have never felt the need to prove anything to anyone and believe it's only those with feelings of inadequacy who have the urge to achieve something.
In my mind, I am what I think I am (sorry, Descartes, but this is not really anything to do with you). So why worry about what others think?
To be sure, I labour over most things I do, but that's because it's a job to be done and a shoddy job is simply not happening. If I do it right, there are no brownie points to be scored or points to be made to any one. If at all, I find a challenge, I do feel kicked, and go all out. But there's never any idea even at the back of my head, or the fringes of my hair, that if I succeed, people will notice me. It's nice if they do, of course, but if they don't, it's fine too.
No recognition outlasts you unless you are a trail blazer like Mahatma Gandhi. And even that will last at the most till the end of time on this planet.
Even the midst of a big project, I pause to think what the worth of it is. I continually ponder over the ultimate aimlessness of our existence. Perhaps there is an aim and we're still to discover it. Or perhaps, as some say, salvation is our goal and we don't know.
I don't know. Do you?
All my endearing Anonymouses!
I didn't know there were so many people in the world called Anonymous. If you take a name poll, you'll probably find this name dominating the list. There are at least a dozen on my blog, all with interesting comments to offer but for some reason, anonymous.
All my life, I have been told the temptation to see your name in print, like Adam and Eve, is primordial. But, the said temptation probably exists on Earth and my blog, I suspect, is drifting in outer space, where aliens suffer from no such evil Apples.
So be it, guys!
I didn't know there were so many people in the world called Anonymous. If you take a name poll, you'll probably find this name dominating the list. There are at least a dozen on my blog, all with interesting comments to offer but for some reason, anonymous.
All my life, I have been told the temptation to see your name in print, like Adam and Eve, is primordial. But, the said temptation probably exists on Earth and my blog, I suspect, is drifting in outer space, where aliens suffer from no such evil Apples.
So be it, guys!
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