Archive for February, 2013

Thoughts from the Operation Table.

operation theatreA surgery is a surgery, be it a small or a big one. When you are lying on the operation table, a whirlwind of thoughts cross your mind.

Just before I entered the OT a number of phone calls came, giving me best wishes. Most of my friends and relatives said they would pray for me while my surgery would be performed. When I was being wheeled into the OT I thought that more than me, the Surgeon and the Anesthetist, who were going operate upon me, were the ones who needed the prayers. I quickly closed my eyes and prayed to my God to guide the hands of these doctors properly. But Alas! I remembered that these doctors did not belong to my faith, so how could my God help me in this situation? My God would not be able to influence them. Suppose my GOD tells me, “Son, your Doctors do not belong to our religion.” What then would become of all my prayers and the prayers of all my relatives? It was a dismal situation.
I was moved into the Pre-OT room. A nurse came and pierced me with the drip line. She politely told me that I would have to wait for my turn.
As she moved out my mind went back to my God.
“ Please God , do something for the Doctors who are going to operate upon me.” I beseeched Him.
“You must be friends with his God. No?” I questioned.
Suddenly the Surgeon walked into the Pre-OT room with a confident smile on his face. “All is going to be fine” he said, as he looked at my white face. “It’s only a 15 minutes procedure, so just relax” he added and walked out. I tried to figure out which God he belonged to. I had been so stupid that I did not even ask the name of the Doctor before reaching here.
As he went off, I closed my eyes again and returned to my private conversation with my God.
“So what if he does not belong to your fiefdom, you should be friends with his God too. I thought all Gods were good and you must be having good relations among yourselves. You are surely not like bloodsucking humans who keep fighting over petty issues.” For once I hoped that I would get an affirmative answer. But none came. So I continued my attempt at persuasion.
Those who have waited in the pre-OT rooms would know the quantum of stress jutting out of every pore of the body here. Those 15-20 minutes seem like an hour.
Another paramedic came in, measured some vital parameters, and walked out. I still had about 10 minutes left to logically convince my God to talk to the Doctor’s God so that he would be blessed with the power to heal me.
I closed my eyes again and re-opened my negotiations with my God (as I had no one else to talk to in there). I felt that I should have told my friends that instead of praying for me in front of my deity, they must find out which faith my Surgeon belongs and prayed to his deity. What was the point of praying for me. My body was going to be in his hands after ten minutes. The thought worried me. My body was going to be in his hands! I was not going to be the master of my body anymore. He needed all the blessings, not me.
With these worrisome thoughts I closed my eyes and started my pleadings afresh – “Please redirect all my prayers and the prayers of all my relatives to the God of my Doctor. Please God, hurry up, my operation is about to start. If his God does not guide his hands properly he is likely to make mistakes. One wrong movement of the scalpel, and so much could go wrong. All my life I have worshiped you, so please save me at this hour. Okay, I have been a bit selfish at times but then I never skipped my prayers.” I muttered inwardly.
Just then two paramedics walked in, smiled at me, and started moving my wheeled stretcher into the main OT. I kept my eyes closed and made my final foray into asking my God to come to my rescue at this moment. Receiving no response, I turned adamant. “I demand of you to help me, my God.” I reiterated.
Still no answer.
My mind turned hysterical. “This is treachery, God. I have been your faithful disciple my whole life and you are not even answering my prayers, leave alone come to my rescue.” All was dark before my closed eyes. And so, with my heart crying, I issued my final threat to God. “I will renounce you once and for all, if you do not help me today.”
I opened my eyes for a moment, someone gave me a mask to wear. The anesthesia was about to start taking effect. I could see the Surgeon in front of me. My eyes were half closed by now. But suddenly, I could see a familiar hand going over the head of the surgeon. He was being blessed. Behind him, I could see a silhouette. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the silhouette of my God. The God which I had seen in prayer pictures every single day.
“How come you are blessing him, does he belong to our faith?” I asked the final question.
“I belong to all faiths. I am ONE and the only ONE. It’s you human beings who behold me in different forms. I am actually formless.”
“Take a deep breath” commanded the anesthetist.
And I knew I was in safe hands now.

 

Written by-

Mohinder Pal  Singh

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Sweet Revenge

Sweet Revenge
Poor form about 60% of Indian Population. They are found everywhere, in big cities working in homes, pulling rickshaws, picking load, working in factories and staying in dingy slums after working hours. In rural areas they are poor farm labourers, daily wage workers, rag pickers . They are paid wages by the rich who exploit them not only by paying them less but also by so many other methods, like employing their young children, exploitation of their women(unreported), lending them private loans at high rates etc. The poor have no choice but to accept the hegemony of the rich. They know who ever their employer is he is going to exploit them in the same way. Some times they are not given adequate leave during the festive seasons, sometimes when they need money they are generously given a loan , the installments of which never seem to finish.
The musclemen employed by the rich are always there to arm-twist the poor. Throughout their life they are made to feel that their life is a curse.
“Do you ever think of taking revenge”? I asked the poor old man, who was languishing on a broken chair under a tree while his sons and Daughter-in- laws worked as labours on a site. He was too old to do physical labour. They load him on a trolly rickshaw which is used to ferry digging implements daily form their make-shift road side shelter to the site of construction and thereafter he sits there watching his children being exploited by the contractors. “What could I do”? He laments . “They never let us stay at a place where I could send my children to even a primary school. I had no choice but to marry my three sons to uneducated daughters of labours and marry my daughter to a slightly better groom -a mason.” He said.
I repeated my question thinking that he had heard it properly. He went into a long silence. It seems he had heard the question but did not want to answer it.
“ I have seen plenty. I have seen in my lifetime some agitated young sinewy boy assaulting a supervisor who had assaulted his father. The supervisor had made that family bleed for over two months by not giving them employment. It was the supervisors fault in the first place but the boy and his whole family had to apologise ,not once but a number of times . They had go without food for days.” He said gazing away towards the sunset.
“In our homes the sun never rises , Sahib. It only sets.” He said painfully.
“ Yes inwardly every poor of this nation wants to take revenge. When we see them coming out of luxury cars and richly dressed we do not feel jealous. But the problem is they lack human values. I have still not seen a rich person who has shown human values towards his workers. They show such values towards their colleagues , towards God or towards the politicians.
You are right , we the poor do feel like taking revenge from them.” He said in a voice which was firm and bold now..
So how do you take revenge? I repeated my question.
“ Sahib every five years we get a chance to vote. All poor of the country ensure that they have their voter identity cards ready. It is we people who take the pains to walk up to a booth to vote. The rich never vote. And when we vote we do not vote based on the performance of a government we just vote blindly for the person who pleases us. Let him be the biggest goonda of the town we don’t care.We know he will not bother us anymore till the next elections but he will bother these rich people who exploit us everyday. These politicians do not let the rich breathe in peace throughout their tenure.” He said with sparkle in his eyes.
“ And when ever we see these rich touch the feet of the politicians , we the poor feel elated that finally we made the rich bow.” He added giving a touch of finality.