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!!

a fitting epitaph

                                  A fitting epitaph !!

                                    By Vivek Hande

                                                

I am a doctor or maybe I should say I was a doctor. I am a little confused and I am not sure what I should call myself. I have been in the medical business for more than twenty years. I have seen death up front and close more often than I care to remember. There are colleagues of mine who are battle hardened, so to say and take the death of a patient in their stride. I still get upset after so many years and feel helpless and inadequate. But yet, it is quite different when it is your own death you are talking about!

           It was a bright Saturday morning. I jauntily walked out of the car park and took the lift to the fifth floor to my chamber. I cheerily waved out to the intern who threw me a dazzling smile on the corridor. I was just reaching my department when I suddenly felt a sledge hammer hitting my chest and crushing me in a vice like grip. I could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down my forehead and I could feel myself falling to the ground – a boneless heap. The next few minutes were a blur. I could vaguely sense a lot of activity around me. My next recollection is of the cold steel of the trolley assaulting my back. I recollect being rushed into the lift and somebody shouting, “Get him to the ICU fast!” I really wished the medical assistant holding my hand would be gentler. I realized we were in the ICU when the blast of the air-conditioned room hit me and I heard the beep of the monitors in the background. I felt myself being propelled from the trolley onto the bed in a single synchronized movement. I felt the nurse jabbing the cannula into my vein and another one on the other forearm.  My arm was about to burst as the resident tied the blood pressure cuff around my forearm and got the mercury rising to record my Blood Pressure. Before I could protest, I could feel my blood being drained- twenty milliliters seeping away for urgent tests. I tried protesting feebly as I felt a tube going down my nose and a stream of oxygen flowing through. I was immensely nauseated as I felt a stream of pink frothy sputum coming out from my mouth and settling at the corners of my lips. I could see the horror on the resident’s face as he blurted, “His lungs are flooding. He has pulmonary edema. Get the Cardiologist stat!”

 As he prepared the injection of Morphine to relieve the flooding of the lungs, I was desperate to tell him that I was allergic to Morphine and had reacted adversely many years ago when it was administered for severe pain after a road accident.

However, no words came forth and I could feel the fluid trickling up my veins. I tried stiffening my arms in a desperate measure to stop the drug coursing through my system, but to no avail. I could feel myself get lightheaded and I could barely see the outline of the figures in a frenzy of activity all around me. I vaguely heard the Cardiologist, who had arrived on the scene by now, my friend and colleague for the past twenty years shouting, “He is going. I can’t get a pulse. We will have to shock him.” I could feel the cold slimy jelly being poured on to my chest and  then the steel of the paddles of the defibrillator and then a hot searing rod of current through my skin and penetrating my bones once and then again and yet again for the third time. I could smell my burning skin and the smell of hopelessness pervading the room.

     A montage of images crossed my mind and I could feel myself sinking away. Before I could brace myself, I felt a heavy thump on my chest and then a pair of hands pressing me down just below my ribcage. I am sure they were smooth, practiced movements and were meant to get life into what seemed like an ebbing tide, but I was sure I could feel a rib cracking. They kept at it for the better part of half hour and then I could gradually feel the intensity and the strength of the movements gradually reducing. The voices became fainter and fainter. The frenzy of activity seemed to gradually recede and abate. As my head jerked to one side, I saw a flat tracing on the cardiac monitor – I no longer existed. I had slipped away and I heard someone say, “He was a good doctor and a good man. A pity we failed to save him. We did try, as hard as he would have, to save a life”.

A fitting epitaph, perhaps!!