The Order of the Crutch

There are some people in your life who come for in to play their part for a short period of time and then leave a permanent mark on you. Then suddenly one fine day you recollect memories of this person and miss the times. It feels sort of weird but one such person I remember today is Dr. Jayson. I can safely say I’ve seen enough doctors in my lifetime compared to the average individual. Most of them were orthopedics or neuro surgeons and were consulted for my physical condition.

However there is one doctor who stands out in my head. This guys name is Jayson. He used to run a small but very famous clinic or rather to be fair enough, a room (shop) which was 6 foot by 6 foot right next to a flour mill shop close to home. Whenever someone fell sick, post all self medication and prasadham from temples the usual last resort was this guy. He was an excellent person and not to mention a personality as well. The only trouble is, his injections on the buttocks hurt like bat shit crazy for the next 5 days. You would never feel a thing, his touch was like feather but when you sat on the floor with your ass back at home I would have screamed “son of a biyaatch!” if only I had know such words back then, but then I was barely 6 or 7, sigh!. So yes, it was a dull and uninteresting “yamaaaaaadiyov!” for all I care to remember.

The most vivid memory of this doctor was when my curiosity as always brought me close to death or at least brought my parents close to shitting themselves. So one fine day after a lot of physiotherapy at GH and goofing around the house and getting ass whooped as you would get in a typical Indian family in the mid 1980’s it so happened to be the case that I found a shiny tin can with red and green/white text and it smelt like sugar. So I opened it and conveniently drank a lot of it. Sadly, before I emptied it all I heard a scream from my cousin. One like when them pretty boobied women give out before being stripped naked and killed in the Evil Dead movie, not before being paraded gleefully by roots of a tree 34.8 miles into the forest at 1 in the midnight.

Yes, it was baygon spray.

Of course, nothing happened to me. At least not immediately. So I was rushed to Dr. Jayson where this dude made me drink lots of salt water and I did not puke. I probably enjoyed all that salt water and pretended it was the sea. I don’t remember If I asked for some lemon and sugar with it, i might have knowing what kind of a brat I was. Anyways, this is when Dr. Jayson pulls out his magic. He gives you pills the size of a mustard seed or an ant egg, so to speak. You swallow that bugger and everything you ever ate in the past 4 days comes out of your mouth in the next 3 minutes. He was extremely famous for this. Folks in the house would be relieved seeing you puke till your internal organs came out.

Paatti would exclaim “Appaada! vaandhi eduthuttaya? avan kudukkara marunthu ellame appadi thaan. kettadhai ellam veliyila vara vechidum, aanaa nallathu!”

Jason doctor had this unique skill. He would probably cure HIV or something by giving you pukable pills, if he were alive now.

Last I heard, he went to London for higher studies. Post that I heard rumors that he died of cancer. I hope they were just rumors. It would be ironic If someone awesome like him weren’t alive today helping people.

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Death is a great equalizer. I do not have great memories of everyone i’ve met in life but some people stood out. They stood out because they were the different ones. Some called them weird, some called them unfortunate and some called them fools. I call them victims of culture based off religious ideologies. The example i will present is a fantastic specimen.

When you live in a Brahmin community you are never short of women named “Saroja” around you. Its one of those famous brahmin names along with “Baby”. Chinna Saroja (Chinna means Little in tamil) was a famous character from my childhood days. She and her husband were a unique couple. I guess i think his name was Kutti Raman (Kutti means small in tamil) but i really don’t remember it that well. Her husband was the silent one like teller in the Penn and Teller show. Chinna saroja ran the show pretty much and her husband nodded, always.

Chinna Saroja and her Husband were distant relatives. They were quite rich, or rather used to be. They had it all. You can imagine them to be one of the differently rich landlord Brahmin family types. They had business, they had acres of land, farms and pretty much everything going for them in life with the exception of children. They did everything they could in this world to have children. Every doctor money could buy and every type of medication.

Of course, they did perform every pooja for all the hindu gods in the text books and off the text books. I say off the text books because a nun and a father in the lourdes church conned them and made some money claiming jesus was a hindu god and he could help with child birth. So did a gentleman from the venus mosque claim some islamic fairy to be lord ayyappans daughter and made a quick buck. My grandfather put an end to these things with the help of a few other people and of course the cops and i will reserve that incident for another very long blog post. Nevertheless, they had no children.

Saroja and her husband adopted. I really love it now to think of the fact that they were liberal enough to go to an orphanage and adopt a random child. Folks from my community / family pestered them to adopt a “Brahmin” child so that i is not subject to the thought processes of a “non brahmin” child. Many a poor family had even tried to sell them a child one could not raise due to poverty. Nevertheless, they adopted a “non brahmin” child, not one but five. The children were happy. Of course they adopted into the ways of a brahmin family system as well. They were vegetarians, spoke the brahmin accent of tamil and one could hardly recognize them if not told.

Once the children grew up they returned the favour. They drugged their parents and made them write off all the property they had to these five adopted children. With mother-loads of money in their wallet the children split and fled in different directions except one. He lived in the same house as their parents brought them up. This son was the kindest of all. He did not throw the parents on the streets like one would expect. He made them household servants instead. They did all the cooking, washing and cleaning and in return were fed 3 square meals a day, without any pay or benefits.

Saroja reminds me not because of her painful state of life but because how she made merry for everyone by making fun of herself. Every year during Golu, she would go around homes in town visiting the Golu setup. As customary as it is, she would sing. Everyone loved it, not because she was fantastic a singer but she was horrible a singer yet nothing or no one stopped her. I explicitly remember the same song she sang year after year. It went something like…

“Gundu Saroja, Baby Saroja, Kulla Saroja, Chinna Saroja…”

Those were the chorus lines. It basically meant “Fatty Saroja, Childlike Saroja, Short Saroja, Small Saroja”, it was a tamil song. Her own composition, apparently. You cannot forget that face because it resembled exactly like that of this Chettichi doll in this image. Unlike today’s women even in their late 60’s, back then women did not shave, they did not use lazer or wax their lips, skin etc., Turmeric was the only option used on the face to prevent hair growth. The yellow of turmeric made her mild moustache stand out blonde and it would look so funny we kids exploded into laughter the moment we saw her. All the kids would gather around in my house from our street when she comes over for Golu.

She would take the small amount of money, the blouse bit (clothing to stitch a blouse) and the fruits and other things that were given when you visit ones house for Golu. Saroja lived her life for Golu, if you asked me. She had her moments, and it was clearly meant for those famous lines of her multi platinum local number sung at Golu, every year.

She passed away one fine day in sleep. Her husband was even more broke when she was no more. He came one fine day and said he was starving and his daughter in law feeds him no more. My aunt and my mother used to take pity on him and feed him lunch everyday. He would sit at the verandah and eat food out of a banana leaf. The hunger of a man 80 odd year old man who has not eaten for a whole day will show. I felt bad for him.

One fine day he came and he presented a neat “Pallanguzhi” instrument made of teak wood. It was a famous game back then before ludo and trump cards defeated old board games. He wanted to sell it and my aunt brought it for Rs. 20 from him. That was the last we saw of him. A few days later we heard he died during sleep on the pavements, right outside his house. Thaththa (Grandpa) went to the burial ground and offered his “vaaykkarisi” (dropping grains of rice on the dead persons mouth before setting on fire) before he was cremated.

I don’t believe in celebrating religious festivals or practices. I somehow was reminded of Chinna Saroja looking at the doll in my house Golu today. I think i will change my mind and make an exception. I will celebrate Saroja, her husband and their life history. I hope there are other people who remember them today. I really hope…

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