I have a deep-rooted fascination for doctors’ tables, chairs, and medical devices and / or tools. It all started when I was a child, and while on visits to family chemists or doctors, would ask for those little notepads, one-rupee Stic pens, and keychains – a staple of pharmaceutical companies. Hell hath no fury than me separated from my “booty”, so much so that glistening tears would well up in my eyes, lower lip trembling and pouting, and there would be all the trappings for a round of shrieking waterworks, minus the tantrums (the latter reserved for a larger audience) - if someone dared to flick any from my chunk, hidden in my treasure chest at home…
Next in line were the dozens of Strepsils, Vicks, Halls, and other cough lozenges, that I would religiously stock up on, just in case a national throat emergency would strike, and all my countrymen decided to visit me - to seek therapy, blessings, and lozenges.
In that order. Band-Aids were another hot favorite, and anyone within the radius of one kilometer was bound to be asked the staple question as to whether he / she were in need of a Band-Aid. Sometimes, when I would be out of “patients,” as I liked to call them, I would decide to “heal” myself, and stick bright Mickey-Mouse or Handyplast Band-Aids on random spots on my body, mostly my forehead and hands - much to my mom’s annoyance, and visible admiring glances from classmates. A quick pull from my brother would result in the Band-Aid peeling off, and my fake injury instantaneously discovered. Next would be a mad chase for the ‘offender” – my brother. A minor scuffle would ensue, and Bang! There might just be reason enough to bring out the Band-Aid once more, this time for real. Ouch! Regular shinning (and falling from) trees also caused a fair share of the Band-Aids getting into use.
Then there were the syringes. Having been bitten twice by canines and the same number of times by monkeys (Hold your smirk. Nope, I don’t bark. Ditto for biting!@#$ %^&*), and having those hypodermic needles pricked into me on a lot of tetanus moments too, I can safely say that I was a doctor’s delight, and parents’ nightmare. Every time those dratted injections would come near me, my furrowed forehead would give stiff competition to any agitated grown-up. I'd act nonchalant for a few moments, but that nonchalance would be soon replaced by ear-splitting howls that would make any neighborhood dog proud. However, once the doc would be through with the torture, a sunny smile would soon dispel the glistening tears from my cheeks, and pat – my hands would outstretch, awaiting their reward. New docs would hastily look around for an éclair or a chocolate to give me; my Dad would then intervene, and tell him that my “prize” was the empty syringe, and not some sugar-boiled confectionery. Armed with the syringe, I would make my way home, praying for an audience (in the form of any guest who may have called upon us), so as to display my “trophy,” and act out my well rehearsed injured warrior / survivor role to perfection.
Since I was a relatively illness-free child (illness-free, mind you, not accident-free), I would often wish I were sick, in order to make those distant twice-a-year visit(s) to the home physician a more regular feature. A mildly hot forehead was enough to send me into a tizzy, and lo and behold! Shoed and stockinged me would make an appearance in front of utterly bemused folks, and demand to be taken to the doc, hinting that my end was near, in case I were “cruelly” kept away from my “rightful” and “due” visit. Melodramatic – yep, that's the word you would have used for me then...(the emphasis is on the 'then.' Ahem!)
Syringes, stethoscopes, hypodermic needles, medical gloves, tweezers, scalpels, curettes (of course I didn’t know many of these words then) – anything that I would chance to espy on the doctor’s table, would be given the two-minute intense look from me. Given the chance, I would often try to touch them, after asking for permission, of course (my manners were impeccable – Oh yes), and such was my charm, that on most occasions, the doctors would relent, and hand them to me themselves, much to bouncing-up-and-down-in-the-chair-happiness-personified-me.
The dentist’s high-chair was an endless source of merriment for me. With a mother whose middle name is chocolates, occasions to visit the friendly dentist were many and not al all infrequent. My mouth would open in one long-drawn out, admiring “Ohhhh,” when she would sit across the dentist, and he, in his starchy-white medical coat, would inspect her teeth, and cluck his head disapprovingly, every two minutes. God – I loved the tiny torch-around-a-huge-band-thingy he wore around his head, with whose help he would peer at people’s teeth. After giving a stern warning to my mom about cutting down her intake of cocoa, chocolates, and rosogullas, he would turn to me, who had been waiting for this very moment. One fluid movement, and I would spring into his chair, waiting for that exquisite moment when he would lower himself to adjust the lever, and I would be up almost next to the ceiling, staying there till my Mom’s indulgent look would change to one of okie-enough-you’ve-had-your-fun-now-come-down, causing me to try my various sorrowful looks on her, all of which failing whatsoever, and I would be back on the ground, sighing, already looking forward to my next visit…
Such was my fondness for medical equipment and other such tools, that my parents were led to believe that a long, chequered career in medicine awaited me.
One fine day, some family friends had come visiting, and had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I can still see my dad’s chest pumping in proud anticipation at what I would say.
Knitting my eyebrows together, I proudly announced that I was confused as to what I wanted to be – and would decide in the next few years if I wanted to be an usher and show people their way to their seats in glitzy theaters, or become a newspaper delivery girl.
Trust me to always be the one responsible for the anti-climax... (Let's just say I was the only one amused in that room).
