Longings of a heart

‘Aim at heaven, you have earth thrown in. Aim at the earth you get neither.’- C.S.Lewis. The wheels of the new Honda Activa raced along the serpentine road between Visakhapatnam and Bheemili. The rider cruised past the sharp turns and steep curves deftly. Suddenly there was a mishap. The scooter slid out of control hitting the pavement grievously injuring the driver.A few moments later, a crowd gathered around her. I was on the same road on my way to a retreat. I stopped more out of anxiety than concern to see what had happened. The person who sustained the injuries was my junior in college. I was no stranger to her like the rest of the crowd. Someone had called an ambulance and soon she was taken to the hospital. The point there, was that  I was a doctor and had just received registration from my state’s medical board. As my junior waited for the critical care personnel to arrive at the scene, I did nothing to even arrest the profuse bleeding that concealed her face. I w...

The south west monsoon had made its advent exactly on schedule, probably for the first time in my living memory. Each year they would reluctantly make mild advances and cool the summer heat only by July. This time they were not only corporeally punctual but also looked vituperative with boisterous winds and rash showers. The village of Repalle encountered this monsoon with a sense of surprise. The wedding home of ours was nearing perfection on the big day. Plastering, whitewashing the walls marked with greenish moss, the making of thatched Pandiri made of Palm leaves- a quintessential element of Telugu wedding, glowing lights illuminating the dark made our ancestral dwelling, a marriage home. Banners were put up; carpets were laid, sound systems arranged, and a buzz of the activity by relatives all around. All this set the tone of matrimonial frenzy in our family especially me. After all it was my wedding. I could not sleep the night before the wedding. My Bride was waiting in ...

All phenomena on the planet have their set of side effects- the unwanted collateral damages they beget. Marriage is not immune to such predicaments. I am now writing this from a laced wooden cot- those sleeping equipment that make appearance in any ordinary south Indian home. I am thoroughly exhausted. The string of Nalugus has taken their toll on me. For five days and for fifteen meals to be exact, I have been eating only Chicken. I went to my aunt’s place. I got Chicken stew with fried rice. I went to my uncle’s place. I was fed Chicken fry and Coconut rice. I went to my sister’s place. I was given Chicken and white rice. So this made me, an ardent devotee of Chicken averse to its very smell. So yesterday, my bowels revolted against this gastronomic non sense. I puked. Then I had loose stools. From then, I had to decide between social obligations and medical compulsions. I had to choose between Chicken and abstinence. Normally that would have been an easy choice. But for a Telugu...

The pleasant breeze comforts the humid bodies stressed out in summer heat. Trees nod in unison confirming  the sweetness of that sensation. The birds are just back after a busy day out. The crickets rustle in rhythm as if they are the orchestra of the evening. I sit in a wooden push back chair welcoming the guests trickling in well past the scheduled time. My mother calls me in with a tone of urgency. I quickly change from Peter England formals to a vest and Lungi - the south Indian attire of the layman which can be confused to a bed sheet tied round the waist and well known for its comfort. A neighbor who is well versed with the traditions of wedding brings a chalk to a place in the verandah  cleaned by a bucket of water. She artistically draws a floral design. A plastic stool is arranged and I am asked to get seated over it. My nephew who is 8 years is asked for and he appears more out of compulsion than curiosity. He is the best man and he gets a similar plac...

It was during my second year of medical school that I first attended VCA. I learnt of this congregation that met in Bethany school every Sunday, by a group of seniors. The first time I saw Aunty Ambrose was on one of these Sunday mornings. She was clad in a cotton sari and the way she walked around those holy precincts betrayed her age. I was introduced to her by one of my seniors Vidya. She smiled at me as if we had years of rapport and encouraged me to attend every week. That first encounter with her left me thinking. She had inextinguishable energy about her. Though her skin was wrinkled and looked frail in physical frame, she greeted members with genuine concern. It was not a superficial social gesture. But it was a love that came from a sincere faith in Christ. Rarely did she preach during those final years. But when she did, there was encouragement and strength to the listeners. For a newcomer to Christ like me, more than her words, her presence spoke volumes. She used t...

I am venturing into murky ground here. There are people who have laid down lives for their worldviews and it is difficult to pull it off without causing offence. Let me confess that I am a struggling Christian and a Dalit trying to make sense of my identity in the Indian society of 2015. This prose is a natural consequence of that struggle and it is, I believe, the state of affairs of lakhs in our country. I have long tried to evade this topic, but I now think that I have to get into deeper waters to arrive at a semblance of truth, which according to the Good Teacher would set me free. I also admit that my opinion may not be complete or circumspect. After all my views are the product of my life and the realities it has presented so far- incomplete and at some instances wet behind the ears. I am a member of a fusion family. My father is an atheist and a Dalit. My mother is a Christian and a Dalit. Being their child I had the unpleasant experiences of being bombarded by the phil...

(TWO YEARS AGO The serene lanes of Lamtaput bustle with life at 7 AM in the morning. Children run merrily in the ground staining their uniforms with dust. Like a Maharajah’s procession a train of motor vehicles trudge along the market street. As one gets down the vehicle, he can smell the sweet Jalebi from the nearby eatery. Women in a variety of tribal attires present a cultural odyssey before the day of intense marketing begins. It is Saturday and it is Hato meaning market in local dialect.  By 8 AM the noise hits a higher octave as men and women bargain in full intensity at fish stalls as children obstinately drag their parents to a confectionery shop. Ladies squat in the midst of their vegetables trying to strike the right deals with the customers.  It is one of such ladies who shall be the object of this story. Gurubari is a 50 year old woman who has presented to AshaKiran hospital with intense knee pain that she was brought on a gurney to the consultation ro...