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Algebra of Hope
By Ranjit Divakaran
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Ranjit Divakaran
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-9600-4
Chapter One
It was his first time on a plane: Air India flight, Calicut to Riyadh. Emotions are always mixed, Rakesh realised, and now he felt the pain of parting, the fear of the unknown and the tension of being airborne for the first time. Which one dominated was difficult for him to identify. Maybe they took turns. The only emotion he didn't feel was happiness. Most of the books on success Rakesh had read mentioned that we need to control our minds and never let our minds control us. Neuro-linguistic program gurus said that identifying the causes and intentions of worries will help eliminate them. But here he was in a window seat trying in vain to apply all these tips. The only scene that consistently appeared in his mind was the one in which he kissed his little angel goodbye a couple of hours ago at the airport. She was seventeen days short of her first birthday. Anakitha must have been confused at the shower of kisses and hugs in the departure lounge, a very strange and crowded place. Rakesh wondered why we do this. Will this sort of over-expression of love help dilute the pain, or will it exaggerate it? All he knew was that tears were slowly welling up in his eyes as the aircrew presented the safety instructions.
His lachrymal gland was working. It wanted to show its presence, whilst he did not want it to. He knew every single tiny part of the body had some purpose. To say that this part was an architectural marvel of our creator's would be an understatement, but what was the purpose of irrigating the cheeks when one was in pain? And so the tears spilled over. For some women and children, tears add beauty, but they definitely do not for a middle-aged man. The more he tried to control himself, the more the glands rebelled like revolutionaries of the sixties. He did not want the passenger in the next seat to see this psycho-physiologic effect. Rakesh stole a glance at him through the corner of his flooded eye. He had the look of a spy, as if his purpose was to catch others' emotions. Rakesh wanted to ignore him, but the man met his eye and said, "Hello." Very untimely, Rakesh thought. He made an attempt to respond, unsure of the result. The man didn't speak again for the entire four-and-a-half-hour journey, not even to apologise when he spilt Coke on Rakesh's trousers. The air hostess in the front went about her business. As this was Rakesh's first flight, he knew he should attend to the aircrew carefully, but his mind had a different agenda, and he thought only of what and whom he had left behind. The seat belt at his lap appeared symbolic of having lost the freedom to go back, of his imprisonment by his own decision.
The show must go on, as they say in the circus. Here he sat with a heavy heart, but the show in the front went on. But the show was not bad. The air hostess was quite tall and slim, her skin an earthy colour. A mischievous smile crossed her lips at irregular intervals, as if to challenge anyone who would have faintly thought she was not attractive. The only thing Rakesh could hold against her was that when she said, "In the unlikely event of a water landing", his mind heard, "In the likely event of a water crash."
This was a new challenge, added fear, like an icing on the cake of his worries. The picture of Kanishka, Air India flight 182, which was bombed and crashed into the sea, killing all on board, came to his mind. That happened some time before TV came to his state. How could he remember that disaster in such minute detail? Maybe some virtual memory fed his imagination. If that hypothesis were true, he was overfed. The mere visualisation of it suffocated him. A few months before, Rakesh had learnt to swim, and remembering this gave him a sense of comfort. I know how to swim, he confirmed. 'If you know how to swim, the depth does't matter'. He recollected the quote. Suddenly a twenty meter swimming pool and the Arabian sea appeared the same to him. Positive thinking built on absolute insanity was a newly emerging solution out of distressed compulsion. Rakesh was thankful for all the positive –thinking books he had read.
Next thing he heard was, "Do not inflate the life jacket inside the plane." He had no doubt that he would do exactly the opposite of every instruction at the crucial time and multiply the disaster. Being a surgeon and having attended many training sessions and workshops on managing medical emergencies, Rakesh frequently saw panic in real-life situations. And now here, with zero experience and very casual attendance to the instructions ... No, it just would not work. Best to leave it to God, he felt.
His visual focus again landed on the tall air hostess, who was now showing how to blow a whistle whilst on the sea. Rakesh imagined two hundred other people floating along on the Arabian Sea in colourful life jackets having fun with their red whistles. Meanwhile, he was probably still stuck in the plane for having inflated the jacket before getting out. The woman continued her presentation, and he tuned her out but continued watching. This was one of the rare situations in which he could fix his gaze on a beautiful woman without feeling any sense of guilt or fear or embarrassment, he thought. She went on as if the demonstration were a ritual, a pleasant punishment. Element of fun still lingering on, element of purpose completely evaporated. After a few more minutes, the oxygen mask demonstration over, she concluded with a smile. Rakesh remembered the feeling he had at the end of tenth-grade chemistry class. He never understood organic chemistry, apart from the fact that it was well organised to ruin his school days. But the teacher was a charming young lady.
As the engine roared in the ascent, his thoughts were drowned by prayers. Rakesh wondered how atheists would react in a similar situation. Would they take time out of their disbelief, or would they hold on to it till they had to blow the whistle? Rakesh felt that there were no staunch, complete atheists. He tried to read the in-flight magazine, but his brain disobeyed him. He thought of his earlier tears. Why is it that I do not have any powers over my own body parts? he wondered.
When they reached cruising altitude, the air hostess strode along the aisle, reminding Rakesh of a trainee model on a catwalk. When her pace quickened, Rakesh had to will himself not to inflate his own "life jacket". During his first year in medical school, he learnt that each and every activity is controlled by a representative centre in the brain. Watching this woman, he wondered if there was a centre responsible for appreciating feminine beauty. He never read about one in any popular physiology book. Anyway, now was not the time to contemplate any medical breakthrough, both in attitude and altitude.
He looked out the window and saw no trees or valleys moving beneath him. All he could see was a canvas of dull, stationary cotton wool. Even the engine noise had been silenced by its familiarity. He recollected the excitement he and his mates felt as small kids when they spotted a plane. Even they knew that light travelled faster than sound, and the escalating thunder brought all the kids in the vicinity out of their homes to spot the plane. Everyone claimed to be the first to see it, pointing up in every direction. The plane always played hide-and-seek amongst the clouds. All the children stood watching the sky till the vapour trail completely disappeared. They went inside, their happiness abruptly ended, like spectators who, after watching a breathtaking Olympics opening ceremony, are told that the games have been cancelled.
Rakesh attempted to sense any movement. No, the plane felt as though it stood still at six hundred kilometres per hour. He sped at six hundred kilometres per hour away from everything dear to him. Where am I going, and what for? Introspection set in. It all started a few weeks before. Rakesh had taught orthopaedics for final-year medical students at Mangalore University, and he received a call from a student friend, Dr Samuel Mathew.
"Sir, would you be interested in taking up a job in a Riyadh hospital? There is an immediate vacancy. They are looking for someone with your education and experience. I know the chief medical officer over there."
Rakesh's antenna for a job in the Middle East, specifically in Saudi Arabia, was very active. He almost involuntarily said, "Yes, if the terms are good."
Samuel said that the chief medical officer would contact him in a couple of days and that he would get more information. At that time, Rakesh was almost one year into his newly opened private practise. He had consultations at his residential clinic and was attached to a leading hospital in the city. He also visited other hospitals in nearby towns for trauma management. Not many specialists in his town stuck exclusively to their specialty, and this gave Rakesh an edge: it encouraged general practitioners and other medical specialists to refer patients to him. His earnings were not too good, but initial indicators were promising. Why did I give all this up for a job in Riyadh? He had not had any difficulty making that decision.
Rakesh grew up in an atmosphere that did not fall into the category of rich, or even comfortable middle class. His father, a retired Army officer, had to work long hours to support the family. Even as a small kid Rakesh had sensed the struggle in spite of his parents' efforts to mask it. It surfaced regularly. Moving from one rented house to another was a regular event in his life. Every Vishu, the main festival in north Kerala, his mother said that by the following Vishu the family would have its own house. That never happened. Both his parents came from not-too-wealthy backgrounds and therefore had no financial inheritance. They drained every bit of parenting energy to bring up the kids. Rakesh never had a bicycle whilst he was in the school, although most of his classmates had one. However, his father always provided the best healthy food and taught rich values. His motto was, "Eat well, play well, and pray well". He ensured that these three happened abundantly. Rakesh's mother was a typical homemaker, and her life revolved around her kids and husband. The house would become gloomy and empty if she went out even for few hours. She and Rakesh's father undoubtedly made the best pair of parents anyone could dream of. As years passed and Rakesh grew from the bicycle-less schoolboy to a doctor with a master's in orthopaedic surgery, he learnt that it was the purse that made many decisions for him, and he did not want that to happen anymore. He was aware of this as much as he was aware of himself.
"Would you like to have something to drink, Sir?" A voice interrupted his nostalgia. "Orange or pineapple juice?"
Why had she given him only these two choices when other tall coloured bottles rattled on her trolley? He reluctantly asked if beer was being served.
"Of course, Sir," she said. Her words were very polite, but her body language was not. He asked her which brands of beer were available, though the only one he knew was King Fisher. He nodded when she offered him an option as if that was exactly the one he was looking for. The tall woman with the mischievous smile was serving another row, which was a mild disappointment. As he took a slow sip of the beer, Rakesh slipped back into introspection. The purse made a lot of his decisions, and unpleasant ones at that.
What began as a casual desire for a Saudi job grew intense over the years. It was so strong that he never shared it with anyone for fear of getting talked out of it. So he was not in the least surprised when he said yes to Samuel without thinking. He had done all the thinking long before.
Dr Govardhan rang him within a week. He sounded like he owned the hospital, but he did not. It was a polyclinic with most medical specialties. The orthopaedic clinic was yet to open, but the orthopaedic surgeon who was to serve there had visa problems, so this offer came Rakesh's way. He filtered all the information; the equivalent of fifty thousand rupees a month and a single accommodation is all that registered. Not a brilliant job, but not too bad either. Rakesh heard himself saying, "Yes, okay, yes." And so the job was his. One step closer to achieving his dream!
By now he had had two beers, and they created physiological problems in his bladder. He did not want to move from his seat, partly because the idea of peeing in mid-air was not exciting and partly because the spy beside him had spread out to occupy every inch around his seat. But again a body part seemed to have a brain of its own, and all he could was take orders and rush to the toilet at the tail. Rakesh did not like the idea of the tail. It said to him that it was not part of the main body of the plane, and he thought again of the life jacket and whistle. The slight swaying at the rear gave company to his apprehensions. However, all went well till he flushed the toilet. The noise of the flush had all the elements of the sound of a midair crash. Why had no one invented a silent flusher? he thought. His list of potential scientific breakthroughs was lengthening. Never again will I have a beer on a first flight, he decided.
When lunch was served, he discovered that the economic manoeuvres of his upper limbs necessary for in-flight eating were a talent that he had yet to develop. This was obviously not the first flight for Rakesh's spy neighbour. He appeared to have a passion for food. Or was it vengeance? Either way, there was lot of water works from his circum oral region. Earplugs and a helmet would be useful additions to the jacket and whistle. Rakesh had never understood why some chewed with such facial acrobatics and energy. The spy's jaw muscles had a personality that stood apart, and he probably would have come close to earning a medal if chewing was an Olympic sport. He emptied his entire tray long before Rakesh touched his main dish. Rakesh was thankful for these distractions. He wanted to sleep for a while, but that was impossible. Now finished with his meal, the chewing champion snored like a trekker with engine trouble. Rakesh envied him.
"Please fasten your seat belts. We shall be landing at King Khaled International Airport in Riyadh in a few minutes." Rakesh had a peculiar feeling. It wasn't excitement, but it had a tinge of happiness, it wasn't fear, although it contained slight apprehension.
"Riyadh," he murmured to himself. The place he wanted to be. To achieve his secretely held ambition, to obtain a fellowship in orthopaedic surgery. Riyadh was the only center apart from Singapore where the Royal College conducted this examination outside of the United Kingdom. Obtaining this fellowship meant the world to Rakesh. It would open up opportunities for higher surgical training in the UK and a much better quality of life. Not many people he knew had obtained this position, and it had an aura of difficulty. All this enhanced its value and his greed to achieve it. And in another few minutes, he would be touching the ground, in Riyadh. This job was only a ticket to the show if the exam was a show.
The tall air hostess stood at the exit door bidding passengers goodbye with a fixed, impersonal smile. Rakesh had not had to use the jacket or whistle. He tried to return her smile, but his facial muscles weren't co-operating, like the labour force of his home state.
As he entered the airport, a sign displayed the outside temperature: 49nC. Riyadh in June is hot, Rakesh knew, but he hadn't known that the air would be this hot. Walking out there, Rakesh thought, would be like getting barbecued. The airport building was a massive structure, but something that he could not identify seemed to be missing. The streets were empty, he saw through the huge tinted windows. The spy who had sat in the next seat seemed to be very comfortable here, and once outside, he disappeared in an overloaded pickup van.
Rakesh spotted two men holding a placard on which was written, "Welcome, Dr Rakesh". Their doubtful smiles gradually grew until Rakesh approached them and shook their hands. One was Moideen Puthiyaveetil, the manager of the hospital. The other was Purushothaman, the driver. He went by Purushu. The manager fired question after question at Rakesh, leaving him no space to answer. The short pauses that accidentally cropped up were filled by Purushu's attempt at welcoming the new recruit. As they got in the hospital's car, a picture of the globe sprang to Rakesh's mind. The blue between India and the Middle East magnified on his screen, increasing his ache.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Algebra of Hope by Ranjit Divakaran Copyright © 2013 by Ranjit Divakaran. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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