Life is Chancy!

Subhash Chandra

A moment stands between life and death.   

Till the age of twenty-five, I did not know a headache and was in fine fettle. My fair complexion and pink-tinged cheeks got me one of the prettiest girls I loved to distraction as my wife. I complimented myself on eating healthy, exercising regularly, and abstaining from drinking, smoking, or using tobacco in any form. 

With our cherubic four-year-old son, our marriage was a song! …  And then life dealt a cruel blow. 

A dull, persistent pain in the abdomen nagged me. A consultation with the doctor, an X-ray, and then an IVP (an X-ray that uses a contrast dye to image the urinary tract for detecting kidney stones) revealed three calculi (commonly known as stones) -- two wedged near the curve of the left kidney and one stuck in the middle of the right ureter.

Considering their size, a renowned Homoeopath advised, “Don’t waste time. “These are monsters. Surgery is the only option.” 

But I did waste time. I was terribly scared of the surgery. 

Back then in the late 70s, laser treatment was not available and the whole abdomen needed to be ripped open.  

Overwhelmed by fear, I rushed to whoever was suggested by a friend or acquaintance, unbothered of the system of treatment. A visit to an old man at Shora Kothi in Old Delhi, a trip to Meerut – a city about 100 km from Delhi -- to a Hakim, famous for dissolving stones with three doses, and a visit to Batashe (a puffed sugar sweet) Wali Gali in Khari Baoli. The shopkeeper, who, like the previous two, helped patients as a social service, gave me a handful of Gokhru -- a dried fruit of a wild plant with multiple sharp thistles.

“Boil them and drink the water thrice a day. In three months, you’d be rid of all the stones,” he said confidently.  

Precious two years were lost. The stones had grown bigger meanwhile. 

                                                        #

Dr. Suresh John, one of the best Urologists in Delhi, looked concerned while examining the IVP films. “Not a day more to lose,” he said. The backflow of urine has caused hydronephrosis (swelling) in the right kidney.  

Anxiety swirled up the pit of my stomach, and I felt nausea.  

“Can the kidney be saved, Doctor?”

“Hopefully, after surgery, it’ll shrink back to normal. But … you’re way too late.”

I hobbled back home and collapsed on the nearest chair. 

“I may not pull through the two major surgeries,” I whispered in a deathly voice.”    

Shivali held my hand, looked into my eyes, and smiled confidently. 

“Silly boy. Nothing will happen to you, I assure you.”                                        

                                                #

I was wheeled into the OT. The operation table was surrounded by two junior doctors, an anaesthetist, two nurses, and an attendant. Shining, sanitized surgical appliances neatly arranged on a side table stared at me threateningly. An oxygen cylinder standing in a corner appeared to be a cannon, and two IV fluid bottles hanging upside down from the stands resembled dressed-up, skewered chickens at a dhaba.       

“Where’s Dr. John?” I asked one of the doctors.

“He’s on the way back from St. Stephen’s Hospital.”

I was afraid that once I passed out, one of the junior doctors would substitute for Dr. John and mess it all up. That happens at hospitals sometimes. The hospital had gotten myriad forms signed by me to steer clear of the law if I died.     

I said emphatically, “I’m not going to take anaesthesia till I see Dr. John.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll do that only in his presence,” the anaesthetist spoke up.

Agonising wait! Minutes stretched into an eternity. Dark thoughts held me in thrall. “Why is he taking so long?” I asked tersely.

“Hello, young man.” I heard Dr. John. He was geared up for the surgery in a mask, green gown, and a stethoscope around his neck. 

“All set?” he asked the anaesthetist crisply.

“Yes, Doctor,” he said.

“I felt a prick in my forearm.”

“Count up to ten,” the anaesthetist asked me. I remember reaching seven before passing out. 

                                                            #

I couldn’t tell how much time had elapsed when I started hearing voices.

Dr. John: “This damn thing is stuck because his pelvis bone is unusually curved inwards, leaving little space to take it out. Every time I bring it up to the gap, it slips back.” 

A junior doctor: “Sir, shall I try?”

“No.”

Anaesthetist: “I’m sorry, Dr. John, the anaesthesia can’t be repeated.”

 Dr. John: “I know … I know,” he said with a touch of irritation.

I had regained partial consciousness and feared for my life. I prayed, “God, save me for my wife and child.”

And Lo, Dr. John exhaled deeply. 

“Oh, … here is the bastard!” 

I heard the tinkling sound of a hard object striking metal.   

“Stitch him up,” Dr. John told one of his juniors. 

The pain was intolerable. It felt as if a cobbler’s awl were being used to sew me up. I screamed, but no sound issued forth.   

                                                     #

Fifteenth day at the hospital! The incision was deep. It continued to bleed, turning the catheter bag red. Dr. John checked on me daily but could not decipher the reason. Twice, he had my blood sugar tested for diabetes. It was normal. I was losing strength. Turning on my side caused wailing groans. 

Slowly, a change came over me. I felt light as a feather and floated in the ether. Lost the attachment with my wife I adored and the child I loved with my being. I was at serene peace. No fear of death. No worldly worries. At times, a film flitted in my mind: the good people I had met who had been kind to me and helped me, the perfidy of some friends during my growing-up years, the setbacks I had received, the loss of my father, and our struggle of the family to survive. I also thought of the good I had done to others in my life. 

Shivali looked worried for the first time. 

“Shall I give you pen and paper? Why don’t you write? Your stories in magazines and newspapers have been appreciated.”

I gave her a rueful smile. She turned her face, I knew why. 

                                                           # 

On the sixteenth day, Dr. John’s wife, a Child Specialist, accompanied him on his round. One look at me and she exclaimed, “Suresh, can’t you see he needs blood immediately?”

The blood test revealed 4.2. Hb. One unit of blood that my middle brother gave worked wonders. I regained love for my wife and child and the strength to sit up, half reclining. Worries of all types - lagging in my Ph.D. work, classes at the department suffering, and the expenses incurred - came flooding back. 

Peace vanished … but I was immeasurably happy!! 

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Setu, May 2025