ayush

My phone rang yesterday. A hesitant voice asked me how I was. I couldn't place it. She said she was from Shahapur, and we had helped them the last time they were in Bombay. Shahapur. Memories raced past my eyes. I asked her how things were now. She said better.

When I had last met her, she was the mother of a two month old baby, Ayush. She and her family had come to Bombay, the city where all things are possible. Where dreams are a dime a dozen. She had come with a dream too. A dream of her child's life. Ayush was dying and only a `big' hospital doctor could save him, she had been told back home. But when she came to Bombay, the doctors in all the `big' hospitals were on strike. And she was left with her husband and father, running from one place to another, to save her child's life.

Being the health reporter, it was my duty to cover doctors strikes, but that day I was asked to rush back to office and file an editorial piece on the strike. My colleague, Smita was asked to go to the hospitals instead. While taking the rounds of KEM hospital, with the usual reporters hanging about, television cameras taking sound bytes of patients, she saw a man run past with a baby in his arms. He had rushed to the nearby Wadia hospital. When she reached there she saw the mother weeping outside, with the grandfather standing close. The father was inside while the doctor attended to the baby.

On examination, it was found that the baby needed a ventilator, and all the ventilators in the hospital were full. There was no space for Ayush. A manual ventilator, which had been sent along with the ambulance from Shahapur was helping him breathe, but not enough. The doctors asked them to take him away to another hospital.

That's when Smita called me. But I was too busy. My deadline was up and I had another 500 words to go. My boss was sitting on my head, the copy had to go to Delhi. At the same time, Smita kept reminding me that the child may die. She kept calling and I kept cutting the phone. I still wonder at the extent of my inhumanity. Finally when I was almost done, I picked her call. She sounded defeated. She said that the family was taking the baby back to Shahapur. Anyways he was going to die, so it was better he died at home. I was shaken. I could not bear the defeat in her voice. I told her to convince them to stay and started calling all the doctors and hospitals I knew.

My first call was to Dr Ashok Rathod, head of department (Paediatrics) at J J Hospital who on getting the details of the case said, that the baby was past the stage of survival. Any efforts would only prolong his life by a day or two. So it was better the baby remained at Wadia. I had never heard doctors give up so easily on a case. And give up, without even examining the patient. Whatever little illusions I had that day were shattered.

My next phone call was to Dr Rakesh Shah, pediatric surgeon at Prince Aly Khan Hospital, Mazgaon, who said all the ventilators were in use in PAKH and offered to call Harkisondas Hospital. But the treatment would be expensive, he warned.

At Bandra’s Asian Heart Institute and Research Centre, it was the same. ‘‘Such a case can only be treated by surgery, in the first month after birth,’’ said Paediatric Surgeon Dr D Mohanty. ‘‘Now, any treatment is risky. The family is going to lose the baby. They will also lose money. Our doors are open. But they should be practical, not emotional.’’ Practical, not emotional. Try saying that to the parents of a child who is dying, Dr Mohanty. Try saying that to your wife, if god forbid the situation were ever to occur to you. To be practical and not emotional when her child is dying.

I then called Major General Vijay Krishna, CEO of Breach Candy Hospital. He said he would get back to me. When I called Sion hospital Dean M E Yeolekar and told him the situation, he suddenly couldn't hear me..network problem he said. Superintendent of Peripheral Hospitals Dr Seema Malik said that we should keep trying at KEM and reluctantly agreed to also check which of her hospitals had free ventilators. I broke down in office. What was the use of being a health correspondent, when I couldn't even get somebody admitted to a hospital.

I called Smita, and could hear the tears in her voice. She was trying to keep herself from crying in front of the family. They had finally decided to take the baby home and started the formalities.

I kept making the calls. I called Dr Sanjay Oak, Dean, Nair Hospital. We had had a fight a day before because his security had caught me snooping around in his hospital, and as expected, when he heard my voice he banged the phone down. But I persisted, and finally he picked up. I don't know what I said and how he understood me, all I remember saying was that it was not about any story, but about a life. His tone changed completely and he said—without hesitation—that the baby would be admitted. He gave me the cell number of the doctor at the ICU. At the same time, Major General Krishna called back saying he had a vacancy and would treat the baby free. I called Smita immediately and told her to head with the family to Breach Candy, while I joined them.

But then the real nightmare began. ‘‘The family told us they were going back to Shahapur, so we listed it as a discharge against medical advice,’’ the doctor at Wadia said. ‘‘Now they want to shift the child. Why can’t they make up their minds? They shouldn’t waste our time like this. Now we have to change it all.’’ They refused to discharge the child, whose breathing was going from bad to worse. The baby's uncle was handling the manual ventilator.

Smita called and asked me to rush to Wadia. Everyone seemed bored with us. Who were these people pestering us to hurry up things. Why couldn't we leave them in peace. A series of arguments, and two precious hours later, the paperwork was ready.

The child was bundled into the ambulance and taken to Breach Candy. Breach Candy was a different experience altogether. Kind nurses, doctors, clean, white, soothing environs, soft voices. I felt Ayush was safe here, and smiled for the first time. I saw Smita smiling too.

The family was overwhelmed by the hospital and the people there. They knew they were being observed, whispers escaped on how people like them could gain entry in a hospital that had once housed the former prime minister himself. And then I heard Ayush's grandfather's voice. He had just heard that Amitabh Bachchan had also been admitted here. That moment was undescribable.

Even as Ayush was wheeled into the ICU, the family kept asking me if they would have to pay, and I kept reassuring them that they wouldn't. Prashant, a colleague from office, who had seen me break down, called to say that he would pay if any cost was involved. I was deeply moved, but still amused.

I knew I was using my clout as a journalist to get the baby admitted. I had never believed in doing it, and I knew I would be indebted to Breach Candy to the extent that I would think twice before doing a negative story on them again. But I swept aside these thoughts then, and concentrated on Ayush. An operation would have to be carried out, but they were waiting for his parameters to become normal.

Major kept preparing us for the outcome. He told the family that the doctors were doing their best, but the baby's condition was very poor. The family was being prepared for the inevitable. Ayush would not live, but atleast he would die in dignity. Atleast he would die, after being given a chance at life.

A day passed. The operation was scheduled for the day after. One of the best pediatric surgeons in the city would operate. The family was tense but happy.

The next day, when I was in the train, on my way to the hospital. I got a phone call. First from Major. Then the uncle. Ayush had passed away. The operation scheduled to take place that afternoon never took place.

Yesterday, Ayush's mother said things were better now and asked us to visit them at Shahapur. What will we talk about? I wonder. Of the power project in Shahapur. Of how the taluka has progressed. Of fields and means of employment. Or of doctors who gave up on a baby without examining it. Of how she felt on the way back, with her child's body in her arms. Of the irony of his name. Ayush. I wonder.

obsessive compulsive disorders

Everyone in my house has a special OCD.

My mom is obsessed with cleanliness. She even washes apples with soap because she thinks they are sprayed with artificial color.

My dad has a pen fetish. Our house is filled with pens. They pour out from every room, every flower vase, every cupboard drawer. One day, I flicked one pen, a Cross, and he noticed immediately and questioned me the next day about it.

And I have this obsession with neatness. It may or may not be clean, but the room must be neat. Everything has to be in order. Even a handkerchief lying out of place gives me nightmares. So, even if I reach home at 1 am after a dog tiring day, I still have to keep everything in order, or else I won't get sleep.

We are a mad family.

Hutch to Hutch

I spoke to my mother today. On the phone. She is rarely at home, and when she is, I am away. So we hardly meet. But the telephone, and now, the mobile telephone, have still remained poor substitutes.
She couldn't hear and I couldn't speak. If we were together, words would not be required for a conversation.
All I was trying to tell her was that I missed her and needed her. But she couldn't hear my silences.

She kept thinking it was a technical problem.

How I got into journalism

Journalism is one of the many pleasant paths my life has strayed into, away from the main road. Paths that make life so much more interesting.

I was jobless for a month, having run away from my previous job (this is a story that shall also be told, sometime soon). My friend, Gigil, (who then worked in Mid-day and now in Hindustan Times) called to say that Mid-day had a a vacancy. I applied, because I was bored of sitting at home. I was called for the interview. Aakar Patel, the editor of the paper, who went around on a snazzy bike, with a jacket that proclaimed `I am the editor of Mid-day' would interview me.

It went something like this:

I entered his cabin, with a copy of my resume.

FIRST QUESTION:
AP: (After going through my resume and not even glancing at me) What is Oncology?
ME: Sorry?
AP: Your resume says you did a project on Oncolgy.
ME: (straining my memory) Yea...I think its something to do with cancer...But that project was way back in college...I don't remember much of it. (I must have been drunk to mention it in my resume)

SECOND QUESTION:
AP: So, why do you want to be a reporter?

This question, the most obvious, caught me unawares.

ME: Ummm...wellll..I want to be a reporter because...because...I like to report. (Oh god...can i sink into the ground)
AP: Thats exactly my question. Why?
ME: (some more umms and ahs later) Because I don't have any other job, as of now. And Im a fast learner.

(ok swati, you are not getting this job. say thank you and leave)

THIRD QUESTION:
AP: So...you did philosophy...who is your favorite philosopher?
ME: (Gosh not again...I was B-O-R-E-D of this question) Wittgenstein.
AP: Why?
ME: Because he had a log cabin in the interiors of Norway where he would run away to, everytime his in-laws came calling.
AP: (looks at me for the first time, puzzled, I think) ok..can you tell me a little more about his philosophy?
ME: Welll...its too vast..and I don't know where to begin...can we discuss this some other time?
AP: ok.

(its obvious I'm not getting this job, I tell myself, so I might as well enjoy the interview.)


FOURTH QUESTION:
AP: So, why do you want to work with an afternooner rather than a morninger?
ME: Get me a job in either, I dont mind..(I smile)
AP: Good reply.
ME: (huh???)

FIFTH QUESTION:
AP: What was todays major headline?
ME: (aha! i know this answer!!! It is something on business that i don't remember any more, but at that time, i answer well)
AP: Do you understand business?
ME: (here goes my job again..) No.
AP: Me neither (he looks at me empathically)
ME (double huh??)

And then, this is the best part, and the end of the interview:
AP: (looking at my resume again) So, you are a good photographer?
ME: (with supreme confidence) yes.
AP: (calls the city ed, Lajwanti and asks her to bring a camera, hands it to me and says) Ok go take pictures anywhere in the office. I want atleast three good photos.

I leave, and come back immediately.

ME: (again with supreme confidence) Its not working.
AP: Oh! (He examines it and...) It's not working because, for it to work, you have to swith it ON!

I start laughing uncontrollably, but he doesn't join me. I go out to take pictures, but somehow, when I come back, the camera refuses to show them. Im pissed and tell him that Ive always used a manual SLR and not a digital, so Im not used to it. He shakes his head in dissapointment and I leave. Im hired that day itself. He later tells my immediate boss, that he thought me to be honest and extremely bright! HUH???????????????

And so opened the doors of journalism, for a bright, honest girl like me ;)
Btw, that discussion on Wittgenstein's philosophy never happened.

Babblings in Verse Without Plan or Purpose

found this old poem that I had written in my SYBA..

"She's already twenty-one now..how long are you going to wait?
Don't think she'll get a husband when she is eighty-eight.
At twenty-one she is not small anymore.
What with Akash Kapoor and that Muslim fellow,
Hovering around her like bees..
Then don't say I didn't tell you so.

My beti is one in a million,
And she'll marry someone, one in a billion.
But you, you are not bothered.
You will never get out of the gate.
It is all the fruits of my karma,
All the games of Fate, oh my poor fate!"

Says Mr Seth, hiding behind his newspaper and tea
"I know dear, life is difficult for you.
What with a husband like me,
and a senseless daughter too.
But patience, patience, my sugar cake,
Lets wait sometime, before the search for a groom we undertake.
What with India and our dearest friend, Pakistan,
exhibiting each other's military prowess,
We can easily slip out of this marriage mess."

Sarita, twenty-one going on eighty eight, lost in contemplation,
Her philosophy text open to Carvaka Hedonism.
The mysteries of the universe were getting too much for her,
Her old flirting tactics were losing their lustre.
Akash had not called her in days,
And Firoz, why in heaven's name was he being so vague?

But there was a silver lining in the sky -
A new family had moved into Flat 303
And she had had the chance to spy
The most gorgeous guy, this side of the Arabian Sea.

Sigh..Life is not so bad after all,
And Hedonism still rules
And off we go all trim and tall,
to sharpen the hedonistic tools.

But the world must go on, without plan or purpose,
and wives ultimately win.
From marriage there is no escape.
(When has there ever been?)

So Sarita gets married to a suitable boy,
A doctor from a good family.
She frets a little for her earlier toys,
but soon, is settled quite happily.

Nine months pass in the blink of an eye,
Colors - red, blue and grey.
And lo! You can hear the triplets cry,
Healthy girls all of them we are happy to say.
"How wonderful," cries grandmother, Mrs Seth,
"Girls are a blessing to humanity!
Now I can plan their wedding date!"

-SWATI ALI

photography

I had always wanted a camera of my own from the moment I understood what it was used for. But I could never dare ask my parents for one. So the minute I accumulated my first Rs 10,000, after four months of working as an assistant with Anupam Kher's company, I decided to buy an SLR. A Nikon FM 10.

I had used click cameras before, borrowing from various people at various points of time. I remember taking a camera to Kerela, for my first long trek. I remember how it felt to look inside the view finder and see the world. It was the same world, but when it was framed by the four edges of my viewfinder, it gave me a thrill, like i was discovering it for the first time.Even now, when I look into the viewfinder, through the lens, I feel a connection with the outside world, that only a camera can offer.

play of masks

there is not a single person i can think of who knows me well. Every person, be it my parents or my best friends, know only a part of me...a part which i choose to show to them..

in fact we all know only a certain side of other people...its a play of masks, and the challenge lies in how quickly you can juggle one mask with the other..

Everyone knows a different part, a different side...n they think that is the whole, which is so laughably untrue..this is also one of the reasons i feel so distant from people..

when they talk to me, i know they are talking to that side of me that they know, and for some reason, i dont feel like breaking their illusions and see to it that my answer is coherent with their perception of me...

i dont think there will ever be any person who will know me fully. And why should they? why should anyone have to bear the burden of our complicated personalities..

FEU

At a lecture in Grant Medical College in Mumbai, in the mid 80's, a professor walked into the room, leading a patient by her hand. While the students wondered what this was leading to and why the professor was wasting time when he had hordes of other things to do, slowly they realised the point that their teacher was trying to make.

This young woman in her mid-20's was the first patient with HIV/AIDS at J J Hospital and among the first few cases in India, the professor was Dr Farokh Erach Udwadia - better known among students as FEU. ``By holding her hand, he taught us a lesson in compassion that most of us would never forget,'' said Dr Sanjay Pai, who was then an undergraduate student at GMC. ``No amount of theory can replace the sight of your professor walking hand in hand with an HIV/AIDS patient,'' he added.

That was not the only lesson Dr Pai, now a Consultant Pathologist at Manipal Hospital in Bangalore, learnt that day. ``Earlier in the day, when I and a friend were waiting for the lift on the ground floor, we saw the professor dash past us and charge up the stairs to the seminar hall on the sixth floor. As we sheepishly followed him, he taught me two other lessons - never be late for a meeting.'' The other lesson was delivered as Pai read FEU's article in the Journal of Clinical Pathology years later: ``lifts are for wimps.''

These are just some of the memories that students carry of FEU, undoubtedly one of the best if not `the' best doctor Bombay has. `When you don't know what you are suffering from, go to Udwadia' is the common line used by patients and doctors alike. People from all over come to him when others cannot identify the problem - his diagnoses are said to be the most accurate not just in the city but also the country. The man himself prefers to keep out of the spotlight and positively shuns the media. Consultant Physician and in charge of the Intensive Care Unit in Breach Candy Hospital, strict instructions are given even to family members and hospital authorities not to divulge any statements about him.

The 1987 Padma Bhushan Awardee has researched, published papers and books on a wide variety of topics including tropical eosinophilia, respiratory care, tetanus, rabies and problems pertaining to critical care in developing countries and is on the scientific advisory board of the Indian Council of Medical Research. While he has a huge list of high profile cases - former Prime Minister A B Vajpayee's knee replacement surgeries in 2000 and 2001, Amitabh Bachchan's intestinal surgery in 1982 to name just a few, Udwadia's less well known patients feel that he treats them with as much respect and compassion as anyone else. Ajeet Doshi (59) with no history of previous illness suddenly developed terrible backache. ``We immediately rushed to Breach Candy hospital and Dr Udwadia diagnosed me in 48 hours, though it was a difficult case. But he told me that I had to stop my smoking habit or else he would simply not treat me. I was a chain smoker - smoking 40 ciggaretes a day - but from that day, I gave up,'' he said.

Dr Jagdish Chinappa, Consultant Paediatrician, also a student of FEU said, ``What I learnt most from Farukh sahab was the way he dealt with patients - he was extremely meticulous in his clinical evaluation but also extremely compassionate. The amount of time he would spend with each patient, getting to know their full history, the way he would take the information out, in his humility - he stood alone.'' The last time Chinappa met his teacher was however, ironically, when he himself took ill. ``I had frequented most doctors in Bangalore and Mumbai, but nobody could tell me what was wrong. Finally I went to Farukh sahab.'' And that, as anybody would tell you, was the end of his search.

Indian films have found their own voice. And its 24 years or younger.

Indian films have finally found their own voice. And its 24 years or younger.

It started off as a seemingly crazy idea. What if a person could walk in and make a film - no questions asked, no scripts scrutinised, no experience required. And not just make a film, but also get it screened the world over.

In an industry that works on having the right connections or the right amount of money, anyone who wants to make a film knows he or she is in for a long haul. This seemingly crazy idea changed all that.

What began as an experiment at the Kala Ghoda Art Festival in 2003 is now a full fledged platform providing opportunities for young, first time film makers to come out and display their talent. The idea - its called 24x7 making movies - is simple. You send in your film idea, according to the theme given to you. If it gets selected, you are given a Panasonic camera, an Apple editing software and 24 hours to make the film. You have to be 24 years or less and the film can be anything from 24 seconds to 24 minutes.

The program was born when film makers Dev Benegal and Anuradha Parikh were invited to curate the film section of the Kala Ghoda Art Festival in 2003. The festival is set near the famous Watson Hotel, where the Lumiere Brothers first brought film to India. ``24x7 is our way of giving back something to that place,'' said Benegal. The idea was to break away from the existing world of making movies - which according to both Benegal and Parikh, stifles creativity. It was an attempt to get away from the world of producers, finaciers, development bodies, film commissions, just zero in onto the basics and make a film. The onus was on stories and the ideas they bring forth. ``Everyone has a story to tell, but they may not have the required connections. And in an industry that works on connections, these stories never get told,'' said Benegal. ``The young have a unique voice. And regardless of what production houses, industries or governments do, that voice cannot be suppressed, must not be suppressed,'' said Benegal.

But 24x7 is not just about making movies, its also about getting them screened. In 2003, films were screened at the Kala Ghoda Art Festival and the high point came in 2004, when the program was given permission to be a part of the International Film Festival of India (IFFI). Films of young, first time directors, some not yet out of college, were screened along with biggies like Rituparno Ghosh, Sudhir Mishra and Anand Patwardhan to name just a few. Films are also sent to smaller film festivals around the world. However not all films turn out great in the end, which could be called its flipside. Since you are only asked to submit an idea rather than a detailed script, the end product may end up without a focus or being technicaly poor. But Dev insists thats the only way for creativity to survive. ``You have to give them a free hand and stop yourself from interfering. Not all films will be perfect, but its the idea that governs that film that is important. It is important for the world to know what its youth are thinking,'' he said.

24x7 was born of this desire to see how the young generation looks at the world. That the program has been a huge success is apparent from the amount of entries that only seem to increase. While 2003 saw 100 entries, and 2004 saw 500, this year has seen an unprecedented 5000 entries. 100 ideas have been shortlisted for films this year. But for a program this huge, even today, two years later, the core team still consists of only four people. Other than Benegal and Parikh, there is Program Co-ordinator, Sopan Muller and Maulik Mehta, who looks after the financial aspects. ``We did not want to make it into a corporation or an industry. We wanted it to remain very personal,'' is the reason given by Benegal. Till now, the focus was on short feature films, but the next plan is to move into full length feature films - this time the age limit will be more relaxed, but they will again be made by first time directors. ``We plan to make 9 to 15 full length feature films (90 mins) from 2006 to 2008,'' said Benegal. ``You can make the film in any language. Someone mailed us a brilliant idea in Malayalam some time back and we have decided to make it into a full length feature,'' he added.

first day first show

ABOUT a year ago, a random mail offered us the chance of a lifetime. It simply said if you wanted to make a film and were below 24 years of age, all you had to do was submit an idea to Tropicfilm, Dev Benegal's company. If they liked the idea, you would be given a camera and an editing console free of cost. You film would then be screened at the International Film Festival of India (IIFI). The topic? `Nature and Violence'

My first reaction was to call up my friend Divya Rao. We were both experimenting with jobs back then. She was working for an obscure televison company that made bad serials, and I, after handling everything from continuity to costumes to props, had shifted base to journalism, convinced that assistant direction was a brain-dead job. The only thing we knew for sure was that one day we would be making films

Now, all we needed was an idea. But that was also the toughest part. Endless meetings at cafes and Udipi hotels yielded no result. I was beginning to think that all those months in television had diminished my thinking capacity. With just two days left for the deadline, we were at Chowpatty, sitting on the sand, throwing ideas at each other and feeling wretched. It was nice to have big dreams, but what's the point if you can't come up with one big idea? Then slowly it began to take shape, a character began to materialise, we started understanding him, his world, how he would react to situations. We weaved his story with the theme. The film, we decided, would be about his physical journey into wilderness while mentally he dealt with the ghosts of his past, his childhood, his dreams and nightmares. We jotted it down, before it could escape. The next day we submitted the idea, damn sure we wouldnt get in. The day the results were announced was also my first day at my new journalism job. We'd made it! And would have to leave for Goa for the shoot in a few weeks.

I applied for leave. The paper's city editor granted it because of the film's IFFI tag. Later, she told me I was the first person she had ever come across who had asked for leave on the very first day of the job. We started preparing for the film. Though the camera and editing console were free, there were other things to take into account. But things did fall into place. We got our lead actor who agreed to work for free. Rao had a friend whose relatives lived in Goa. It was decided we would stay with them. From then on it was one mad rush. Location hunting, editor hunting, trying to find extras, props. The nights were spent in scripting, deciding camera angles, shots. It was a magical time. One of the conditions of the competition was that the film had to be shot and edited within 24 hours.

The first hour dawned and off we went. We shot during the day, leaving the editing for the night. Since there were only two of us, we had to do everything from checking the continuity, directing our actors, handling the camera, organising food for the unit, hiring transport.... After sunset, we packed up and Rao and I proceeded to the editing studio. This was probably the worst part of making the film. There was so much material and we were so tired, it was difficult to make sense of it. We didn't know where to start. To add to our problems, we had got an editor who did not seem to understand what we were telling him, and kept dozing off every now and then. It was like a tragi-comic scene. In the middle of the night I gave up. From then on Rao handled the editing on her own with admirable patience and level headedness. We finished editing that morning just as our 24 hours were up.

The film was ready, but we could not be present for the screening. Reason? Our jobs. But it was incredible. We did not end up making a great film, but we did learnt a lot. And the best part was the feeling it left us with at the end. We had read in The Alchemist that if you really want something badly enough, the entire world conspires to make it happen. For us, it certainly did.

banganga

was sitting alone at banganga today...there were only two other people around...one performing yoga and the other, walking...there was not a whisper of a breeze...not one leaf moved...the water was calm, the temple reflections in it making it look like a painting...other than the one man walking, everything else about that plcae seemed to have frozen in time...like a still photograph...But i knew, soon, the mother and daughter in law living in the first house on the right would start fighting...and the world would awake...