“I wonder why the newspaper chaps are stingy, persisting with dry ink on an already smaller font?” I began my day over a cup of coffee.
The lady of the house seldom reacts to my newspaper observations, more so when they are critical, and goes about her job. She knows that I am a born arm-chair critic, and if she ventures, her more important kitchen work would suffer.
“The laptop industry is no less. The impression on the screen too has since faded,” I grumbled unabated. Again no response, until she felt she could take the barrage no longer.
“Why don’t you get your eyes examined instead of blaming the whole world for everything?” she said, rather uncharitably.
I had my eyes examined at an eye hospital nearby the same afternoon. After the rigmarole, the Counsellor advised me that both my eyes needed cataract surgery and, in passing, hinted the amount I would be relieved of. “Think about it,” she said, as she saw me off the door.
While getting back home, a host of newspaper articles on nexus between the various sectors converged on my mind - the
hospital Management allocating financial targets to the consultant-doctors, the jugaad between the Management and imported lens suppliers (Buy 1 Get 1, but charging the patients for both), and the like. Hardly had the thought process taken a complete round when I got a call from my elder brother in Mumbai. Yes, the network in our inner family circle is faster than the speed of light.
“Sundaram, have you heard of Bhujang Shetty?”
I pleaded ignorance.
“You are in Bangalore for ’n’ number of years, and you don’t know about him?” he quipped somewhat disappointed.
“No, not exactly. What about him? I have not read today’s newspaper,” I said, my defence-mechanism beginning to take charge.
“Nothing to do with newspaper. He was the right hand man of the famous Dr Badrinath of Sankara Netralaya. And now Dr Bhujang Shetty has set up his own hospital in Bangalore. You better get your surgery done by him - and him only. Okay?” he said in a tone that had the touch of an order. Yes, past his eighties, and head of our family he is entitled to that.
“I will,” I reassured him.
“You remember his name or have forgotten as in your school days - Akbar for Aurangzeb?” he asked.
“No way. How can I? I know it is Dr Bhajrang Shetty, correct?”
“It is neither Bhajrangi, nor Bajirao. Don’t watch too many movies. It is BHUJANG Shetty. Got it? Repeat it three times over the phone,” he made sure.
The next day we headed for Narayana Netralaya where Dr Shetty is the Chairman. We were supposed to take an appointment, but I just gate-crashed into his office. He gave a patient hearing to my blabber, and promised he could arrange for all the tests on a fast-track.
“I shall undergo the pre-op tests, Doc, but shall take a call when to go for surgery,” I said, still choosing to hold the cards close to my chest. But he was a past-master in mind-reading, and asked his Secretary to put me through the tests on a fast tract, and have the Counsellor personally accompany me to all the testing rooms.
Tests confirmed that it was cataract in both eyes, but in early stage. Surgery could be done either now or three or four months later. They would do both with a gap of one week, so that the six-week eye-drops regimen could go on somewhat simultaneously. The Counsellor explained the options: the age-old method, or the bladeless surgery, the laser technology as it is called. The latter would cost a little over 100% more than the conventional one.
My wife and I had a whisper talk in front of Dr Bhujang Shetty for a decision. He busied himself browsing a file but, given the human instinct, I guessed his ears were stretched towards us.
“What is the difference,” we asked. “If you draw five circles with hand, each one would differ from the other. Whereas if you draw a circle with a compass it would be precise. Thus, in laser surgery precision is the hallmark. But that said, I see no reason why under the experienced and able hands of the Head of Cataract Department, who is operating today, you should not opt for the conventional kind,” the Counsellor said.
It was confusion worse confounded, for me and my wife. Again, we were closeted in a whisper lasting a few minutes, then fixed our finger on the laser surgery column. And she marked it in the sheet.
What prompted you two to go for that? you might ask. Two reasons. First, that was the first time, we found a staff member suggesting with fervour a course which would bring less revenue to the organisation she worked for. She was honest to the core, as was Dr Bhujang Shetty. When we asked him earlier the difference between the blade and bladeless surgery, he said, “It is like travelling from Bangalore to Mumbai in a train or by air. But, mind you, just because the laser surgery costs double, don’t expect double the benefit.” These two independent statements, we felt, were replete with honesty.
Second, and more important, back home our sons talk to us on phone normally with an AK-47 in hand. And we were not sure we could defend ourselves if we went in for the conventional one.
Now both the surgeries are over and I am relaxing with just regular eye drops. Thankfully, the doctor’s “Don’ts” list covers all activities that I looked forward to - no exercises, full rest and relaxation, no head bath for ten days, no brisk walk, no strenuous activity. My Malayalee friends would be reminded of the old saying, “Acchan ichhichatum paalu, Vaidyan Kalpichatum paalu,” (Father wished for milk, and the doctor also prescribed milk.)
As for TV viewing and reading newspapers the doctor relaxed the rules a bit. For driving the car he was noncommittal, “It’s Bangalore traffic, your choice, sir.”
V V Sundaram
23 August 2016
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