Garments-donation and its side effects

With the deadline for the garments-donation project initiated by SFV ladies nearing, I embarked on it at home, combining de-cluttering of my wardrobe with philanthropy.

My hands dug deep on to some trousers that had piously waited a year or two for my much-publicized weight-reduction regimen to pay dividends so that their waist-ends could meet. No luck. The T-shirts, in turn, got blamed for having shrunk whereas it was my body-circumference that had grown unchecked.

I segregated the clothes into three categories: Retain, Donate, Undecided. While Retain and Undecided piles almost lost their balance, Donate looked with askance at his counterparts if he would ever open an account.  

Reason? Although many eminently qualified to the Donate category more because of owner’s indiscriminate growth than their wear and tear, each garment had a story to tell. “Oh my God, these were the ones Shankar-Sunita gifted me for Ashwin and Rohan’s (grandsons) thread ceremony. How can I part with them,” I said, temporarily halting their discard. “And lo, definitely not these,” I said looking at the shirt and trousers that the lady of the house (LOH) had gifted me on our 50th marriage anniversary.” And then there was another set which also I was about to hold back.  

“Arey old man, at this rate you will never part with anything; better wind up the operation,” came an inner voice. Better sense prevailed. Kept sentiments at bay and went about reshuffling them, this time fully cheering Donate.

On such occasions one often thinks of doing a comprehensive job and take up other postponed projects. I did exactly that.  Weeding out files – physical and electronic.  First, the sale of Delhi house file. “Oh my God, if only I had given the house on rent and sold it now, I would have made six times more the money as Batra did.” Then the Coimbatore plot. “If only I had retained it, I could have built a spacious bungalow with ground and first floors, stayed in one and rented out the other, rather than booking a match-box type retirement home in the same area, as I have done now.” 

The LOH seldom misses on what I am doing be she at one end and I at the other. “Enna, I don’t see you shredding papers. Again daydreaming? Come on, tell me.” She persisted. She has a knack of getting it out of me. “Stay happy that in both cases you got the prevailing price. Aage ki socho,” she said, and brought, as consolation, my second dose of coffee a little earlier.

Side by side LOH got busy sorting out salwars, kameez, sarees and other items for donation many of which brought back fond memories of shopping at Kolkata, Amritsar, Delhi, Ahmedabad…Luckily in her case it took her half the time to make up her mind. And in strict confidence, her Donate bundle was heavier than mine.

As I write these lines, I found her engaged in segregating utensils and household appliances including a few pressure cookers (some in working condition), cake maker, Kerala puttu maker (steamed rice cake), many of which had not seen the light of the day for years. 

“Some time later, not now,” she alerted me, “we shall take a call on furnishings - the sitting stools in the living room, the different sizes of coffee mugs we bought during outstation trips, the crockery and stainless steel dinner sets, bed sheets we are fed up of seeing day in and day out, pillow covers that looked fine at the shop, but any longer,  not to speak of the umpteen types of fancy cushions. But they can wait. They come handy for an afternoon nap.” 

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85 Visits the 90s

Padmanabha Iyer was past 90, but the Kanakabhishekam ceremony associated with it could be solemnized only in February. It was a gala function in their Jakkur villa with around 150 guests. The Airshow that week in Jakkur airport and the attendant traffic restrictions denied us the privilege to attend the ceremony. They understood our predicament and agreed to our visiting them later. And so we did - last month. 

Ramya, daughter in law was waiting at the main gate to escort us to their home – a lovely place made doubly beautiful by son Harish. “It was a near total re-modelling,” he confided, accepting our compliments. The sofas and other furniture were made to his specifications. Simple, elegant and tastefully done. 

Mama has not changed a bit since we saw him a year or two ago, except that we need to raise our voice to be heard. (In strict confidence, this has set in for us as well – for watching TV, for now). He dons the same grace, takes care of things himself, unaided. The baton that he used to carry for walk (which reminded me always of my father in law in his Calcutta days), has yielded place to a walker, purely as a matter of caution. Firm ‘No’ to sweets except when his son is not around. Yes, Harish was yet to return with his daughter Kanchana after tennis practice. Both Mama and Harish are good conversationalists. We had a good time both at the breakfast table and then at the drawing room recapitulating the times we spent together, living not very far from one another. Exchange of health bulletin is given - how some body components need to be goaded to listen to our commands, the tally of medicines… 

“Devanahalli, Brigade Paradise Retirement Home, please” we directed Manjunath as we got into the car, the present abode of Radhakrishnan mama and Raji mami.  We had spent several years together in the same apartment complex in Hebbal.  We moved in to Sobha here in 2016 and they to Devanahalli in 2017. Apparently, a fine morning, Mami then in her late 70s, raised her hands and announced, “No more kitchen work - enough of it.” And that prompted their move.

Both Mama and Mami are worth a thesis for a Ph D. I would call Mama a Mr Know-all, very disciplined, and a regular flute-player. Unwavering in his decisions, he gets up at four in the morning, runs around the complex for quite some time. He irons his clothes himself, the blade-sharpness of the crease very often an envy of the onlooker. At past 90, he still drives his car, of course respects Mami’s plea to do so within a radius of 5 km. He is thorough with Apartment bye laws and is now busy helping his co-residents to prevail upon Administration to levy charges for medical services on per person, and not on per square foot. “You give service to individuals, not to the area,” he argues. On the few occasions the couple decide to prepare food at home, he buys vegetables, cleans them, and cuts them to perfection. He washes clothes, dry them, fold them and keep in their respective almirahs at the designated places, as I watched him do so with precision. Perfection is his watch word. We had food in the dining hall – a four-star setting. Back in their apartment, we chatted recalling our ‘Srishti’ days. 

Time to return home – the 8-hour driver-time was ticking, also we wanted to get home before the rush hour.  “I will prepare some hot coffee for you. You seem too tired,” said my wife as she shook me from sleep in the car on arrival. A little later I heard, “I say, coffee ready, where are you?” “I am de-cluttering my wardrobe,” I said extricating my neck out of the deep shelf into which it had gone, in a bid to keep the full-sleeve shirts at the deep end, half-sleeves next and then T-shirts - an immediate impact to emulate Radhakrishnan mama, be it short-lived. 

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I came, I saw, I conquered - that sums up Robotic radiotherapy

It was 15 August 2002 - not sharing that year’s Independence Day celebrations. That was the day I was on the operation table for 5-1/2 hours in Geneva, Switzerland, undergoing prostate cancer operation. Luckily, I have had no significant problem all these 23 years. 

Slowly but surely a cell or two does manage to stay dormant to multiply and resurface, as a recent scan revealed. “Kill them, Sundaram,” ordered my Urologist/Oncologist. He didn’t mean to hand me sword to deal with it a la Rajanikant, in movies. He referred me to a radiologist-oncologist for that at HCG hospital. 

Radiotherapy has its attendant side effects. While attacking the problem-area, it has a knack of burning the adjacent organs and veins as well. Sometimes remedy could be worse than the disease, I feared. 

“No, not any longer, Mr Sundaram,” Dr Lohith, the radiologist-oncologist reassured on reviewing my recent scan- and earlier reports. “We will wage, not a war, but a battle for five days with our latest Cyberknife radiosurgery, engaging just a handful of soldiers (read: low dosage). Non-invasive, no blood, no this, no that…

“No result as well?” I quipped. “No way sir - 98% success-rate. After this, you don’t have to worry for some years,” he emphasized. “I will get back to you soon doctor,” I said as I made way for the next patient.

Back home I began to draft a letter to my relative, a leading Urologist-Oncologist in Delhi for his opinion. Came a voice, as usual, from the kitchen: “Don’t you think he is just another Urologist-Oncologist like the one we are consulting in Bangalore? Doesn’t our present concern lie primarily in the domain of a radiologist-oncologist? To me Dr Lohith appeared competent in his profession the way he fielded your volley of questions. I think we should go ahead with treatment straightaway,” the lady of the house prevailed.  I promptly deleted the draft, rang up Dr Lohith to draw the treatment plan. “Sure, I will ask Hindumathi, my Admin In-Charge to handle that.” (It is another story how Indumathi, fondly christened so by her parents, became Hindumathi).

Hindumathi re-arranged the schedule to start the treatment date we suggested (after eliminating Nakshatram day, Ashtami, Tuesday, etc.).

Earlier, when I was in discussion with the doctor, my elder son had rung me up to enquire. Doctor reassured him over the phone that the treatment was simple and did not warrant his flying all the way from US. He said yes to him, but landed in Bangalore in time for the treatment, missing only the previous day’s  pre-treatment investigation tests. My brother in law, Kannan, cancelled his duty travel to be with us for that. Shanthy, my sister in law, whose hands are full having to attend to the newborn grandson, prepared lunch on all treatment days – really delicious.

In the five-day continuous treatment thankfully Saturday, Sunday and Monday (Ramzan) intervened. Thus I had to cope with the hospital’s everyday Kumbh Mela rush only for two days. 

Starting from the attendant to the nursing staff, to the radiographic technicians to the staff at reception, Hindumathi, Dr Lohith and his fellow doctor Krithika, everyone was uniformly dedicated and polite. Three cheers.

Each session was in two parts lasting 30 minutes each. Lie still, don’t move, is the only request. The effect of air-conditioning, the cosy blanket they covered me with, and the silent ambience provided the right setting for a nap – however best I tried to stay awake to watch the proceedings. In fact, there was nothing to watch. The machine would just hover around me stopping at places to send beams to the designated area. 

A dreaded prospect that I feared was reduced to what I would compare with Julius Caesar’s  “I came, I saw, I conquered” feat. Completed the course yesterday, discussed discharge-summary contents today, and Empuran movie at Forum mall tomorrow.

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