making of a politician

Eating Vadais
He had only studied up to class five. That in itself was a great achievement for his family. The rest could barely read and write. This did not mean the brothers were stupid. Far from it. He, with their help had carved out a niche and a fortune for himself in the town.

He was the original land grabber, local mafia and exorbitant moneylender all rolled into one. He charged daily interest, and if you could not pay his band of goons dragged you before him for an audience.

The sight of him was frightening enough. He had a “Sai Baba” hairstyle with a Veerappan moustache. He twirled a large hatchet in his hand with the ease of a man used to swinging the wooden Karla. He also stripped his victims completely before they were brought to his presence. He was reputed ( I cannot really vouch for this) to have used the hatchet only once.

At one of his dhargas, he developed a shooting pain extending to his groin. He paused in mid speech. He had never felt pain , not even when he his teacher had caned him. Reputation had it that he just stood there, at the age of 10 years, and said “beat me more.” (That was probably why his education was terminated at that point in time).

He grimaced. A cry of pain would have been s sign of weakness. He could ill afford that. He did after all have to maintain an aura of invincibility.
“I have to go home,” he announced, “we have some guests. I will continue this tomorrow.”

His lieutenant was surprised. He never left business unfinished, particularly when it involved money.
“Shall I get your rum?” He asked.
“NO! Tell everyone to leave.”

Sycophants accustomed to free liquor and “chicken 65” were disappointed. After beating up a few wayward citizens who refused to pay their weekly “hafta,” a good drink and food was chicken soup for the soul.
He yelled, “get out.”
Everyone left.

Dragging one foot he managed to make it tohis parked motorbike. He could not lift his leg over the seat. Kick starting it would be impossible. He reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone and called his brother.

They got into a auto rickshaw and reached a private nursing home. His brother pushed a waiting patient aside and barged into the doctor’s chambers. The doctor did a double take.
“Please wait your turn.”
The brother went outside and shouted, “all of you go home.”
The patients melted away.
The brother came back.
“Now we are the only patients.”
“You can’t do this” protested the doctor.
“Why not ?” Asked the brother. “I will pay all their fees.”

He took a Rs10,000 bank bundle and laid it on the table.
He was bent over by then. The pain was agonizing. He felt he was going to disgrace himself by vomiting.

The doctor poked around a bit and said “you have a strangulated hernia. We need to operate.”
“What is this strangulation business?” He asked.
“Oh “ said the doctor, “it is nothing much a piece of your intestine is stuck and losing its blood supply. We will admit you now and operate tomorrow morning.”

The hospital room was bare and the cot uncomfortable. They stuck a needle in his arm and started an IV line.
“We are giving you something to help you sleep. You have to starve till morning. Not even water. ” The nurse left the room.

There was no question of sleeping. After all, he was a man who drank 320 ml of rum a day. Around 5 am he could not bear it any longer. The pain had subsided and he was hungry. He cautiously removed his IV line and opened the door.The corridor was empty.

He tiptoed down the stairs and on to the street. An old women was selling idly and vadai on the side of the road. The smell wafted into his nostrils. His mouth watered. He ate one then another then a third and fourth. He crept back upstairs and lay on his bed.

They took him into the operation theatre and draped him for surgery. The anaesthetist inserted the scope. Out welled the vadais and the tea he had washed it down with. The anaesthetist frantically called for the suction. As he turned it on there was a power failure. The theatre was plunged into pitch black darkness. Strange grunts could be heard from the operation table. The nurse finally switched on an emergency lamp.

“Isn’t there a generator?” asked the anaesthetist in panic.
“There is” replied the surgeon but you have to go outside and manually start it.”

The surgeon crept to the door and peered out. In the faint moonlight he could see a huge crowd standing there both men, women and children. There must have been fifty people bunched together.
“There is a huge crowd there. I can’t go out. I am scared of them. They are goondas and rowdies.”
They both looked at each other helplessly. Under the torchlight the patient looked very still.

The lights came on after about an hour. The patent was dead.
Without a word both doctors left through a back entrance.

“I am going to Chennai announced the anaesthetist. I have some work there. I don’t think they know who I am or where I live.”

“These fellows know everything ,” said the surgeon. “I am going to the police station. The inspector is a friend of mine.”

It took the relatives all of four hours to realize something was amiss and break down the theatre door. All the wailing in the world could not bring him back to life. After smashing the theatre in frustration, his brother left and went to the collection center. Before news of his death spread, he wanted to be sure that all money due to them would be paid.

He picked up the hatchet and twirled it. He was sure he could run the business better than his brother. Just being a goonda was not enough. One needed to join politics to really run the business. His brother did not understand this. He decided to join the party the next day. He could become a councilman a mayor or perhaps even a minister. The whole country was in front of him waiting to be looted. The possibilities were endless.

Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
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