The plane was delayed. The tiny airport in Regina, usually quiet and homely looked crowded.
I was using my phone sparingly because I did not want to increase the roaming charge. I logged on the slow Wi-Fi at the airport and typed out a message to my son Rohan, who was always online. I hoped he would let Alka know that the plane was delayed again.
Alka was on the edge these days. She was so close to Rhea and had been weeping herself to sleep every night for the last one month. All her motherly instincts were alive with the possible dangers a young girl living alone would face. Rhea was worried about her mother too, but she was also excited. She was getting into the college and course of her choice. It had been a long time dream of hers and she had worked hard at it. My eyes went a little moist with pride for my daughter’s achievement. I quickly wiped them and looked around stealthily.
There was a Sardar talking loudly on the phone about all his recent worldly possessions; an Audi, the Samsung Galaxy and so on. There was a Chinese family of book readers who kept glaring at the Sardar in intervals. There was the usual group of corporate travelers, tapping on their notebooks and listening on the phone simultaneously. There was a silver haired lady who sat serenely through the melee. An occasional twitch revealed perhaps some pain she was feeling.
My phone rang shrilly distracting me. It was Alka. Rohan had given her the message and she wanted to know if I had any update. She had also just spoken to Rhea and was telling she had some problems setting up her new desk in her dorm room. “She finally managed. One girl was practical enough to bring some basic tools with her. “ I frowned. Was Alka accusing me? I had offered to set up the desk but Rhea insisted she would manage and I should leave for the airport. Had I known the plane would be late, I would have stayed back and set up her desk and maybe gone out for dinner with her as well. But how was I to know. When I arrived at the airport, the display screen only said delayed by half hour. That was 3 hours back. I decided it was time to grab myself a coffee and biscuit. By the time I got back, I was happy to see that boarding had begun.
I settled myself in my seat. Tiredness began to seep into my bones and I wondered if I should store the laptop overhead or keep it with me. I decided to keep it with me and go through the emails I had downloaded. I would have no time once I got back home. My shift would begin tomorrow. Even with her scholarship, Rhea’s education would cost us quite a bit and I had to do the night beat at the airport much as Alka hated it.
Once we were in air, I started reading the emails in my Outlook box. I saved the one from Papaji last. There were the usual updates from my friends and ex colleagues back home in Chandigarh. I responded to some. Once the laptop was plugged in at home, the emails would go out.
I opened Papaji’s mail. As I expected, it was a long one. The old man wrote seldom, not very familiar with the internet, and when he did, he wrote volumes. His mail was emotional; there was pride that my daughter had followed in his footsteps. My father was a professional of of repute in Chandigarh. His practice was more than 50 years old and at one time, he had entertained fond hopes of my following in his footsteps and taking up his practice. There was that usual accusatory tone in his mail as well directed towards me berating me for not utilizing my skills and agonizing over the fact that I was a mere cab driver. And very predictably, the email made me sink into a deeper depression. I shut the laptop abruptly as my thoughts took me to the time our Canadian immigration came through.
Such excitement there was in the family and neighborhood. Alka was especially happy. Most of her relatives lived abroad and she would now join the ranks of an NRI. By and large Alka was happy. We lived in a big detached home in the outskirts of Brampton – such luxury unimaginable for a cab driver back home. She had kitty parties with her cousins, did an occasional stint at the beauty parlor and went back home with the kids every year. I never let her know how disappointed I was that I had to settle into being a cabbie. Her brother in law had me set up and we did not really run into problems most immigrants face. If she guessed at my dissatisfaction, she never let on. She was vocal about her gratitude to the Rab for fulfilling her NRI dreams.
I tried to watch a movie. In the next half hour, I was lost in deep slumber. I don’t know how long I slept, it seemed almost immediately that I was woken up by the Sardar’s loud voice and the announcement asking if there was a doctor on board. I glanced around and saw the Sardar excitedly waving his hand. His complexion was a little ruddy but he did not look really ill. I sent a silent prayer up hoping whoever was ill would soon feel better
There was a little flurry of excitement and then calm prevailed. After 10 minutes, the Sardar was up again waving frantically. The air hostess took him away to another seat. And the announcement came again, asking for anyone who was a nurse, who knew CPR or first aid. I struggled with my conscience. Should I offer to help? I was not a practicing doctor in Canada.
I hit the attendant button and my co passenger frowned at me. Could I not see they had enough on their plates already? The air hostess came to me with a flustered expression. When I asked her what was wrong, she said simply, “A passenger has been taken ill sir. If you are a practicing doctor or nurse, we would be happy to give you the details.” I was struggling with the oath I had taken at the beginning of what was to be my career and the promise I made to Alka, never to indulge in that talent. The Hippocrates oath won. “I am a doctor.” I said firmly.
Passengers who heard me nearby stared at me. “What had taken you so long?” I could hear their stares scream. The airhostess looked perplexed too but weighed her options between asking me the question and providing aid to the patient.
I was escorted, not to the Sardar, who I had presumed was having an anxiety attack, but to the passenger who was sitting by him. It was the silver haired lady with a serene face. The occasional twitch had become a grimace and her face was developing an unhealthy pallor. I took her pulse. It was slow. Her breathing was ragged. I spoke to her gently, asking her the source and location of her pain and whether she was on medication. She pointed to the region of between her upper abdomen and chest and shook her head. “Please prepare to land the plane at the nearest airport.” I murmured to the the airhostess.
I guessed the lady was in her mid-fifties. After watching her closely for about 10 minutes my prognosis was she appeared to be having an angina attack. I headed back to my medicine kit and placed a nitro glycerin tablet under her tongue, advising her to keep it there. It was my hobby to stock up on critical medicines whenever I went to India. I sat by her asking her to try and relax speaking in my most soothing bedside manner. Her breathing slowly became regular. It seemed to be an attack of stable angina. The airhostess came by to consult with me saying we were 1 hour away from Toronto and half hour from Sudbury. Should we land in Sudbury? Suddenly Marie(that was her name) opened her eyes and said in quite a steady tone. “I would like to go to Toronto. It is my grandson’s birthday and I would like to wish him personally.” I was in a fix. I took her pulse and brought out my Blood Pressure monitor. She seemed OK. I nodded. Marie squeezed my hand and asked me, “Which hospitals are you associated with Doctor? It would be nice if you could treat me.” I smiled and asked her to get some rest. The probability of her condition worsening was high if she knew I was a cab driver in Canada.
I was wondering what Papaji would say when he heard this story. I was a practicing junior cardiologist at Chandigarh’s PGI hospital. 3 generations before me had been practicing medicine and my father, was very proud with the reports he was getting about me from my seniors. I did a small stint at the AIIMS Hospital in Delhi. And that was when the 1984 riots happened. I was caught in the midst of it all thankful the family was in Chandigarh. As my heart thumped as loudly as the screams outside, my friend’s wife chopped my hair. I shaved my beard and decided I could not live in a place which robbed me of my identity as a Sikh.
I applied for the Canadian residency. I knew I would need to recertify as a medical practitioner when I came here, but I had no idea it would be difficult. With Alka quite certain of maintaining her position as a homemaker and Rhea in high school, the responsibility of putting bread on the table fell upon me. I did make attempts at the certification examinations, but running a cab full time and mostly into the night did not leave me with the time or energy to pursue it. Money was good and I soon had my own cab company.
As far as identities went, Delhi had robbed my identity as a Sikh and Canada took away my identity as a cardiologist.
Alka thought it best I give up my dreams of being a doctor. I was tempted many times to try my hand at a related field, but after a fellow Indian was imprisoned for trying to treat a patient without having the license to do so, Alka made me promise, I would never ever rise to the temptation of treating anyone.
But could I call this situation a temptation? Or a compulsion?
The plane landed smoothly and there was an ambulance ready to take Marie in. I wondered whether to slink away or come clean. I decided to go with the latter. The paramedic who heard my story gaped at me and said, “But man, you did the right thing! It was a matter of life and death and I for one don’t care about the license! You took a risk but seemed bang on the diagnosis. Why don’t you apply for your license again?”
When the papers hit the stands the next morning, Rohan hugged me. Rhea called from Regina tearful and said,”I am so proud to have you as my dad” and Papaji from Chandigarh. “Puttar , you are a true son of this family! Aaj tune Hippocrates oath ka laaj rakha.”
Alka alone was quiet. Later, she said. “I have been so selfish. Please forgive me. Maine aapko kya se kya bana diya.” I patted her on her head and said, “Not to worry. I aided and abetted you.” She looked perplexed.
5 years later
Rhea came out of the Toronto airport scanning the crowd for her father. She was tired; the Global Health Program was a rigorous one. She saw Rohan instead.
“Papa is busy assisting the surgeon at the Trillium hospital.” he said
In the ensuing furore and debates that followed whether a non-practitioner could treat a critical patient, the verdict was simple; I just happened to be the best choice at the time. The incident pushed me to action. I took time off to apply for my license and am now an assistant surgeon in the cardiac wing at the Trillium.
Alka continues to be loudly vocal in her gratitude to the Rab that there are less nights out now I am not a cabbie.
