Needles, cushions and a calling

I was the youngest of the three, quite naughty—or rather, quietly naughty. My father was a doctor by profession, a dedicated soul who served the rural population. My mother was a simple and sincere homemaker. In addition to household work, she was passionate about maintaining a beautiful garden and a meticulously clean house. Every time she saw the cushion covers with intricate hand embroidery work adorning the chairs on the verandah, she smiled to herself, admiring the craftsmanship of her youngest sister.

On one such occasion, while arranging the cushions, she sensed they were heavier than normal and had a weird smell. My mother’s heart sank as she figured out the cause. She almost yelled at my father, who was seated at a distance reading a newspaper, “These chairs are not a storage area for your medical kit that is always overflowing with needles and glass syringes.” Those were the days of glass syringes and steel needles which were reused after sterilisation.

My father paused his reading and looked up at his anxious wife. “Look what your 6-year-old daughter has done to my cushions.” Seeing his clueless expression, she explained, “She has been injecting water into them using your syringes as if they were patients. Now all the cushions are stinking. That apart, I am worried if she repeats this mischief on someone else or on herself.” Looking back, I can now understand her concern and emotions.

When this incident unfolded, my father perhaps remembered the Kannada proverb ‘Beleyuva pairu molakeyelle’ (A growing crop is judged by its sprout) and, in a way, anticipated my future. Pacifying my mother, he promised to be more careful and walked away with a mental list of plans for me.

To nourish my dreams, he soon handed me a first-aid kit with all the basic necessities such as Dettol, ointments, cotton, bandages, plasters and a packet of glucose powder.

As the newly chosen ‘little health professional’, I proudly carried this kit to school every day and brought it back with all things intact except for the glucose powder. It was the most sought-after goodie, as some of my classmates would feign exhaustion just to gobble a handful of this energy booster. My father would invariably refill the powder without ever reprimanding me. In fact, his heart would swell with pride listening to my ‘first aid’ stories at school, gently encouraging me to follow my dreams.

Little did I know that the first aid kit given to me as a diversion from harmful experimentations would inspire me to pursue medicine as a passion and profession.