WHO
WEARS THE BREECHES?
Adapted
from JALADHAR SEN’S Grihini Roga in Bengali
Dr.
N. R. DEOBHANKAR
By
the time I return from office it is usually six in the evening. When work piles
up, it is even eight or eight-thirty. “Why should he not work late?” murmur the
subordinate staff. “Doesn’t he pocket full four hundred every month as Bada Babu, the Head
Clerk? As the salary, so the service. We get a
beggarly 40 or 50 and do what we can between 10 and 5. Isn’t that only fair?”
So much for the office. As to the
situation at home, it is still worse. Let me take you into confidence:
Returning from office a bit early, that is 6-30, one evening, I discover the
lady of the house lying down in our bedroom upstairs, with the fan whirring
overhead, and the old maidservant sitting at her feet. As I enter, the maid,
whom we call Shyama’s Ma, says in a rasping voice,
addressing no one in particular: “So the Master has decided it is time to
return home! That is something at least!”
Being
unable to fathom the cause of this very cheerful welcome, I inquire: “What’s
the matter? Why is the Mistress lying down? Has she a head-ache or…..?” Cutting me short, Shyama’s Ma
says with stinging sarcasm: “What should she do but lie down? Go about dancing
and carousing? It is three days since my child was ill. But does anyone care?”
Here
I must explain that Shyama’s Ma is an ancient
servant, who has brought up my wife from childhood, and who came to us with her
as a sort of dowry. She is called Shyama’s Ma, after
her daughter, and is devoted to my wife, of whom, under stress of emotion, she
still speaks as “my child”. Naturally she is in entire command of the
household, and no one dares to contradict her. Besides, who else is there to do
so, apart from my wife and myself? We have a daughter, but she has been married
these two years, and is happily settled.
Not
caring to aggravate the situation by questioning the grave charge leveled
obliquely against me by Shyama’s Ma, I say
meekly, “I would have rushed back from office earlier, had word reached me that
the illness was so serious.” “Is the illness only of today?” asks Shyama’s Ma pointedly. “It has been going on now for a
month. At lunch the poor child tries to swallow a morsel of rice. Can you call
it a meal? She sits at the plate just for form, and gets up and returns to bed
straight away. Till five in the afternoon she lies prostrate. Neither is it for
pleasure that she leaves the bed then. When I try to dissuade her, she brushes
me aside. ‘It is time for Master’s’ return, she says. ‘Who is there to look
after him if I don’t?’ But what does Master-care? Is there any strength left in
my child?”
All
through this vigorous indictment I find no hint as to what sort of illness it
is, or how and when it started. At no time before have I heard or seen anything
unusual. Since, in the prevailing tension, it would be sheer folly to say so, I
humbly admit guilt and, rallying all the sympathy I can muster, say: “That is
so, indeed. She has suffered a lot. I slave at the office like a donkey the whole
day, and have no energy left to carry out my domestic duties. But for my
inattention her health would not be so ruined. Well, let us leave all that
aside now. Regret won’t mend what is over. So what is the good of dwelling on
it? We must think of the present. I’ll run to Dr. Lalit
just now and get him here at once.”
While
the maidservant was vehemently impeaching me, the Mistress had kept silent. But
the moment I mentioned Dr. Lalit, she flared up. “Why
go to the extent of having Dr. Lalit?” she asked
sarcastically. “The compounder Sricharan
would do just as well for me!….It’s all my own
wretched fate and nobody’s fault!”
Do
you catch the point? I, who adorn the post of Bada
Babu, should think of consulting Dr. Lalit of the locality for the critical illness of my only
wife and better half!...Dr. Lalit, who has not even a
horse carriage, let alone a car, who does not ask for–and would probably never
get–more than one rupee as his visiting fee! To have the audacity to call such
a one to attend upon the Presiding Deity of my hearth and home, in her
precarious state! Could temerity go further?
Making
a forlorn attempt to recover from this faux pas, I exclaim: “How hastily
you draw conclusions! Am I getting this Lalit to take
up your treatment? Don’t you see, in a dangerous illness like yours, it is
necessary to have a doctor at hand all the time? That is why I want to send for
Dr. Lalit, while I proceed to get a Specialist.” What
I said silently to myself, however, had better be left unrecorded!
Thus,
having no altemative, I left home at that late hour,
without changing my office dress, and started in search of a reputable doctor.
The question was, whom should I approach? Were I to
report the so-called grave condition of my wife to Neel
Ratan Sarkar or Bidhan Roy,
I would be driven out as a lunatic, or perhaps, impelled by pity, handed over
to the police for being locked up in an asylum.
Then I remembered Dr. Bose, who was said to be an expert in temperamental troubles of this kind. I did not know him very well, having just met him a couple of times at some friend’s. We knew each other by name, and had exchanged courtesies when brought face to face by chance. But that was all. There was no question of any intimacy. Still, as I had heard many people speak highly of him, I decided that he was the right man.
I
knew where he lived, and learnt he was in when I reached there. Within a few
minutes he came down and, seeing me, smiled in welcome. “Ah, here is Bijoy Babu!” he greeted. “Do come
in.” I followed him and took the proffered chair. “This is a late hour and you
are still in your office clothes,” he remarked. “What is worrying you?”
“Would
I come to pester you at this time, Doctor Babu, had the matter not been serious?” I replied in apology. “I
hope you are not engaged. It will take me some ten minutes to state the case.”
“I’m
not going out just now,” said he. “Take your time. I’ll close the door so as
not to be disturbed.” He shut the front door and, turning on the fan and
lights, asked me to begin.
“My
wife is, it seems, terribly unwell,” said I to make a start. Before I could
proceed further, he interrupted me. “This ‘it seems’ part is a bit perplexing, Bijoy Babu,” he put in.
“The fact is, Dr. Babu, I don’t quite know what the illness is,” I continued. “I leave home at 9-30 in the morning every day and return at 6.30 or 7. At no time have I seen the wife suffering. To me she appears as I am accustomed to find her all these 18 years. There are no children to try her patience. We’ve only one daughter, and she has been married these two years, and pays only fleeting visits. There is an adequate household staff, including cook, maidservant, syce, coachman and others. The Mistress is not required to go through any domestic drudgery. This is the background, Dr. Babu. Well, this evening, a short while ago, I returned from office as usual, only to find the wife in bed, and her old maidservant glaring at me. This maidservant has raised my wife from childhood, and has been with her all these years. Everyone calls her Shyama’s Ma, after her own daughter. With the prerogative of such association she refers to my wife as “her child”. The moment I stepped in, this evening, I was faced by Shyama’s Ma pent up with resentment, and accusing me of callousness towards “her child” who, it seems, had long been “seriously ill”. You can imagine, Dr. Babu, how thoroughly dumbfounded I was at this news and the gratuitous charge. All that Shyama’s Ma said of the illness, interspersed with a scathing commentary on my heartlessness, went completely over my head. I could not follow a word. They say you are an expert in peculiar cases of this type, and may therefore be able to make something of this. Shyama’s Ma says that every day “her child” comes down for lunch at 11, but doesn’t touch food, and goes back to bed, only to leave it at 5 in the afternoon. So severe is her suffering! When I return home at 6, I neither see nor know any thing about all this. The good lady herself has indicated nothing till now. It is only today that she has kept to her bed even after 5….This is all I can report to you, Dr. Babu. This is why I have to seek your help so urgently at this hour.”
Listening to my story, Dr. Babu smiled. “There is no need for you to say more,” he remarked. “I think I can lay my finger now on your wife’s illness–as well as on your own.”
“My illness!” I exclaimed in
surprise. “Have you not been attentive to what I narrated at length? It is not
I but my wife who is the patient, Dr. Babu. As for
myself, I am perfectly sound.”
“We’ll
see about that later,” he replied, still smiling. “Tell me what you want me to
do how. Am I to go and see your lady just now?”
“Good
heavens! No!” I cried. “That will ruin every thing! If you come just now, do
you imagine my wife will be impressed, by your status, or respect your
instructions about the treatment? ‘What sort of Specialist you have brought?’
she will question me. ‘He has evidently no patients on hand. Is an Expert ever
available the moment he is asked?’–This will be her reaction. Though so
learned, you don’t seem to have considered these aspects, Dr. Babu. What I propose is that you merely give me an
appointment for tomorrow, and visit the patient accordingly. I shall return
home now and explain to my worthy lady that you had no time at present, owing
to your vast practice, of which I shall give a colourful
description. This will build up her faith in you, without which no treatment
can succeed. Do you approve of the plan?”
“Really,
Bijoy Babu, I must admire
your forethought,” laughed Dr. Bose. “I must admit I
didn’t give as much thought to the strategy of the matter as you’ve done. You
have proved yourself the better psychologist of us two! Well then, I shall
be at your place at 9.30 in the morning. Let me take down the address.”
“Can
you not manage to come a bit earlier, Dr. Babu?” I
pleaded. “If it is to be 9.30, I shall either have to miss office for the day,
or at least arrive there late. In either case, the office work will seriously
suffer.”
Dr.
Bose thought for a while, turned the leaves of his
diary and replied: “I could make it 8-30, if that will suit you.” “Thank you,
Dr. Babu,” I replied, “that will do perfectly. Kindly
arrive exactly at 8-30. You may come a couple of minutes after that, but
under no circumstances come earlier even by a few minutes. Do you know why this
warning? Shrimatiji will conclude you are short of
patients, if you arrive ahead of the appointment.”
“You
need say no more,” laughed Dr. Bose. “I quite follow
your point, and will proceed with caution. Do not worry!”
“If
you will pardon me, Dr. Babu, there is still one
thing more...that is...if...if you don’t think me impertinent...”
“Go
ahead, Bijoy Babu,” he
urged.
“When
you get into your car on your visiting rounds, you always wear, I notice, a khaddar
dhoti and kurta, and carry a shawl
of the same stuff on your shoulder. As to your foot-wear, it is probably a
pair of slippers, though I cannot swear. That, Dr. Babu,
is the right dress for a dinner appointment at one’s father-in-law’s.
If you visit my wife in that attire, she will, I fear, ignore your eminence. I
beg of you, therefore, to come dressed smartly as a pukka
Saheb, and to use not less than ten English words
to every three of Bengali in her presence. Only then will the lady say to herself,
‘Ah! here is a real Doctor indeed!’ You can gauge from
the outrageous demands I am making on your goodness how miserable my plight
must be. I hope you will forgive me.”
“I
quite appreciate your position, Bijoy Babu,” said he sympathetically. “And you are right in your
caution. We’ve to deal with patients of various kinds, and to attend upon the
mentally unbalanced. What you’ve said is not so irrelevant. Obviously, you
can’t be too careful with a patient like the one with whom you’ve to pass your
days. Well, Bijoy Babu, you
had better go home now. I shall be at your place punctually at 8-30 and won’t
overlook any precaution, rest assured.”
I
said good-bye, and was on the point of leaving, when one more thought struck
me. “Do forgive me again, Dr. Babu. I know I’m
bothering you a lot,–but just one more thought I want to...to.”
“You’ve
left out something again?” laughed Dr. Bose. “Let’s
have it by all means.”
When
you get up after examining the patient, I shall hand over to you Rs. 16 as fee. You will then declare curtly that your fee
is not 16 but 32. Is that clear, Dr. Babu? This is
necessary, so please don’t forget.” Dr. Bose gave a
loud laugh. “Bijoy Babu,
I’m convinced you are the better psychologist of us two!” he said, controlling
his merriment. “Very well,….very well….it will be as
you say...I shall demand 32 rupees and accept nothing less!”
Taking
leave of the doctor, I returned home to find the Mistress out of bed and
sitting on the floor, with the cook holding a cup of milk in front of her, and Shyama’s Ma coaxing her to drink it up. Seeing me, the maid
asked whether the doctor was coming. “You know how it is in
“That’s
true” assented my wife, giving me a pleasant surprise.
“These big doctors are surrounded by crowds of patients. You’ve to go round and
round for three days before you can get one.”
I
have never jibbed at fabricating a plausible lie when that helped. Had it been
otherwise, do you think a mere typist on Rs. 30 like
me would have risen to be the Bara Babu on 400? When I noticed the favourable reaction of the wife, I found courage, and drew
freely upon my talent for mendacity. While changing into home clothes,
I painted a fanciful picture of my vicissitudes in search of a Specialist.
Addressing the wife, I said: “You know it is only today that I fully realise how hard it is in
Shrimatiji smiled this
time. “How tired you must be!” she exclaimed, and instructed the cook and the
servant to arrange for my wash and to set forth my dinner. “It is too late for
the afternoon refreshment now,” she ordered. “Let the Master have a proper
dinner straight away.”
Well,
sweet words may not heal hunger, but they do heal ill humour.
Finding courage, I began to boost Dr. Bose. “There
is a doctor for you, if you want the genuine stuff,” I started. “Look at his practice!
Not free from patients till 11 at night! Said it was impossible to come before
one tomorrow...After much pleading and pressure, I made him change it to
8-30...This is not our Lalit, but a pukka Saheb….Hardly
speaks Bengali...And what a powerful car!” The wife joined in: “Of course, with
such a reputation,” she began, “why should he go in for a Ford? It is my good
fortune that an eminent doctor like him should agree to examine me.”
So
the string of lies was not wasted. The object was gained I heaved a sigh of
relief.
Next
morning it was barely 8 when the Mistress began to bustle about in excitement.
“Look here,” she called me, “you had better go and wait in the drawing-room
below. Suppose the Doctor Saheb turns up before 8.30!
You must be ready for him.”
“What
do you imagine? This is no common Kaviraj to
drop in half an hour earlier and sit gossiping. He will come at the stroke of
8-30, and not a minute before.”
“Don’t
I know that?” she said pleasantly. “Still why not await him downstairs?” Though
I had already made all preparation, I had to obey her and went below.
As
settled previously, Dr. Bose arrived exactly at 8-30,
made up as more than a pukka Saheb, and went straight to see the patient. Not a word
of Bengali escaped his lips. It was all un-adulterated Bilati.
He examined the back and front of the patient, asked her a few questions in
halting Bengali, and asked me a few more in English–which I answered in
Bengali. It was the routine cross-examination that doctors carry out.
“The
trouble is serious no doubt,” he pronounced at last. “But a month ago I cured a
case exactly like this in three days, with six doses. The patient here too can
be set right similarly. The drug I prescribed was not available in any store. I
had to procure it for them myself from a European chemist. That happened to be
the last bottle in his stock, and I bought it for Rs.
10. Only 6 drops for 6 doses were used. The rest is still with me. You’ll have
to come down to my place for it at 10-30. I’m not free to return there just
now, but as this is a critical case I shall manage to meet you for 5 minutes.
There will be 6 doses, one to be taken morning and evening, starting from
today. Then we come to the question of diet. In this illness this is the main
thing. If there is any irregularity, all will be lost. That is why you’ll have
to be in charge yourself. If you entrust it to the cook or maidservant or
anyone else, I shall not be answerable for the consequences. You’ll therefore
have to miss office for 3 days. Here is the diet schedule:
12
noon 6 ounces of cocoanut water;
3
P.M. 4 ounces of butter milk;
7-30 P.M. 6 ounces of whey.
You must use a measure
glass for accuracy. Otherwise, there is risk. That’s why you have to do this
personally. I want the medicine and diet to continue for 2 days. Day after
tomorrow I shall come and examine the patient again, and may change treatment
if necessary. If you report to me that morning, well and
good. In any case I shall pay a visit myself. That’s about all. I cannot
stay any longer. There are lots of calls to be made yet.”
As
Dr. Bose got up to leave, I promptly put Rs. 16 in his hand. Looking at the amount, he said dryly:
“My fee for such cases is Rs. 32.” Immediately I paid
Rs. 16 more and said: “You are welcome to twice 32,
Doctor Babu, if you say the word, and even then the
money will be a trifle compared to our gratitude.”
“Thank
you,” he replied coldly. “Don’t worry. There is no danger. I expect cure in 3
days.” Saying this, he left briskly.
There
was no alternative to missing the office. I telephoned to the Boss from a neighbour’s house at 10, explaining my predicament, and
requesting him to send my colleague, Bidhu Babu, for a little while regarding that day’s
correspondence. He expressed sympathy and sanctioned 3 days’ leave.
I
brought the 6 doses of the miracle medicine from Dr. Bose
as arranged, and offered payment, which he declined.
Treatment commenced scrupulously as prescribed from that very day.
Shrimatiji was restless
all through the day and more at night, which seemed interminable. As the diet
was severely restricted to a few ounces of cocoanut water, buttermilk and whey,
it was no wonder she was consumed by frightful hunger. But there was no help.
The Doctor’s injunctions were explicit!
At
last even the night ended. When day dawned, the wife despatched
me to the doctor to report that the 2 doses of yesterday had cured her trouble.
I was further to say that she could not stand the agonies of hunger any longer,
and the diet must be relaxed.
On
giving a detailed account to the doctor, he became grave and said: “Obviously,
the treatment has proved effective. It is a happy sign that she, who would get
up from the dinner plate without touching food, is now tortured by hunger. But
that does not mean that I should change the diet so soon. Tomorrow I shall come
and examine the patient and decide what would be best.”
A
loud groan escaped me. “It is all very well for you, Dr. Babu,” I said, “to lay down the law. But
what about me who have to face the music at home?”
“You
must pay for your sins,” he laughed. What then was left for me to do but return
home and convey the doctor’s verdict to Srimatiji!
She grew perfectly furious, and declared that even a sparrow could not live on
the wretched drink which was all that was allowed her! I prefer to draw a veil
over the incidents of the second day and the distress endured by patient and
attendant alike!
Next
morning the doctor came punctually at 8-30 and repeated his examination. “Let’s
move to the drawing-room,” he said, turning to me. “Further treatment must be
decided after careful thought.”
When
we were alone, he said: “Your lady will not be ill again, Bijoy
Babu. She is sufficiently chastened during these two
days, and will need no medicine now. She will not leave her meals untasted hereafter. But one problem still remains untackled. Your own malady is yet to be cured. Were your wife to fall ill in this fashion even twice a
month only, do you know what would happen? Leaving aside the question of
medical bills, your repeated absence from office will ultimately drive your
employers to sack you. Such a climax may perhaps bring about a cure of your
ailment. But, in view of the correction she has just received, your wife is not
likely to indulge in such an idle fancy again. Nor will you have to skip office
and lose your job. Therefore, your own malady stays where it was!”
“What
are you driving at, Dr. Babu?” I asked in perplexity.
“I’ve no malady whatever!” Dr. Bose laughed
mischievously. “How would you know about it, Bijoy Babu?” he countered. “You are not a physician. There is no
apt name in Western Medicine for your trouble. But the Ayurveda
mentions Grihini-Roga, the
Wife-Disease, all the symptoms of which are present in you. Unfortunately, I do
not know the treatment, but I am sure of the diagnosis. Who wears the breeche, in the home?–You or your wife?-Obviously, the
latter!...But what is this, Bijoy
Babu?...No...no! Not 32
rupees this time–not even 16. You owe me nothing now. Our account is squared!...Namaskar!”