The small boy waited for his father to return home. He hung around the wide gate, leading to a massive compound with their house taking up one side of the open space around. Several large shady trees lined up one side, creating a natural protective canopy over the patients who lay under the tree. The patients were lying straight with IV drips snaking into their arms. They were groaning. The small boy named Bijoy Rabha , had adjusted their IV drips hanging from the branches of the trees after inserting the needle into their veins, as he had been taught. His father did not return home that evening. Instead he sent word through a villager who owned a bullock cart that more supplies were needed as several patients had lined up when word spread that someone from the health centre was present at their village. Bijoy’s mother , and maternal uncle, Bhola who ran the pharmacy would have to minister to the patients in the Public Health centre in absence of his father
It was the 1960’s. In a very remote place in the deep jungles located in the sparsely populated areas along the borders of Bhutan and Kokrajhar district of Assam , medical facilities were practically non-existent . To reach the nearest village you had to walk five miles through a thick forest , habited by wild animals . The bicycle was the only means of transport. The deep ruts left by the wheels of the bullock carts were the only tracks to guide you to a settlement . If , it got dark by the time you finished your work in the next village , it was always wiser to stay back in the village headman’s house than to hazard trudging back home, especially if one is alone.
His father had gone to the next village , escorted by three men on bicycles who had arrived the previous evening at the health centre for an emergency delivery by their sister. The health centre was too far for her to travel on foot or cart .They entreated that his father should accompany them, leaving the small boy to keep an eye on the patients. Since little Bijoy was home tutored by his parents and uncle, he could keep an eye on things when his mother was busy dividing her time with caring for the household, the vegetable garden and the patients.
The Public Heath Centre was manned by one doctor and one compounder. The doctor was Dr Bhagwan Mahajan. Like his name, he was a God (‘ Bhagwan’ means God in India) to the people who lived in scattered expanses in villages dispersed and spread far and wide. It is often said, that the presence of the doctor is the beginning of the cure. This was true of Dr Bhagwan Mahajan. His deep listening to the patients sketchy description of symptoms, helped him guess correctly the ailment and prescribe medicines. Diagnosis was limited to the stethoscope in the absence of other aiding equipment like an X-ray machine . Sometimes Dr Mahajan had to just place his palm on the forehead of the patient, and the delirious person would instantly show signs of recovery. Faith indeed did play a big role in the healing process.
Bijoy’s father , Prahlad Rabha , was the compounder at the PHE. His job was to mix the generic powders and potions in huge Bel jars in their exact proportions prescribed by Doctor Mahajan and hand them out to the patients in small pouches, and bottles. The patients often carried their own bottles to contain the potions. Constant and close association with the dedicated Dr Bhagwan Mahajan, had made Prahlad Rabha acquire a level of admirable professionalism and confidence in interpreting maladies with a high degree of accuracy. Such was the belief of the villagers in the curative properties of the powders and potions that, a few recovered by just looking at the Bel jars. Restricted by the limited number of beds at the Public health centre, many patients took to resting around in the open compound of the Health centre under the trees. It was not uncommon to see the compounder bending over a patient under the tree and the IV drip hanging down from branches flowing into the patient . Often times the father told the boy that the energy of the trees flowed into the veins of the people lying ill under the trees, and made them whole again. The sons innate belief in how trees can heal the human spirit and the soul , later became a popular theme for discourse in the’ Green Heal ‘society he joined as a grown man.
The compounder, Prahlad Rabha, as a young man had nurtured aspirations of becoming a doctor. He had got admission into a Medical College and had gone away from home to live in a hostel. But his mother missed her only son such that her health deteriorated seriously, pining for her son. When her mental health was threatened by the separation, the son left the medical hostel to be by his mother and stayed by her. By the time Prahlad went back to Medical college, his seat was gone. He got himself enrolled to a course in Pharmacy and qualified to be a pharmacist and joined the Public Health centre at Kokrajhar, to serve people in his area.
Dr Mahajan had gone to Israel for higher studies to come back , better equipped to serve the people of Kokrajhar. The PHE was left to be run by the compounder, the boys father for a few months. It was challenging to say the least. Every villager wanted to meet the Doctor, but in his absence, the compounder was their deputy God.
Bijoy’s father travelled often to villages. For delivery of babies, people came and knocked on his door at all hours. He never refused. He cycled at all hours, braving the forest and its nightly creatures. Wobbling along the ruts of the bullock cart, one night, with only a torch tied to the front of the cycle, Prahlad Rabha, one night was pedalling on a relatively smooth stretch when he bumped into the massive trunk of an elephant on his nightly stroll. He fell off the cycle. The light from the torch went out as it fell on the ground and rolled away. Never experiencing anything so upsetting as the impact of a warm human body against it , the elephant heaved its trunk, backed away in fright, let out a bellow shattering the nocturnal stillness and vanished into the darkness. The deputy Gods support team who had hid behind trees at the bellow of the elephant later helped him get his bearings and complete the assignment. How they loved to relate that incident at every opportunity for the rest of their lives together !
When the doctor returned , the compounder had a fresh assignment. Another health centre was being set up in the deep interiors of the jungle near the next cluster of villages. Prahlad Rabha had to take up the initial work of putting the centre in order and getting it started. One day he left for the new centre on a bullock cart, accompanied by a few village men. It would take them four days to reach it. The father asked the boy to be good, help his uncle in the pharmacy and study his books. He would write letters to his son about the new centre.
The boy waited for letters from his father. The first letter from his father described the vastness of the new place, the daily chores his father completed with the village men during the day. At night his father was alone; he cooked for himself and retired to the living quarters next to the health centre. He made it a point to keep a fire burning in the open to keep any adventurous wild animal at bay. Provisions were supplied by the village folk. Rice, milk, vegetables and eggs. Many of them reared cows and fresh milk was his father’s regular diet. Though he enjoyed his work, his father wrote, he couldn’t help feeling lonely sometimes and wishing for company. He hoped that his son and uncle were managing their pharmacy fairly.
The son wrote back to his father giving detailed account of the happenings. Yes the pharmacy was open every day in the morning till late at night .Yes, Bijoy could light a menthol lamp on his own now. Yes, he and his uncle Bhola took turns to go home for lunch.
Bijoy was clever enough to manage the shop on his own, when his uncle was away at lunch. One day when he was alone manning the shop, a jeep rolled to a stop in front of it and a huge man stepped out. He wore a tie and spoke in English. Bijoy could not understand English well. The man indicated his stomach and circled his fingers over it and gesticulated as if to vomit. Bijoy grinned in understanding and showed him the bottle containing strips of gelusil tablets. Aaah! the man nodded in affirmation
‘How many?’ the boy asked raising his fingers, in 1, 2 3 or 4 tablets or strips. He knew his multiplication table up to five, but not more.
The man took the whole container, took out his wallet and raised his eyebrows in a, ‘How much?’
The boy became flustered. He wished his uncle was here to bill it correctly. Grabbing the container back from the man’s hands, he unscrewed the cover lid and poured out the contents on to the counter. Sweat poured down his body as he started counting batches of five strips. He wrote the number down on the register and recalculated the amount and shouted the total to the huge man. Rs. 95/- .
When his uncle returned from lunch, he was surprised to see the container of Gelusil strips empty. He checked the amount of cash to see whether it was right and patted his nephew’s head on finding it correctly entered.
Bijoy was silent for a long time after that day , deep in thought. That night, during his home study, he asked his uncle,
‘Where can I learn to speak English like that customer?’
His uncle smiled at the earnest little face and replied
‘Hmm.. Bijoy, Shillong is the place to learn to speak good English. They have very good schools there.”
‘How far is Shillong?’ Bijoy asked
‘Not far, you have to go to Guwahati first, then catch a bus to Shillong. But you will have to stay in a hostel in the School there’
‘You think I can get admission to one of the big schools there and stay in a hostel?’
‘Of course, Bijoy why not? You have to grow up a bit though. Maybe in a couple of years from now’.
Bijoy waited impatiently to grow bigger.
He studied his books well and played with gleeful abandon. Football was his favourite sport. He accompanied a few village boys to the next village one day for a football match. Starting out at first light they hiked through the thick forest, now green and gorgeous in the sparkling sunshine, joy of certain victory coursing through their spirit of adventure and sportsmanship. Wild and wondrous was their victory in the football match in the next village. The locals who had gathered to watch the match did not mind that the outside party won. They championed both the teams with equal cheer and warm heartedness. Being a pastoral village, mugs of pure milk and ladles of butter were fed to the weary warriors after the game. They had to return home the same evening. Carrying torches, made of twisted jute rope with fire lights at their top ends, held high above their heads, the merry band of boys braved their way back home. A herd of elephants kept a respectful distance as each boy moved like an Olympic torchbearer through the velvet blackness of the forest.
Bijoy slept with dreams in his eyes that lingered on during daylight hours to beckon him to a different world. His father wrote to him. He was not alone anymore. He had found a friend. Bijoy could visit him and play with his friend.
Bijoy visited his father. It was an afternoon when he arrived at the new PHE set up. When he couldn’t find anyone at the PHE centre, he went to the living quarters next to it. His father was sitting at his lunch. His father was mixing rice on a plate when he saw his son standing in the doorway, delight on this face.
His father shushed him, Shhhh!, ‘Wait, don’t disturb. My friend is shy, He has got his family with him’.
Bijoy looked around. He couldn’t see anyone other than his father. Then his eyes fell on a small mouse, sitting next to the plate on the table as if patiently waiting for his father to minister to its ailments. The little mouse rubbed its tiny whiskers with his paws as it waited in anticipation for a grain of rice. His father spread a few grains of cooked rice on the table. The mouse picked up a single grain of rice that filled its tiny paws and bit into it delicately. More squeaking noises came from the ground. Bijoy cast his glance down. The whole mouse family was milling around the floor near the table now. His father dropped a few more grains of rice around the table, and the little ones who had scurried up, began eating their fill, and rubbing their whiskers in contentment. Once the meal was over, the mouse family scuttled into the hole in the wall and disappeared into from where they came.
‘This is your friend? This mouse? asked Bijoy his eyes round in fascination ,at a loss for more words.
‘Yes’ replied his father, smiling broadly as he cleared the table. ‘This mouse was trapped in a tangle of wire mesh and was hurt. He was my first patient. They are my faithful companions and keep me company at mealtimes. Remember son, my job is to heal, not just human kind but all kinds. When you heal others, you get healed yourself. Son, remember, in the process of healing, the first maxim is ‘ First do no harm’.’
At the next meal, the routine repeated with the mouse family. While Bijoy watched in wonder, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed that he had no one to play with. He was so looking forward to meeting another small boy to play with. Trying to be friends with the mouse family was futile as they only trusted his father. Subconsciously, the visit to his father’s new work place and meeting the mouse family stirred a profound well spring of sentiments in Bijoy, which he would realise in later life.
Two summers later, Bijoy all on his own, travelled to Shillong to meet the Headmaster of a famous boys school. He had no appointment. He spoke no language except his mother tongue. He tried explaining to the staff, that he needed to get admission. Admission time was seven months away, the staff explained. Bijoy persisted, sat on a bench shivering in the cold refusing to go away. He was eventually allowed into the headmaster’s office. The Headmaster asked why had he travelled so far on his own to seek admission. Bijoy explained in fractured English (which he had practised hard) that he was desirous of speaking good English and wearing a natty uniform with a tie. The headmaster listened with interest and advised him to return home and come back after seven months. His admission would be assured. Seven months later Bijoy was escorted by a dedicated staff into the admissions procedure of the school and into a gateway that armed him to win the battles of his life. While school taught him to win battles, emulating his father’s ideals taught him to win wars!
Bijoy is a grown man now with a well-paying job. Armed with an MBA degree, he with his football team has started their own mobile dispensary network, which travels to remote villages. They have four vans, fitted with basic medical necessities, three paramedics and the services of two dedicated doctors who travel to the villages, which still continue to be isolated and devoid of adequate health facilities. Their mobile dispensary is named ‘First do no harm’. Financial assistance is provided by business houses as part of their corporate social responsibility. Individual contribution is also welcome and encouraged.
Extreme patience in handling both routine matters was well as challenges thrown up a crisis are the hallmark of Bijoy’s working style. His every thought, word, deed and destiny is intertwined with the noble principles of First do no harm. He has a family of his own. A daughter and a son. They watch Mickey Mouse and Stuart Little on television screens with their eyes shining in bright delight. As their father watches them indulgently, in his mind flashes another picture. A poignant picture .Of his father, sitting at dinner by the menthol lamp in the quarter by the health centre, tired but happy in the act of providing the healing touch. Around the healers table gathers the little mice family , trustingly sitting on their haunches, holding a boiled grain of rice in their tiny paws each , as they blink their eyes in bright contentment .
