I am of a certain age and I am reminded, not infrequently, of a long-forgotten rugby song lamenting the turning of one's sex-appeal into a water spout. Waterspouts require regular visits to the plumber to get the plumbing checked. I make annual visits to mine.
I have since been on the look out for a physician with empathy and one who can strike an immediate rapport. I don't quite need a singing physician but one whose medical competence is complemented by a bit of music in him, a bit of poetry in his heart. It was then that I saw the following sign at my neighborhood clinic and my heart started racing:
My plumber's parents seem to have had a rather exalted notion of their newborn's musical abilities - they named him after a famous sitar player. He appears medically competent but I do not detect any semblance of music in him, other than his name. He is as prosaic as it is possible for a human being to be and if music redeems, he is irredeemable.
My household plumbers - the ones who fix leaky sinks and the like - are not especially musical either. One was of a distinctly sour mien and was not given to many words. He would listen to our complaints with a stony expression and then would proceed to hike up his "veshti" (dhoti) to the half-mast position preparatory to peering under the sink and giving the U-bend a mighty thwack with his wrench. If one were not particularly careful to look elsewhere one would be treated to a view of his own plumbing as well. But he did fix the seepage that rotted the wooden cabinet below (the rot had proven irresistible to the termites that ate my smartphone). Notwithstanding his unmusical bearing he was a capable leak-fixer.
The one whose work had created the leak in the first place, Ismail, could wax lyrical and hum a tune or two, especially when he smelt a good mutton biryani. Once when we were heading to the hardware shop on his motorcycle he took the left rather than the right at a certain fork. I was surprised, because I knew he was familiar with the area and promptly remonstrated with him. His response was that the aroma of Ambur Mutton Biryani was pulling left against his wish to steer right. Ambur is a small town further south and for countless years been the tannery capital of Southern India.
The skins and hides trade in that town has been the preserve of the Muslim community which fed the smelly tanners with aromatic biryanis. I am a complete vegetarian and know not the intricacies of biryanis, but the aroma wafting in the air that day, reportedly that of Mutton Biryani of the highest class, was particularly appealing. On the other other hand, the plumbing skills of the said Ismail distinctly less so: his plumbing leaked and his electrical work consisted of feeding "live current" through the "neutral" wires.
No sooner he smelt the Ambur biryani, Ismail burst forth into a Tamil song to the effect that his heart was on song, that the beloved (in this case the biryani) was making him forget all else and he desired a quick union with the object of his affections (the biryani). Quickly wrapping up his work he proceeded to what would have been a joyous union, between him and his Ambur Mutton Biryani, leaving me with a primed termite bomb that would explode a year down the road.
Despite his lack of plumbing and electrical skills, he had music in his heart, at least where mutton biryani was concerned. Although he was partial to Ambur Mutton biryani, he did claim that he appreciated the Dindigul (another small town, even further south) variety too. The one whose services I used in between the Musical One and the Surly One fancied himself to be the prince of plumbers and his fees reflected that. Whenever I called him, I got an earful of devotional music. He would pick up his phone only after agnostics like me had been exposed to a sanitizing dose of devotional music.
My readers might take issue with me for expecting well-developed musical abilities in plumbers and physicians. There is a reason and a connection: being a good musician is all about the invisible connection, rapport, with the audience, inspiring them and being inspired by them in turn. Being a physician, albeit one specializing in such lowly matters as human plumbing, also requires a rapport between the plumber and the plumbed. The plumber has to inspire confidence. Whether it is at all possible to be inspired by the state of human plumbing is moot; but inspired by it a plumber has to be, in order to be successful in his chosen field.
Aldous Huxley once famously observed that when Shakespeare wished to express the inexpressible he laid down his quill and called for music (or was it silence? I get a bit mixed up between Music at Night and The Rest is Silence). I dont set such standards for doctors - the thought of a surgeons laying down their scalpels and calling for a spot of "Born To Be Wild" in the middle of brain surgeries boggles the imagination. Being in sync with the patients, understanding them, and empathizing with them makes many a poor medical grad good physicians. Bedside manners, I believe, it is called. My GP was knighted precisely for this reason a couple of years ago though I think he would have difficulties with a medical quiz.
My musically-named unmusical plumber would probably have breezed through a medical quiz but would struggle with a musical one. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice too much to establish any rapport with his patients. In the spirit of giving him as accurate a picture as possible as also to enable a quick and error free diagnosis of the state of my plumbing, I once started narrating all my symptoms and complaints which I had meticulously noted and memorized earlier. The un-musical one brusquely stopped me in mid-flow (pardon the pun) saying that while my "research" could possibly get me a PhD, it would not help my problem. I wasn't amused.
As you can see the relationship with my plumber was fraught. Would you blame me for looking for an alternative?
My household plumbers - the ones who fix leaky sinks and the like - are not especially musical either. One was of a distinctly sour mien and was not given to many words. He would listen to our complaints with a stony expression and then would proceed to hike up his "veshti" (dhoti) to the half-mast position preparatory to peering under the sink and giving the U-bend a mighty thwack with his wrench. If one were not particularly careful to look elsewhere one would be treated to a view of his own plumbing as well. But he did fix the seepage that rotted the wooden cabinet below (the rot had proven irresistible to the termites that ate my smartphone). Notwithstanding his unmusical bearing he was a capable leak-fixer.
The one whose work had created the leak in the first place, Ismail, could wax lyrical and hum a tune or two, especially when he smelt a good mutton biryani. Once when we were heading to the hardware shop on his motorcycle he took the left rather than the right at a certain fork. I was surprised, because I knew he was familiar with the area and promptly remonstrated with him. His response was that the aroma of Ambur Mutton Biryani was pulling left against his wish to steer right. Ambur is a small town further south and for countless years been the tannery capital of Southern India.
The skins and hides trade in that town has been the preserve of the Muslim community which fed the smelly tanners with aromatic biryanis. I am a complete vegetarian and know not the intricacies of biryanis, but the aroma wafting in the air that day, reportedly that of Mutton Biryani of the highest class, was particularly appealing. On the other other hand, the plumbing skills of the said Ismail distinctly less so: his plumbing leaked and his electrical work consisted of feeding "live current" through the "neutral" wires.
No sooner he smelt the Ambur biryani, Ismail burst forth into a Tamil song to the effect that his heart was on song, that the beloved (in this case the biryani) was making him forget all else and he desired a quick union with the object of his affections (the biryani). Quickly wrapping up his work he proceeded to what would have been a joyous union, between him and his Ambur Mutton Biryani, leaving me with a primed termite bomb that would explode a year down the road.
Despite his lack of plumbing and electrical skills, he had music in his heart, at least where mutton biryani was concerned. Although he was partial to Ambur Mutton biryani, he did claim that he appreciated the Dindigul (another small town, even further south) variety too. The one whose services I used in between the Musical One and the Surly One fancied himself to be the prince of plumbers and his fees reflected that. Whenever I called him, I got an earful of devotional music. He would pick up his phone only after agnostics like me had been exposed to a sanitizing dose of devotional music.
My readers might take issue with me for expecting well-developed musical abilities in plumbers and physicians. There is a reason and a connection: being a good musician is all about the invisible connection, rapport, with the audience, inspiring them and being inspired by them in turn. Being a physician, albeit one specializing in such lowly matters as human plumbing, also requires a rapport between the plumber and the plumbed. The plumber has to inspire confidence. Whether it is at all possible to be inspired by the state of human plumbing is moot; but inspired by it a plumber has to be, in order to be successful in his chosen field.
Aldous Huxley once famously observed that when Shakespeare wished to express the inexpressible he laid down his quill and called for music (or was it silence? I get a bit mixed up between Music at Night and The Rest is Silence). I dont set such standards for doctors - the thought of a surgeons laying down their scalpels and calling for a spot of "Born To Be Wild" in the middle of brain surgeries boggles the imagination. Being in sync with the patients, understanding them, and empathizing with them makes many a poor medical grad good physicians. Bedside manners, I believe, it is called. My GP was knighted precisely for this reason a couple of years ago though I think he would have difficulties with a medical quiz.
My musically-named unmusical plumber would probably have breezed through a medical quiz but would struggle with a musical one. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice too much to establish any rapport with his patients. In the spirit of giving him as accurate a picture as possible as also to enable a quick and error free diagnosis of the state of my plumbing, I once started narrating all my symptoms and complaints which I had meticulously noted and memorized earlier. The un-musical one brusquely stopped me in mid-flow (pardon the pun) saying that while my "research" could possibly get me a PhD, it would not help my problem. I wasn't amused.
As you can see the relationship with my plumber was fraught. Would you blame me for looking for an alternative?
I have since been on the look out for a physician with empathy and one who can strike an immediate rapport. I don't quite need a singing physician but one whose medical competence is complemented by a bit of music in him, a bit of poetry in his heart. It was then that I saw the following sign at my neighborhood clinic and my heart started racing:
Dr J. Pablo Neruda
Hopefully his parents were better at divining their offspring's talents. Closer reading revealed he was a plastic surgeon, though.
I think I'll have a nip here and a tuck there.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.