The God Next Door

The God Next Door
He was in a dreadful mood that morning. It was not a sudden burst of bad luck, bursts were outlets, they relieved themselves. It was the steady accumulation of tiny grievances, each grinding down on Him and bringing home the pettiness of mankind in general and Himself in particular.
He woke up at six o’clock as was His habit, a necessary one to reach Stanley Hospital at eight.
He envied His wife sleeping next to Him. Why couldn’t she get up and make coffee for Him or something. That was the problem with marrying a well educated woman. They were too lazy. He should have married the woman His parents wanted Him to. Now He had no parents as such, and a lazy wife, to boot.
He stomped off to the bathroom, glancing outside as a bike roared past. He was making as much noise as possible, trying to wake His wife up.
He glanced into the bedroom. She was still sleeping. He was in two minds, whether to wake her up or not. He delayed the inevitable conflict by taking a long shower and shaving.
By the time He came outside, she was beginning to stir awake. Thank God, He thought. But He felt ashamed of His cowardice about waking her up. Maybe He would tomorrow.


Madhan shifted gears as he came up behind the bus. Down to third gear, raise the accelerator, release the clutch and roar past the huge vehicle in the narrow space between it and the median at 60 kmph. It was a great feeling.
That is, until he came to the corner of Sydenhams Road and Choolaimedu. He didn’t know whether it was a small stone, or a too sharp turn at a too high speed, or the tyre burst, and he didn’t care – he was being scraped along the road with his bike. His only instinct was to lift his head, but he couldn’t prevent his head from banging against the road. Thank God for the helmet. But not the accident.


He climbed into the Maruti Zen, and started driving through the busy Chennai traffic from Egmore to Royapuram, listening to Suchitra’s Hello Chennai on Radio Mirchi.
It was 7:35 am when He drove from the Esplanade onto Broadway. The moment He passed the traffic light He realized His mistake. He should have gone right onto I line beach road.
And right in front of Him was the bus 32A, loaded to full capacity and more considering the dozen youngsters hanging outside. It allowed no way for Him to pass.
The bus braked at Minerva bus stand, leaving no place to overtake. He pressed the horn and swore in frustration. He looked around in anger. In the corner a shop-keeper was grinning at His plight.
The bus started moving, but slowly. It was a long journey, and it was only past Mannady, that He was able to, driving rashly, overtake the bus. He was going to be late.


Kiran Lal smiled at the Maruti Zen. Poor fellow. These MTC buses had no respect for passengers, for pedestrians, for rules, for roads ethics. He turned his back on the road and told his son, “Get the shop ready and clean soon, customers are beginning to come.”
“Arre, Kiran Bhai.”
“Arre, Salim Bhai, kya bath hai?” – What’s the matter
He knew very well what the “bath” was. He had been avoiding Salim for a week now and he was caught. He had to give Salim 5 lakhs, in return for the amount he had borrowed to pay for some textile items.
Salim Bhai looked troubled. Kiran Lal tried to defuse the embarrassing situation, “Bhai, I am sorry about the money. I’ll pay you today afternoon definitely. My sister is coming from Coimbatore today with the cash. She was delayed by her husbands’ cousins’ marriage.”
“No, no, that’s not the matter. I have some bad news for you. There was a fire at the warehouse yesterday. All your goods were burnt. Sorry.”
The bastard.


He walked into the OP at 8:05 am. Shit, the Chief had come.
The PGs and interns got up to their feet. All the PGs except Ramesh.
He ignored Ramesh, looking at the opposite side as He walked past, noting an old man stumbling towards the casualty. Ramesh was talking to the other assistant, His colleague, Dr. Lakshmipathy, but he definitely knew that He had walked in.
Just because he was five years older, had a service record of 2 years more, didn’t change things. He was a PG and He was an assistant. But He couldn’t say a word in front of the chief .He would reserve His revenge for later. Yeah, sure, said a voice inside Him.


Ramaswamy stumbled into the Casualty. His chest was hurting him badly. And this throbbing of his head didn’t help. He sat on the stool in front of the intern.
“My chest is killing me.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Here, on my chest.”
“For how long?”
“From this morning.”
“How did the pain start?”
“Suddenly, when I got up from bed.”
“What is the pain like?”
“Like something is squeezing maaa…...”
The patient collapsed.
Finally, the intern came to her senses and arranged for a trolley to take him to the ICCU.


“Enna, pa, late as usual?”
He hated the “pa”. He was thirty one years old, not a “pa” or “papa” in any way, and only five minutes late.
But He didn’t have any grudge against the chief. It was the assistant, His colleague, Dr. Lakshmipathy He disliked. He hated the way he was smiling when the chief was poking fun at Him. He hated the way he smarmed up to the chief and most of all He hated the way he was so confident.
The chief said, “I’ve brought the colonoscope today. I hope you brought the monitor and wires.”
He said “Yes, sir. Maisthree, come with me, lets bring the things to the teaching room.”
He left along with the MNA, while the other assistant and chief left to the teaching room, leaving the OP to be managed by the interns.
He helped the MNA carry the things in the room, where they were also joined by the PGs, who began to connect the camera. Dr. Lakshmipathy immediately began helping the PGs connect the camera. He didn’t know what to do. To join now would be copying His colleague. Not to join would be stand-offish. He stood there slightly ridiculous until the monitor came on.
The MNA got the chiefs’ permission and left.
Before He could get to the scope, the other assistant had it in his hands. Naturally, as he was the one connecting it, he deserved to handle it. Of course, He was the one who brought the monitor with the leads. But, it was a petty thing to fight over. But, it still rankled Him.


Moorthy came out of the room. He had wasted 15 minutes of his valuable time plus missed a good lucrative customer as the assistant had called him to bring the monitor in just then.
He saw a man limping towards him. He looked moderately well-off.
Moorthy said, “Enna, boss, you’re too much of an emergency to wait in the line.” And got an OP slip for him by going straight to the front of the line, showing the power of the uniform, even if only an MNAs’.
“Here, give me Rs.500 and I’ll get you all the medicines you will need in 15 minutes. Otherwise it will take you two mornings.”
The patient said, “I can give you only Rs.200.”
“Okay, boss.” He accepted the four Rs.50 notes. He turned around to take the guy to the surgery OP.
There, standing alone (a rare thing), was the RMO - Residential Medical Officer - in charge of the staff.
“You’re fired.” She said sweetly and succinctly.


After the hectic morning, He got into the car. The sky was overcast, a rare occurrence in Chennai in May. The whole afternoon and evening stretched out in front of Him. Four hours at a private hospital at Chetpet after lunch at home and another four hours at His clinic at Egmore.
He parked the car in the basement of the apartment and went up the lift.
His wife came out to greet Him.
His first reaction was of surprise, surprise that she was at home, instead of going to work.
She ran up, jumped into His arms and kissed Him. Hard. On the lips.
And He knew that His marriage to her was the best thing in His life that He had ever done. But something was different. He put her down.
“I’m pregnant.”
It started raining as God poured water purer than Bisleri down the throat of a parched Chennai.