Pneumothorax!

Last Sunday, late at night, I experienced a severe episode of breathlessness. Having lived all my life with bronchial asthma, I know my usual triggers. But this felt different. I took my inhaler and sat upright all night, trying to keep the airways unobstructed. The next day, I felt a lot better, but decided I should still see a doctor. He suggested a Covid test, and a chest CT scan. The antigen test results came immediately. Negative. The RT-PCR results would come in 24-48 hours.

On Tuesday morning, I received the CT scan reports. One of my lungs had collapsed. Spontaneous pneumothorax. There was air build-up inside my pleural cavity, that caused my right lung to deflate, and push against my heart. I needed immediate medical intervention. Usually this condition is accompanied by high fever and a sharp pain in the chest, but somehow I had no external symptoms. At the insistence of family, I got myself admitted to a hospital. It was Tuesday midnight. The doctors at the Emergency called up their senior Pulmonologist, and he advised intercostal chest tube drainage. And so, in the early hours of Wednesday, a sterile tube was slowly pushed through a small incision under my armpit, past my ribcage, and into my chest, as I muffled my screams.

Thereafter, I was transferred to an isolation ward, as my RT-PCR results hadn't come. That arrived a day later. Still negative. With Covid ruled out, I moved to the normal ward. And waited, for four days on antibiotics and painkillers and oxygen, as my lung slowly re-expanded back to its normal shape. Upon visual confirmation through follow up X-rays and a CT scan, the doctors removed the tube today. Hopefully in the next 24 hours, that is by Monday, I should be back home.

Why did this happen? Well, from what I learnt over the past few days, the outside surface of our lungs have these small air blisters, called pulmonary blebs, that can randomly burst. This causes spontaneous collection of air inside the pleural cavity, and the difference in pressure leads to a pneumothorax. If this is significant, it will cause hypoxia and then respiratory failure. Although people with lung disease are at higher risk, this can happen to anyone. Let that sink in. For no apparent reason, your body is trying to kill you.

But, I am alive. All thanks to my wife, immediate family, relatives, and friends who made mountains move. Literally. And, of course, the superhero team of doctors, nurses, and support staff at Manipal Hospital.

Potol

One fine day, during my early childhood, I looked at the vegetable us Bengalis call "potol", and decided - Nope!

And ever since, I have not allowed even the tiniest morsel to enter my mouth, let alone pass through my digestive system. The funny thing is, I was never a picky eater, happily chomping on all vegetables, including the other cucurbitaceous ones. And perhaps that's why, my family conceded me this one quirk. Everyone who is related to me, by birth and now through marriage, knows that I don't eat potol. Thankfully, they no longer ask questions. Because, to be absolutely honest, I can't for the love of God remember why I hate potol. All I know is that I always have, and therefore I must continue resisting any attempts of its approaching me.

And approach me, it does. Bengalis, on both sides of the border, absolutely love potol. So much, that the big expressive doe eyes on our Mother goddess is called "potol chera chokh". Yes, the same beautiful eyes that you keep falling for, and then scream black magic. There's more. Bengalis, with their characteristic morbid sense of humour, refer to death as "potol tola". Which literally translates to picking up the pointed gourd. Don't ask. Potol is an emotion. Bengalis eat potol bhaja, aloo potol'er dalna, doi potol, potol diye machher jhol, potol'er dolma, potol mishti. I could go on.

But why am I writing about something I hate? Because, just today, I found out that the word dolma is of Turkish origin, and means "to fill". Mind blown. I always thought it was a Bengali word. A little bit of digging revealed that the dolma is a family of stuffed dishes popular in Central Asia, particularly in the Armenian culture. You see where this is going? The Armenians have had a long history with Bengal. In the 16th century, when their country was absorbed into the Ottoman Empire, the religious minority Armenians were forced to flee. Eventually, a settlement reached India, and in 1688, an agreement was signed with the British East India Company, giving them special trading privileges and the rights to freedom of residence and religion. In the same year, they built the Armenian Holy Church of Nazareth, at an address now famous as Armenian Street, Kolkata, West Bengal 700001.

The Armenians, who were fond of community-eating, and the Bengalis, who, well, were fond of eating, soon bonded over shared dinners and shared recipes. And that's how the "potol'er dolma" was born, as two cultures came together in an unknown kitchen.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is why I love history. Because it can get me excited about something I hate. But more importantly, because it teaches us that even the most opposites can blend together.

Eid Mubarak

Dad is a medical practitioner. And till at least a few months ago, he would spend a couple of days a week at a village clinic, not very far from our house. The patients here were a funny lot. They would never pay the usual fees. But a few months later, they would show up at our doorstep with a bottle gourd, or a pumpkin. And a huge smile.

This occurrence was such a normal part of my childhood. I would open the door, and scream "Maaaaaaa, peshent party eseche" (the patient's family have come). Maa would emerge from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree, and talk to them for a few minutes. While I went back to doing whatever it was I was doing.

But one day, this is not what happened. It must have been around May-June, because I remember my summer vacations were on. Maa came to the door, and said something in a tone I knew she used when pretending to be angry. "Why will I take this from you? Is this how you will give to your family members?" She went back into the kitchen, and handed them one of her many steel tiffin boxes. "There's no hurry. Whenever you are coming this side again, I want you to bring it prepared. Okay?"

Confused, and also a bit scared to ask questions, I lurked around the dining table when Dad came back from work. Then I overheard Maa telling him, "They came with packets of raw vermicelli, milk, and sugar. So I asked them to prepare the dish and bring." Dad replied, "You know, they're used to us people not accepting food cooked by them. You did the right thing."

The very next day, the steel tiffin box came back. With seviyan kheer. And an even huger smile.

Eid Mubarak. Remember, hatred is taught.

One Year

You probably don't remember, but I do
That day from exactly a year ago
When we first met

I remember waking up to a phone call
And frantically travelling across the country, reaching
Hours late for our rendezvous

Yes, I was late. But in my defense
It was you who arrived, in all your hurry
A bit too soon

You probably don't remember, but I do
That a year ago, I wasn't there with you
At that exact moment

You probably won't remember, but I will
That a year later, I'm still not there with you
On your first birthday

Work From Home

Via an email right from the top, the team that I work for has asked us to stay at home, and not come to office unless absolutely necessary. And while I laud this step taken by the company in our collective fight against the Covid19, it kinda takes the fun away from playing truant.

C'mon, we all know what I'm talking about. Those mid-week treats you give yourself by saying - "soch raha hoon aaj WFH kar loon". Not the kinds where you email your boss stating the same. But the times you discreetly message a colleague - "aaj boss aaya hai kya?" Or, you log onto your messenger to track exactly when the dot against your boss's name turns from red to green or grey. A quick decision is made. A few emails are sent out with an all-important CC list. The rest of the day goes periodically checking your inbox, and praying that the said boss doesn't call you. And if all ends well, there's a sense of triumph at 5:00pm. That's what I call a WFH. Not this.

I guess WFH is the closest, albeit by a huge distance, that a responsible adult can get to the thrill of playing truant from school. Or, bunking, as we called it back in the day. That was a different ball game altogether. A rite of passage, almost. I know I'm gonna be super proud the day my son bunks school for the first time, although a bit disappointed that I actually found out. And then years later, when he's a responsible adult himself, I'll tell him all my bunking stories.

I'll tell him about the first time ever. When Debjit and I went to watch "Himalay Putra". Well, there was this other movie that the two of us intended to watch, one with the big capital A on the posters. But we chickened out when we saw the security guard staring at our school uniforms.

I'll tell him about the time Sayantan and I went to watch "Godzilla", and sneaked in to the theatre a can of cold beverage that wasn't age-appropriate. It opened with a loud hiss, and the person in front turned to look. Sayantan whispered to him - "surround sound".

I'll tell him about the time Chandradeep and I had already made plans to go watch "Josh", and his dad suddenly decided to drop us to school. But hey, a commitment is a commitment, right? We walked gingerly from the car towards the school gates, and then took the fastest U-turn in history.

I'll tell him about the time when almost forty of us, in different smaller groups, all in our school uniforms, found ourselves in the same long queue outside a movie hall, for "Mohabbatein". I can't remember why or how we all chose the exact same showtime, but then again, this was a Shah Rukh Khan movie and that was the late 90s / early 00s.

Okay, I'll stop before I implicate my best buddies any further. And you start thinking all I did in school was bunk.

Tomorrow onwards, I'm "working" from home.

Esteem

I have a second-hand DL registration 2007 model Maruti Esteem. And notwithstanding all the fun that has been poked at me for driving "a prehistoric set of wheels", I love my car. It's not like I've never thought of selling her and upgrading, but each time I have, something or the other has cropped up and I've postponed my decision.

Take, for example, this weekend. We moved to another city. A full truck-load of household goods was sent through the movers and packers company. Next, was us. Which in our case means the whole pack. The wife and I briefly discussed our options. Air was ruled out because there's just one domestic carrier that allows pets as cabin baggage, and while our experience with them has been very positive in the past, this time we weren't sure how to put a rescue animal, that's illegal to cage, inside a cage, when he doesn't live in a cage. Rail was ruled out as well, for the same reason, and because we couldn't get confirmed first class tickets in such short notice. Ergo, we had to do this by road. Plan A was to sell the car in our previous city, and hire a long distance cab. But that was turning out to be too expensive. Plus, the wife pointed out that we'll need a car in the new city when our eldest, the German Shepherd, comes back home, as no public mode of transport allows him on due to his size. Plan B was to drive down. In my second-hand DL registration 2007 model Maruti Esteem.

And so we did. Pune - Satara - Kolhapur - Belgaum - Hubli (night halt) - Chitradurga - Tumkur - Bangalore. 850+ kilometres. Just a man and his machine. And his beautiful wife, their nine-month old son, a full-time live-in nanny-in-training, an Indian ring-necked parakeet that can't fly, a doll-faced Persian cat that can't sit still, a large suitcase, a gigantic bag full of baby paraphernalia, a litter tray and feeding bowl (for the cat), two potted plants, a wall hanging, and a laptop.

A Little Goodbye

An hour ago, I was cradling my son's head against my chest, as he, through some mysterious sixth sense that only babies have, had perceived something was wrong, and wouldn't stop crying.

Right now, I'm sitting at an airport. Alone.

I've said a lot of goodbyes over the last so many years, but never have I felt this way about a little blink of those big eyes. I've traveled quite a bit over the last so many years, but never have I immediately checked return tickets while in the cab towards the airport.

The silver lining... it's only a few weeks that we'll be apart. But it doesn't stop the terrible guilt that surges through me.

This won't be easy.