Where is the music

Wonder sometimes- and feel as to why I wonder just sometimes- where do the violin strings playing tequila mockingbird snap off when I am at a mundane brainless moment and want to push a patient away because I feel hungry and its lunch time, when I see a fly infested vagabond lying to nature's mercy at the gates of Sassoon and wonder when and howhe will die.
Wither the purity ?No it aint purity...its just plain sanity.Not giving a person his honor in illness, when he is dependent on another person who is all he can trust at that time is insane.
Why is getting into a Ruby Hall Clinic and a plush Renault more a priority than putting Harrison into common sense practical implementation. Why isn't an Ipod playing songbird in blithe bass tones when I have to say that "if he isnt getting an MR let him f**k off...I cant treat him."

I have learnt the formulae and algorithms...I need to fit every dysfunctional human body I see into a heuristic pattern I know to recognize and remedy...if it dosent fit, I feel uncomfortable. My discomfort is channeled into venting my frustration onto patient, relative, hospital, staff nurses, juniors.Thats noise break, thats disharmony.Adaptive learning is something we never want to venture into. Because everything has to be standardised, dovetailed to protocol- the issues are legal many times..but also to ensure conformity in data,standard of care. But again in an attempt to homogenise method of care, the individual patient is lost in the numbers.A note is lost in the harsh background noise of a relentless drum.
We have our lives.True. We have our aspirations.Also fair. But we also have our moments of inspiration. Pity these moments flee us the moment the Ipod is off our ears and the harsh screech of the ward sister wakes us out of our slumber...there are lines to be put and blood to be drawn, a miserable JR to admonish,a prissy Unit head to please, a girlfriend to humor...what a frickin life!!

A wooden flute sends melodious notes wafting through the squalor of the overcrowded wards...it harmonises dissonant emotions -the helplessness of the ill, the frustration of the resident, the passivity of the doctor, the angst of the baba staff,the apathetic- abulic punctiliousness of the nurses and gives new cognate sense to the whole process of care giving as it were.

Wither the flautist!!?!!
Wither the exclamation ....are we to endure with question marks and commas and full stops?

To stretch a boner:
1)"When you breathe in : you INSPIRE, when you dont: you EXPIRE".
2)And to stretch the analogy:
" Life is not the number of breaths you take but the moments that take your breath away"

So stretch, take a deep breath, imagine nights in white satin playing into your ears and INSPIRE .....

Pisstilence, filth and coronaries, 43 degC

The best way to waste time...listen to a bhojpuri learned man regale his men of lesser achievement with tales of the world....they have a fatalistic theory to everything, a karmic sentimentalism, filthy tobacco stained mouths that never tire of emitting absurd but entertaining guttural sounds of abuse and lust,an opinion even if knowledge is limited and a fervent desire to preach, to influence and change minds of the 'gandu bacchas'..to make them better sons of the world.
" Bambai naseebon wala shahar hai"......(sahi hai bade babu...sabki khul jati hai wahan jane se)

"Mayawati to pradhan mantri ki kursi ki shaan hogi"....( arre Laloo chodega tab to)
" South ke logon ne chawal khake dimaag badhaya, hamara to chana khake pichwaada badha bas"..........( Some nod, some dont)

" Ab to aise hi hoga, jisko rejarveshan hoga usiko seat milegi,chahe train ho ya kaam ya sarkaar".........( sahi hai babu......abhai Gujaron ka kaa kasoor...unko bhi milna chahiye...sabko milna chahiye)


Luckynow was tiring, uncomfortably HOT ( I mean heat, not the trial...that answer I got right)and in between providing amusing opportunities at TP as detailed above I had to encounter the uncleanliness of the people that populate Amitabh Bacchan's land...they so mess the area they sit on while traveling...if a beggar boy cleans up and asks for alms for his service they will quibble" humne thodi poocha tumko karneko";
Kids piss out of the train window to avoid the inconvenience of going to the toilet..fathers tell them to make contact with the window railings and direct the stream downwards!!........
If Ur train does not stop at the station U want to get down at....STOP TRAIN PULL CHAIN...its so easy....make Ur escape before the TC comes searching. Even cops do it. I was witness to an amusing scene of a railway cop chasing a policeman who had pulled the chain to alight at a small station where the train did not stop.

Havent quite drunk so much water so frequently and still felt so dehydrated. Maybe its the water."Pyaas bujhi nahi, lagi......paani bujhaye nahi pyaas... no bakwaas.Water tastes like a 9V battery applied to ur tongue.Sweat pours out of every pore, the dust of the ruinous roads that every truck, tempo, cycle rickshaw suffuses the air with ,sticks like a coat of Sultani mitti; and the Vaishno bhojan U ate with Ur grimy sweaty hands seems to float and tickle the fundus of the stomach and come periodically as oily belches that suffuse the air around Ur nasi with smells of the grime, paneer tadka, 9V battery water and the sublimated vaporous talk of the bade babu.

SGPGI is a mirage in the desert. Its Central Govt splurging, Gandhi family's appeasement to the peoples of the Raibarreily.Its full to airconditioned..even the loos!!It is the ultimate possible aberration in the most populous bimaar state of India....no generalists, only specialists; no direct admissions, just referals. No free treatment, all paid for...an appointment system in this land of hodgepodge disorganisation.I didnt get a chance to see and meet everyone....but twas impressive ...better than the places I have worked at till now. Of course, bricks and mortar dont make a place what it is. It is the men who run the place which constitute IT. I havent seen any of them/that. "Lets see"


Zor ki baarish dekha, Makes me wonder,
Is this what they call, Taste the thunder?

Jabberwocky and Finnegan wakes

Since long folks. I shall pretend that someone reads my blog and write, swig on a little sprite, be trite:
how a proverb is lost in a daily uttered careless sentence:

PROVOCATION: I was OUT OF SIGHT?!! Are you OUT OF (your) MIND?

Analyse this: "You were out of your mind, thats why I was out of sight for you"
" If I am out of my mind how will I sight you...occipital cortices
mere mind mein hai na"

" You have to be in sight to be in mind, man chanchal hai"
- Ergo if you are out of sight you cant be in my mind"

- " Sight mara to kya, Mind your business"

- " What the eyes do not see the mind does not perceive"( an
ophthalmologist's abou ben adhem vision)

- " What the mind does not see, the eyes do not perceive"
( a priori purists, proactivists, neurophysiologists, 1st yr med
students)

-- Advertisement bananewaalon ka gurumantra....bang, bang bang it in.

Hum har din ki baat cheet mein kitna bakwaas bolte hain.Non sequitur..chatakdar bhel where a nimbu having no connection to sev is sexing it up with dices tomatoes and coriander.....koi ek ka doosre se kya relation. Bus synchronised with tamarind pulp for subsistence in a metro with memories of school, homework book, rote poetry and a man who shook Spears and a Lord with Ten Sons who charges the light brigade somewhere in Russia where Tanushree Dutta dances now semi nude in a bhelpuri Bollywood flick.

Like a matrix...is there a sensible world where events/ words follow each other with some logic and we can sense this logic.Till then teri jaat ka baida maru, hata sawan ki ghata, fatele doodh ke chilkhe, kaju ke nichale hisse, bashi bazook, fresh water salamander, porcupine, twiddledee and twiddledum, Jabberwocky your way through.

Such are the Joyce in life.Beauty is lost in translation. Like a fickle tRNA.
However it assumes a different beauty.Surreal, proteinaceous and unequally lawed upon a savage race that speaks NoNonsense.


So sayeth Lewis Carol when the looking glass showed Alice the reverse of what was written...and made sense actually
or to extrapolate....the reverse of what IS.....a past that ISNT.

Its Jungian jingoism.Synchronicity at its perverted best. Carol introduced us to portmanteau khichidi in this poem...and so not all the words seem known. Try and understand what lies beneath...U will realise that either the writer is opiated or you are in delirium tremens.Its a surreal astitva.....and one thing is finite....I am( "ayam") what I am ( 'maya')

"She's got opium in her bum"

Anyways here goes:


Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


Adios then....till next time which I shall hope is soon enough.

Such a long time

I have named my blog as 5HT-thats short for serotonin for those not familiar with medical jargon dysphasic terminology-and I would indeed call it most appropriate. Indeed to write down what you feel on an online diary with a Icarelittle whatyouthinkaboutit prologue is a serotonin surge itself. And its odd tht when I felt down during many moments and movements I could randomly write stuff and feel good....and yet I did not during many more ebb points. Maybe I was just too lazy. Well thats a maybe.

My last post more than a month back was abt me sinking into the languor of lecturer at BJ.Since then I have been....well...lecturer still....but have taught more,done cathlab postings( that was the high), done EDs seeing patients in distant wards in surreal MSEB blackout looking for jaundice in flashlight misery and groping for livers along tibial smoothness.More misery as we smashed ribs trying to resuscitate a patient on empty gloomy hospital corridors with no lights as she gasped waiting for the elevator to take her to wards.These are stories which only medicine residents will tell you.And it is fortunate I have had an opportunity to revisit that period through a fortuitous demotion in my professional career.

I think there might be a power failure in a few minutes. Shall save this and publish. More on tht later.

Hmmmdrum

Thinking about this for long. Am sliding into my lecturer's job comfortably. Teaching a batch of III/III MBBS kids who want "just the exam stuff", rounding with residents who are at best average, giving advice to prospective residents who are in a quandary about what field to take where; afternoons which drag incessantly through hours spent in the RMO mess which seem to lead into same things everyday over endless cups of tea, feeling lazy to venture beyond college in the morning to back home in the evening- the traffic sucks anyway, the heat is opressive, the sweat and dust cakes into unsightly muck on my face; don't feel bad about getting bored reading, pick the bag and set off home. Driving used to be a time to reflect, now its just about avoiding an idiot who wants to cut across the signal or make it across while the railway crossing is open.Calls are manageable.Admissions are not many.OPDs are not really exciting.No one seems to say I am wrong at anything.

Want to feel angst, but the inertia to overcome to just indulge in constructive thought seems.........well,... not okay. But am surprised at my not doing anything about it.

Wither inspiration? It seems to have become into just the act of breathing. Existing.Merging, homogenizing. I need a whack on the bottom, a pull at the collar and a push from behind. Am waiting for it.

Albany ka Munnabhai

Article flicked from CBS website:


By salary standards, Bob Paeglow may be the
least-successful doctor in America, CBS News
correspondent Steve Hartman reports in this
week's Assignment America.

He's got thousands of patients, but not one
country club membership. His family lives
in the worst neighborhood in Albany, N.Y.

Fortunately, Paeglow didn't go into
medicine for the money. He went into it �
pretty late in life � because he kept
having a vision of himself in old age he
didn't like: "That the world was no better
because I was a part of it than if I'd
never been born."

At the age of 36, Bob gave up his career as
a quality control technician, went to
medical school and set out to improve the
quality of the planet.

He opened his office in a neighborhood
where most doctors wouldn't open their car
door, and welcomed in all the people
mainstream medicine would rather ignore.
People like Belinda.

Belinda is a first-time patient. She has
clinical depression � but no insurance.

"I can't in good conscience sit in front
of a patient and say, 'You need this and
I can't help you, get out of here.'I
can't let that happen," Paeglow says. "My
people are going to get what they need to
the best of my ability."

In this case, that means visits with a
counselor, at Paeglow's expense. In other
cases, it means giving his patients not
only a prescription but a check to pay
for it. Not to mention that he provides a
lot of non-medical care.

Lateesha has been going through a tough
time lately. Her dad � one of Paeglow's
patients � is fighting colon cancer.
That's why the doctor prescribed a little
distraction: He threw her a little
birthday party.

He does this kind of thing all the time.

"One time I was in a bind and I wasn't
able to purchase Christmas for my son and
he purchased Christmas for my son," a
patient says. He bought him a new coat,
new gloves, and a race track.

"Dr. Bob's my heart," she adds. "He is."

Paeglow takes absolutely no salary and
survives mostly on donations, reports
Hartman. But even when people give him
money for him, he usually plugs it right
back into the practice. Every penny he
makes goes back to his patients in one
way or another.

Does that make him the least-successful
doctor in America?

Or the most?


Koinonia Primary Care
Attention: Dr. Robert Paeglow
553 Clinton Avenue
Albany, NY 12206