SOMETIMES, the unthinkable happens. Sometimes, what you had thought only took place in a bad work of fiction, becomes a reality in your own life. Plot lines and incidents that no author would dare to put in a story, for fear of being laughed at as being too far-fetched, actually happen in front of your eyes. It is in these unbelievable moments that people reveal their proper selves.

Here is a true story of our times, something that really happened in this city we call home. “Dump”, we may say about it, with some truth, for indeed, as far as amenities and cleanliness go, even the most loyal Guwahatian would have to admit that we lag far behind most other places in the country of similar size. Yet there is something here, something defying definition, yet tangible and felt, nevertheless, that gives it a definite edge over other places.

A middle aged man, comfortably settled for many years in Europe, came for a holiday to his hometown. This was a routine visit, for over the decades, he, along with his family, would drop in almost every alternate winter, to escape from the dreary cold of his adopted country, and bask in the sunshine and love that this place offered him, and his family, each time. And yet this was a special visit, too, for it was his first after he had been diagnosed and treated for cancer in his country of adoption. Three years after diagnosis, some months after the long-drawn-out treatment was finally over, he had been given clearance by his doctors to make the long and physically arduous trip to this place on the Northeastern wingtip of this country. It was to be a holiday, but also a visit to convey his gratitude to his many friends and relatives here. For, over the years, when his cancer treatment had been taking place, he had been getting unbelievable support and love from the place he had left behind decades ago when he had emigrated to the West. By phone and e-mail, through smses, cards, and letters, the encouragement and deep affection he had got during that difficult time had indeed done a great deal to boost his morale. Those who could afford the trip visited him in his home during his treatment, to sustain his spirit through at least a couple of chemos. True, his European family had been extremely supportive, but then they were not nearly as demonstrative as Indians are, nor as emotional and sentimental as we tend to be in a crisis. And perhaps it was this exuberance of emotion, this demonstration of unconditional love, which he had craved during his sickness. It had, in any case, warmed him immensely. And now he was here to meet them all in person, to celebrate the new lease of life that modern medicine and warm good wishes had given him.

He made the trip alone, as he had often done in the past. It was not that his family never came to this place. They did, indeed, they often spent several months at a time here. But this was not a good time for any of them to accompany him. Pressures of work, and many other things prevented them from coming along with him this time. In any case, there was no real need to do so, the doctors had said. “Go!” his caring European family urged him. “Go back to your roots for a while, enjoy yourself, meet up with all your old friends and relatives, all those who gave you so much love through your illness. Speak your own language, which you can’t do with us. They’ll be delighted to see you looking so well, it will be good for you too. Don’t wait, go!”

And indeed, he did come down looking fresh, healthy and handsome from the aircraft. True, he had a slight limp, but that was attributed to the length of the journey, and the discomfort of the plane seats. Nobody, least of all the man himself, gave it any thought. Friends and relatives thronged to meet up with him at his brother’s house, where he was staying. Besides a few routine massages with Moov and Iodex by his nephew, it was not thought necessary to do anything much for the leg. It was a cramp, a bad cramp, a stubborn pain, but then it was more or less ignored in the joy, the merrymaking that began almost immediately.

But just three days into the visit, it became apparent that this was not a simple cramp. The pain grew almost exponentially. Sciatica? A pinched nerve? Perhaps. The extended family had several excellent doctors. They called in the specialists, who looked at the patient. They were told his medical history. Meanwhile, the pain grew excruciating. The speed with which it took over was amazing. The man could not walk, he could barely lie down unless given increasingly strong doses of pain killing epidural injections. An MRI was ordered. The worst nightmare was coming true. A tumour was detected in the base of his spine.

There was no question of starting treatment here, of course. The problem was – how to get him back to his hospital and oncologist in Europe? Somebody, at least a paramedic, would have to accompany him. What about passport, visa…it would take weeks to organise everything. Meanwhile, the man was having problems with his vision, seeing double, and hazy images. Treatment needed to be started urgently.

On the patient’s directions, the family back home in Europe contacted his insurance firm, and told them of the crisis. Immediately, with an efficiency and swiftness that had everybody back here gasping, they swung into action. Doctors’ certificates, reports, test results, were asked for, and faxed. In a matter of hours, they decided to send over a nurse to come right up to the bed of the patient in his brother’s home, and then, the same day, fly him back straight to the hospital, where his oncologist was waiting. It was all organised in a fuss-free manner, down to the last detail. They asked not just the location of the house, but also how long it would take to go to the airport from there, whether the patient could speak (he could) whether he was lucid (he was) and of course what medication he was being given.

Within twenty four hours, the blonde, efficient looking nurse was looking down at the patient, speaking in French to him and asking the attending physicians about the medications she would need to give him on the way. Before the dazed and sorrowful eyes of family and friends, the man was wheeled to the waiting vehicle (organised by the European insurance company) and taken smoothly away to the airport, where wheelchairs and two seats in Business Class had been prepared. Within twenty four hours again, the patient was being examined by his oncologist in Europe, and was being wheeled away for emergency operation of the tumour.

Meanwhile, back home, the relatives and friends, still dazed at the speed with which everything had happened, discussed the incident.

“That’s efficiency, now,” they said solemnly. “Can you imagine this ever happening in our country, let alone our city?”

“The premium wasn’t much either, I believe,” they added. “He told me it was only a couple of hundred Euros. But look at the service they have given! Flying down a trained nurse, repatriating him to the hospital in such a speedy manner, organising it all so that everything happened so smoothly…”

“Things work there,” they said sagely.

“Human life has dignity there,” they agreed.

A young woman, niece of the patient, was listening to it all. Finally, running out of patience, she said in her usual soft tones, but firmly, “Yes, of course, they are efficient. Much more than we can hope to be anytime soon, no doubt. But,” she looked around exasperatedly at the crowd of relatives and well wishers in the house, “why don’t you understand? All Things Considered, don’t we have something that “they” lack?”

“We do?” the others wondered.

“Of course. Look at you, all of you. Making time to comfort the patient, doing all you can for him.” She looked at the doctors who had been running around, trying, day and night, to alleviate the pain and diagnose what was wrong. They looked haggard and thin, the sleepless nights having taken their toll. She turned away and smiled at the nephews and nieces who had nursed the patient around the clock, giving him his bedpan, giving him sponge baths and shaves, making sure that the blanket was positioned just right over his body, giving him sips of water even before he asked. “Look at them. They have done all this not because it is their profession, but because they felt his pain, his trauma. True, we probably do not have the level of professionalism that they do. But then they don’t have this, either, this thing that we do.”

“The support of well wishers?” they wondered.

“Exactly. And their affection. And their help. Unconditionally given, too. Now that’s really something, isn’t it?”

It took a while for the girl to make them understand what she was talking about.

MITRA PHUKAN