2020: Story 1: Helping Hands

After a hiatus of close to a year, I'm back to writing short stories. This month's prompt: Coalition. Word count: 1200 words exactly.

For the umpteenth time, I wonder why I even agreed to come here. For the umpteenth time, I struggle to curb my mind that says, “Because you’re running away...”

I step off the train and make my way out with the crowd exiting the Kalburgi railway station. Hugging myself against the early morning chill, I enter the mini-bus that’s going towards the hotel booked for my stay in this small town.

The bus isn’t very crowded. It’s a small town, after all. I listen to my co-passengers talk. Simple people, simple lives. But no matter where you live, human life does seem to be the same, with the all-too-familiar pains and the only too rare, occasional joys.

By 9 am, I’m in the waiting hall of the ESIC Medical College and Hospital which caters to the health needs of people in this rural belt. Dr. Kumar greets me with a firm handshake. “Good morning, Dr. Rao. I hope you’ll enjoy your short stint with our Psychiatry Department. We’re quite the backwater compared to your city of Bangalore.”

I’m shepherded to the doctors’ room and introduced to my medical brethren. We chat a bit about this and that. The conversation veers around towards a discussion about patient X, who claims her arthritis got better after a visit to the Lord Datta temple at Gangapur. Opinions fly thick and fast, and I’m surprised at how some of the doctors seem to actually agree with X! Talking like quacks! Why did they even bother with the gruelling 6 to 8 years of medical education and training, I’d like to know!

I find a familiar irritation creeping up, and I excuse myself before I do something to antagonise these new colleagues. I peel away from the group. A young girl comes forward.

“Dr. Rao? I’m Ganga. Dr. Kumar has asked me to assist you.”

“Ah, ok. Let’s get started then.”

We move to one of the cabins, and Ganga begins pulling out files from a cupboard and sets them down in front of me.

“Hey, Ganga, I don’t need all the files, I want only those with...”

“Yes, I know. Dr. Kumar told me you’re researching psychosomatic diseases.”

I bury myself in the files, reading about patients who have come with a variety of health problems that have failed to be cured with the prescribed medical treatment. They’ve all been tagged as likely psychosomatic cases – which is medical jargon for ills and pains that originate when a person’s sense of emotional well-being is disturbed.

I’m interested in this field. Of conditions for which no medicines appear to work. An area where so-called holy men thrive on the promise of a cure arising from faith in ritual, prayer and worship. Exposing these charlatans is high on my agenda.

I’ve been reading case after case for two days. On day 3, I ask Ganga, “I’d like to visit this so-called magical temple that all these patients claim gives them relief from their illness and pain. How do I get there?”

Ganga’s eyes widen. “You mean the Lord Datta temple at Gangapur?. I’ll take you, Dr. Rao, if you really want to go there,” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

A 30-minute bus ride takes us to the Datta temple at Gangapur, on the banks of the Bhima river. Ganga is a conscientious guide. “See the crowd? All these people have come here to bathe at the confluence of the Bhima and Amarja rivers. A holy dip in these waters is said to wash away one’s sins and solve all problems,” explains Ganga.

“Ah, so you too believe this nonsense,” I joke.

Ganga doesn’t answer. I watch as she scoops up a little of the river water, and sprinkles it on her head, before walking further.

As we come closer to the temple, I see a sheltered area with buntings of yellow and ochre, bearing the emblem of “Om”. Many people are sitting here, amidst the cloying aroma of burning incense sticks, ash smeared over their foreheads, engrossed in reading from some holy books, or lost in chanting mantras, their fingers keeping count on the rosary clutched in their hands, as myriad emotions seem to flit across their faces.

The Audumbara tree at Gangapur

We walk closer to the temple and I’m shocked. “What’s this? Why are these women rolling on the floor?” 

Ganga explains, “These women have come from far and near to pray at this temple. Some of them stay here for a few weeks or months, doing this pradakshina – going round the temple, I mean – everyday. They believe that by rolling on the floor of this holy place, their problems will be solved.”

“Really? Then they go back home and live happily ever after, you mean?”

I see the flush rising up Ganga’s neck as she struggles to frame a suitable reply. She’s saved by a cheery voice that cuts right in, asking, “Ah, whom have you brought here today, Ganga?” We turn, to see a young man, who is the temple priest.

I explain about the research work that has brought me to Kalburgi.

“And, what conclusion have you reached, Dr. Rao, after visiting our temple? Is all this mere hocus-pocus to assuage weak minds?” asks the priest, his gentle smile taking the bite out of his sarcastic words.

I don’t smile back. “Of course, yes,” I reply.

“Isn’t medical science based on experimentation and research, Dr Rao? Why don’t you run some trials of your own before denouncing our methods?”

Shaking my head, I walk away. An old lady stops me, and thrusts a small packet of ash-coloured mud into my hands. With a hideous grin on her toothless face, she whispers to me, “This is the mud from the ash-hill created when Sage Parashurama destroyed the demons in this place. Give it to your sister, let her apply it on her body, and she’ll recover soon, don’t worry!”

I can’t believe my ears! How does this old hag know about my sister? I haven’t told a soul in Kalburgi anything at all about my family!

Two months later, I’m back at the Lord Datta temple in Gangapur. Alone. Well, not really. I’ve brought my sister Kamala along. The holy ash I sent her seems to have worked a small miracle. Mother says the chronic itch plaguing Kamala since her teenage years, has considerably reduced. Besides, she’s not as morose as before. Now I want to see if a visit to this place will help improve her condition further.

Leaving Kamala to her holy reading, I wander in search of the young temple priest. I find him outside the shrine. Surprisingly, he recognizes me. “So, Dr. Rao, what brings you here again? Don’t tell me you’ve converted to our path,” he laughs.

“Not yet,” I grin. “But I’m willing to meet you half-way. Can we form a coalition in our fight against pain and suffering? If the temple authorities agree, I’d like to start a weekly clinic here to help your devotees with their medical issues... ”

“...while we help with the spiritual ones? Why not?”

A strange peace descends over me. The kind that makes you feel you’ve finally stopped running.