When the Doctor Went for His Wedding

This is a real incident. It happened many years ago, when I was studying in the ninth standard in our native village, Kuzhikkattussery near Thrissur.

In those days, we did not have private clinics on every corner, as we do now. There was only one hospital nearby, a small Government Hospital with pale green walls and long wooden benches. If you had a fever, a fracture, tooth pain, or even heartbreak, you went there only.

One afternoon, I went there with my cousin Vincent. He was burning with fever. His mother sent me along to hold him on the bus and to bring the medicines back safely. I was fifteen, feeling very responsible, like a small guardian of the family.

The hospital smelled of Dettol, eucalyptus oil, and old files. The ceiling fan was turning lazily, making a sound like it was also tired of government duty, tak… tak… tak…

Our doctor was not there that week. He had gone to his wedding. So the hospital was under the full control of the compounder, Babu-ettan.

Babu-ettan was a large man with a round stomach and a powerful moustache. He wore a faded checked shirt and a white mundu folded up. A beedi was always between his fingers. He walked around as if he were both a doctor and a superintendent.

He would say proudly,
“Doctor illenkilum prashnam illa. Njan undallo!”
(Even if the doctor is not here, no problem. I am here!)

While we were waiting for Ramesh’s turn, the door opened slowly.

In came Ousepachan from our parish church.

I almost did not recognise him.

One side of his face was swollen, as if he had hidden a small orange inside his cheek. His right eye was half closed. His white jubba looked crumpled, as if even his dress had not slept properly.

He looked around the room. Seeing no picture of Jesus or Mother Mary, he quietly made the sign of the cross looking at a bottle of spirit kept on the table.

Then he took out a small packet from his cloth bag.

“Namaskaram, Babu-etta…” he said weakly.

Babu-ettan leaned back in his chair. “Ayyo, Ousepacha! What happened to your face? Looks like you fought with a coconut tree and lost!”

Even in that pain, Ousepachan tried to smile. It became a crooked smile because of the swelling.

He slowly sat down and opened the packet. Inside were two pieces of achappam.

“Church feast last week… I kept for you,” he said politely. Then suddenly his voice broke. “Babu-etta… this tooth… it is killing me.”

He touched the swollen cheek carefully, as if even his fingers might hurt him.

“Morning, I tried to drink chaya,” he continued. “Just one sip. Ayyo! It felt like someone pushed a hot iron rod from my tooth to my ear. The whole head started shaking. Not just tooth… ear… eye… even my neck is paining.”

He closed his eyes tightly.

“Last night I walked outside the house at 1 a.m. Mariyamma was sleeping. I was walking near the well, holding my cheek. Even the street dogs were sleeping peacefully. Only I was awake with this pain.”

He looked like a small child then.

“Pain has a strange power; it makes even a proud man fold his hands.”

Babu-ettan nodded seriously. “What all did you try?”

“Father told to gargle with brandy,” Ousepachan said. “But this is Lent time… how can I drink? Then, Thankamma Chechi gave me one thread from Velankanni and told me to tie it. I tied it. She said rinse with warm milk also… but I was scared. What if God thinks I don’t have faith?”

Babu-ettan waved his hand. “Ayyo, this is not about faith. This is an infection. Open your mouth.”

Ousepachan opened his mouth slowly.

Even from where I was sitting, I could see one black tooth at the back. It looked like a small, dark cave.

“Mmmm,” Babu-ettan said. “This one must come out.”

Ousepachan’s eyes widened in fear. “Remove completely?”

“Yes. Otherwise pain will not go.”

Ousepachan folded his hands slightly. “You know best, Babu-etta. We are simple people. You studied these things.”

Babu-ettan stood up proudly and opened the old metal cupboard. Inside were shiny instruments that looked like tools from a mechanic’s shop.

“Surgery is nothing,” he said confidently. “Last month, one big advocate from Chalakkudi came. Same problem. I removed it in five minutes. He even thanked me.”

He picked up a large pair of forceps.

“Open wide,” he ordered.

The room became silent. Even my cousin forgot his fever for a moment.

Babu-ettan pushed the forceps inside.

Ousepachan immediately gripped the chair.

“Ammachiye…” he whispered.

“It’s nothing!” Babu-ettan said. “Don’t behave like a small child.”

He pulled slightly.

“Aaaaaah!” Ousepachan screamed, the sound filling the small room.

“Don’t shout! People will think I am killing you!” Babu-ettan scolded.

“I think you are!” Ousepachan cried.

I felt half scared, half wanting to laugh at the way he said it. But the pain in his voice stopped my laughter.

“Tooth pain is small in size but big in cruelty.”

Babu-ettan pulled harder.

The chair scratched against the floor.

“Ayyo! My head is breaking!” Ousepachan shouted. His legs lifted up. Sweat rolled down his face like he had run a marathon.

“Don’t hold my hand!” Babu-ettan shouted. “If you move, how can I remove?”

Then suddenly, crack!

A sharp sound.

Babu-ettan stepped back.

The forceps slipped.

Ousepachan jumped up and put his fingers inside his mouth.

He froze.

The tooth was still there.

But broken.

He looked at Babu-ettan. Tears filled his eyes.

“You said five minutes…” he said in a trembling voice. “You said advocate didn’t shout…”

“It has deep roots!” Babu-ettan said defensively. “You are moving too much!”

“Then why did you start?” Ousepachan shouted. “If you don’t know properly, why touch it?”

The room became heavy and quiet.

“When ego becomes louder than compassion, someone always suffers.”

For a moment, I felt very uncomfortable. I was just fifteen, but I could feel something wrong happening between them.

Slowly, Ousepachan sat again.

“Finish it,” he said weakly. “Don’t pull for long. Just do in one go.”

Babu-ettan wiped his forehead and tried again.

This time, he pulled with full strength. His face turned red. Ousepachan’s scream was so loud that even a crow sitting outside flew away.

Another crack.

Then silence.

After a few seconds, Ousepachan checked with his fingers again.

Two sharp pieces were left inside.

The tooth had broken. Roots were still there.

He looked up slowly.

“You broke it…” he said softly.

There was no anger now. Only tired sadness.

“You broke it and left it there.”

Babu-ettan avoided his eyes. “Very deep root. You go to the Medical College in Thrissur. They will remove it.”

Ousepachan slowly stood up. He took back the achappam packet. With one hand holding his cheek, he walked towards the door.

Before leaving, he turned slightly and said in a low voice,

“Some pains are better in God’s hands than in careless hands.”

Then he stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

I watched him go. His white jubba looked very small against the wide road.

That day, while holding my cousin’s fever medicine, I learned something.

“Skill without humility is dangerous.”
“And when suffering is treated casually, it becomes double.”

Years have passed. I am no longer that ninth-standard boy.

But whenever I get even a small toothache, I remember that cracking sound.

Some memories, like broken roots, stay inside us forever.