Banking of a different type.....

Many years ago, almost 12 or so, my father was scheduled for a major surgery of the prostate gland. We were asked to ensure that a certain amount of the required type of blood was available. Most Indian hospitals and blood banks, at least then, had a system, where you mobilized ,for them, the required amount of blood (never mind the blood group), before they released the necessary amount of the correct blood for your surgery.

I had been a blood donor several times in my relatively younger days , in several blood donation camps, but this was the first time I was seeing how the stuff is used by people in need.


I went around the various recommended reliable blood banks, and offered to give blood. I should have remembered, that donated blood had to have a certain quality level. The haemoglobin level in my blood, was disastrously low, thanks to years of menorrhagiaic problems,. They summarily rejected me as a donor, my mother was barred due to her age (late seventies), and there was no one else .

I had to hunt around for blood donors in a hurry, and was gratified to find a nephew and his cousin, who promptly got on to their two wheeler, and rushed to the blood bank, to donate blood for my father. The entire blood donation went off in a perfectly ordered manner, I was given a receipt paper to present on the day that the surgery was and they would release the required blood.

In my childhood, my father, who was in the civil services, would be posted at various district headquarters as the head, and he and my mother would always participate in the various health drives, inoculations, and checkup camps that would be held, as a means to encourage others to do so, and to indicate that it is a safe thing. These camps were always conducted by well equipped doctors from well known hospitals.

I learnt from observing them, and have been a blood donor several times in my college days and even much later after the children happened. And it was very natural, that as adults, my children too continued this tradition. I have always gone along just to confirm the facilities, and organizer credentials, and generally be around.

Since then, my children too have followed up, and one of them, who is in India , donates blood every year.

The place where I stay, has a tradition of celebrating a Founder's day. A blood donation camp is always organized then. By those who are deemed second level employees.

Doctors from one of Mumbai's most well known hospitals conduct this event in one of our vast halls, and what is amazing is to see students, both girls and boys pouring in throughout the day, to donate blood. The ones missing are always older middle aged men and women, so many with sedentary jobs, many of them well settled in life. Some, of course, have a health problem and are aware as to why they cannot be a blood donor. Some stay away knowingly, some, knowing my enthusiasm for this, kind of cross the road to the other side when they see me, and some are just convinced that something terrible will happen if someone pokes them with a needle.

I write this to explain the whole procedure.

You fill up a standard form on arrival where among several other questions, you indicate if you have had any serious sicknesses in the past, and when; if you take any regular medication and if so, then for what ; if you are a woman, they also ask if you are pregnant. They take your weight. They then prick your finger and a drop of your blood is dropped into a Copper Suplhate blue solution of a known strength. The rule is that a drop of blood with haemoglobin levels more than or equal to 12.5, sinks in the solution. Which makes you acceptable as a donor. (For years and years in my fifties, I used to curse the red drop of my blood that refused to sink, and they would apologize and reject me . Now the drop of blood happily sinks in the solution, but they shake their heads and reject me due to age restrictions. ).


Once this is done, they give you a sterilised small test tube, which you take to another person, who makes some notings of numbers, names, and stuff, stores the test tube , and hands you, what, is a blood bag, marked with your reference details.

You are then assigned a doctor and a station where you lie down. After the necessary checks like blood pressure etc, the doctor sets up the blood donation paraphernalia, and about 300 cc of your blood gets collected in a short time in the blood bag. It must be added that this amount of blood does NOT impoverish your body, and is made up by your clever body in a short period of time.

There are several doctors keeping an eye and attending to the donors. Once the stuff is done, they clean the needle perforation on your skin , and put a decent bandaid , fold your forearm towards your shoulder (like you do after a blood test) and ask you to lie down, relax for a while, holding your hand in that position. You get up after a while, and they offer you refreshments tea, coffee etc, at a table, where you sit with the other donors.

The aforementioned test tube will later contain some of your blood, which will be tested for severe infections like AIDS, Australia Antigen Malaria, Dengue etc. Your blood will be accepted only if there are no infections found, and only then, will it enter the blood bank.

There are people who are frightened of needles, there are people who are upset at seeing blood. It's not a permanent condition, and it is possible to change this. The first effort takes a huge amount of initiative and guts, then it is very simple. Think of all those who join medical colleges each year. Many of them cannot stand actual cadaver dissections, and they faint, and throw up. But that changes, or you wouldn't have so many doctors passing the final year.

Then there are those who have been told that weakness pervades the body if you donate blood. So they don't. Typically, a worried mother tells that to her son. And he believes it, till he goes away to college, sees his friends donating blood, takes an initiative, passes the initial checkups at the blood donation camp, and never really looks back after that.

Then you have people who suffer from unimaginable excesses of superiority. So much so that they associate superior with pure and subordinate with impure. They doubt and suspect every cup of tea from the office canteen (because the hoi-polloi drinks from it), they make a huge fuss about cleaning and smells and stuff. Someone gives them a book and they wipe it with a disposable tissue , before they open it. They suspect all injection needles, all doctors except those at 5 star hospitals, and ignore the fact that disposable syringes, and other sterilised stuff is routinely used everywhere .....

These types often have exalted ideas about their own blood, and are given to making insensitive comments about adopted children. These folks run miles from anyone talking about blood donation, always claim to be busy, unless of course the conversation is happening with people who count greatly in the scheme of career type things. In general, these folks are not worth the trouble.

I have always admired the armed forces , the police and railways when they hold camps. Their top man comes to inaugurate , and then quietly rolls his sleeves up , lies down on a makeshift patient bed, and donates his share of blood. The subordinates follow the example, and you get a whole lot of motivated people; more important, large volumes of blood collections. There are photographs. Some appear in the press. And you feel good when you read that report.

But what gets me really upset, is some boss types, that come smiling into the enclosure with measured steps, walk around the layout, hands behind, minister style, observing the foolish buggers donating their blood. They nod their heads at the folks enjoying a tiny plastic cup of tea/coffee, with the standard glucose Parle G biscuits, in a plate on the table. They then sit down, a noticeable distance away, someone offers bouquets, then tea and coffee, someone takes pictures. No questions about the volume of donors this year, the details of the collaborating hospital and so on. No speeches. Due to a severe lack of interest and knowledge.
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This time there was an old lady sitting away from all this, to one side, waiting for her daughter, who had just donated blood. The youngster was resting a bit and having a cup of tea with biscuits, and waiting to collect her certificate before leaving . That would enable her to collect a free bag of blood from the state blood bank, should anyone need it in an emergency.

The old lady has been going every year, so they know her. An elderly person from the organizers came up to her, and offered her tea and a bouquet. For being a regular, it seems.

She politely declined, saying this was not a free for all social event, and that it should be restricted to those donating blood. They insisted. Then she insisted. No blood, so no tea, and no bouquet.

The voice must have carried a bit. The elderly organizer's eyes twinkled a bit.

And then some folks quietly made an exit. Sedate, powerful, ministerial style......

Shortage of Shame ....

A hot summer morning two years ago. S. , my house hold help of 25 years was away at work at the two-three houses she goes to everyday. She, her 3 sons, 2 daughters-in-law, 1 daughter and 1 little grandson (around 2 years plus) lived quite peacefully in the 1.5 room set up, with creatively made lofts, a spic and span functional kitchen, and a sense of trying to be happy with what they have .

One daughter in law, was pregnant for the second time, and was alone in the house, waiting for the other younger daughter-in-law to return from some errand, when a lady with a file and a sling bag landed up at the door. She smiled, asked about everyone, and introduced herself as a health worker.

They got talking about the older one's pregnancy, and the health worker starts a spiel about how her child and the forthcoming one were too closely spaced. It was yet two months, and maybe she could help do something (abort) about it. She gave a bunch of facts on how it's not good for the health of the mother to have pregnancies so close together. Besides the government gave you a money grant if you underwent these procedures when and as advised.....

Soon the other (younger) daughter-in-law returned and heard all this. The older one thanked the persistent health worker, but said that she would consult her ma-in-law on such matters. And only then decide .

The health worker lady, left after painting a alarming picture of health for the pregnant lady because her 2 pregnancies were too close. Besides she , the health worker, had just lost out on a monetary incentive from the government (for motivating folks to use family planning measures).

S. told me about this when it happened. Urging someone to abort , when another school of thought said, this way the two children would grow up together, and the mother could always get sterilization done after her delivery. The older one would be more than 3 years by then ! There were many folks in the house to help, and the only reason the health worker lady was saying what she did, was for her incentive commission from the government.

(Aside : In stratas of society where no incentive is required and folks are materially secure and overinformed, I once knew someone 20 years ago, who simply went to a fancy place and got an abortion done, because the older child had just started school and this was SO inconvenient....She never got a second chance.....)

Not all health workers are like this. Some have great understanding , knowledge and empathy. But wonder what would have happened if the household was not as enlightened and united as S.'s. Planning children is one thing. Giving misleading information to someone already pregnant , might even endanger lives.

But then it's all about quick earnings.

Very recently, the other daughter-in-law got pregnant . (S. had worried about some gynaec treatments, and asked me and I had blogged about her).

She was rushed to hospital for her delivery 10 days ago.

S., her entire family, and the girls parents all took turns being there while attending to household matters. This was a municipal hospital near the suburb where we live, and S. had registered her second daughter-in-law's name there for pre-natal checkups and delivery. The entire thing was free of cost. That it was close by, would save on transport costs.

Post the 26/11 carnage, when one of South Mumbai's Municipal Children's Hospitals was attacked, security at these hospitals has been increased. Stories about babies disappearing from hospitals still show how bad the security is, but S. is someone who abides by rules.

So when they told the entire family to wait outside the hospital (almost on the roadside), while only the daughter-in-law in contractions was taken upstairs, S. asked people to stop cribbing, and have patience. Rules were rules.

They stood there for a couple of hours with no news. Talking amongst themselves. Then suddenly, their name was announced on the P.A system, and one person was called to the door. Her son went, and came back to announce the birth of his son.....

They still weren't allowed in. And while they all breathed a sigh of relief at everything going off well, and celebrated the new addition to the family, two attendant ladies (ayahs) came to the door.

Did they want to see the child ? They would have to pay 200 Rs to these ladies. Then they would bring the child , swaddled in the first clothes of his life, to show them.

And S., who had given birth to 4 children herself years ago, educated not only her kids, but also daughters-in-law after marriage, decided to splurge. They would scrimp on something else. ( She had requested me last year for a loan of Rs 500 to pay the fees of one of her daughters in law for some computer course, which I had gladly helped with).

But this was about welcoming the latest member. Without much thought, they all emptied their pockets, organized those 200 Rs, and once these were pocketed by the attendant ladies, the grandson was brought out to be admired in his first hour or more on earth.

What an introduction to life , as it exists in Mumbai.

Doors are locked for security, but open for as little or as much as Rs 200.

There is really no difference between the health worker, and these ayahs. The former gives misleading and incomplete information to presumably uneducated folks, and is paid for it , by the government, once someone has an abortion or sterilisation. The latter, untrained but street smart, give real time correct information, and extract unofficial money from worried family members.

S told me this story last week. And we thought how it was all about making money any which way one could. And playing with peoples emotions and aspirations.

All you needed was an immense shortage of shame.........

Sagunabai in the time of IT.....आयटीच्या युगात सगुणाबाई .......

One of the interesting things about living in, say, Mumbai, is that it brings you in almost daily contact with a lot of folks, you would ordinarily never meet. Right from dawn, when newspapermen and milkmen, cycle around delivering their wares to customers getting organized for a Mumbai morning, to the flower and garland lady who comes around in a whiff of jasmine each evening, delivering our leaf wrapped garlands and flowers for daily worship of the deities, everything happens in a flurry of activity as washing ladies, cleaning ladies, cooking ladies, and in some houses, massage ladies , do their rounds.

While the last is a new and latest addition to services offered , and I see several of these ladies in our building, I have never had the guts to call any one of them for myself; I had called one of them when my late mother visited us , and their wonderful ability at massage was very soothing for 82 year old tired limbs which had hitherto trudged up and down railway station stairs , hurrying to meet the grandchildren....

A side effect of staying put in one community (as on a campus) for several decades means, that you grow old with your daily help. When I first came here, there was an elderly lady called Sagunabai who came to work as my household help. This was the time 35 years ago, when jeans wasn't something newly married women wore. Neither did they charge around on two wheelers, studded with assorted bags full of vegetables , fruits and what have you. While several disapproving glances were cast , noticeably by "high status" folks, Sagunabai thought thought this was really cool.

She was in her 50's then , and her entire family almost had a fit when one evening it was late and I dropped her home, she riding pillion on my two wheeler; she wore a nine yard saree which i consider the actual precursor to the pantsuit, and thus did not sit "side-saddle" like most "respectable" women did; sitting behind me, clutching me around my stomach for dear life, she really enjoyed the trip.

By and by, her eyes started bothering her, and her daughter came to work for me. Sagunabai managed her home, and attended to the various grandchildren who trooped in throughout the day, to eat, study, and generally play while their parents went about their work. Her husband was no more , but he had been an employee of the maintenance department on campus, and his children had enjoyed free education at the school on campus. Sagunabai learned the importance of education , and worked in several house to ensure that even after her husband's death, all her grandchildren too went to school.

Several years passed. I kind of lost touch with her, although I used to get news about her from her daughter. The many grandchildren she mentored (in an age where so many people had no time for their children as they avidly made efforts to double their income), had now grown up, and some of them had learned computers. No degrees or anything but some honest to goodness useful computer skills, and a nodding acquaintance with the fun things you could do.

This included, very unusually, a granddaughter. When time came to arrange her marriage within their community, someone from a good , educated ,family, who had an IT job was most delighted to marry her, and when he went on a posting to Columbus, Ohio, in the US, she went along. (Her family may not be able to name some cities within India, but the entire extended family is now aware of Columbus, Ohio.)

Sagunabai's daughter who helped me in the house would entertain me with updates, and there came a day when the entire extended family of 55 people hired vehicles (they had none of their own), to go to the airport. The grandaughter in the US was pregnant and close to her delivery date. As per tradition, her mother would attend the delivery and help out the first few months, and then return. The family went to see off their maiden voyager to the New World. Speeches, photographs, garlands, bouquets , at the airport, and the overwhelmed lady, not knowing a word of English, except Please,Thank you, and Sorry, took off.

A month later, Sagunabai lands up.

She had aged, and now wore glasses with thick lenses. She wanted to know if my computer had what she called a "She-dee". Apparently one of her grandsons who had a PC at home was away, and no one knew how to use the PC, and she needed my help. She asked if she could come with some members of her family one afternoon/evening .

I was intrigued. A day was decided upon.

On the appointed day, her extended family trooped in, mostly ladies with children, everyone dressed in their formal best, jabbering away in excitement. Her daughter made tea and snacks for everyone, as Sagunabai took out a large envelope from the blue cloth bag she carried everywhere with her.

"Here's the "she-dee", she said , gingerly placing it in my hands.

I placed it in the drive, as she shush-ed the chattering children and ladies. I had screen saver of a beautiful sunset on the screen, and everyone oohed and aahed as it appeared thinking this was the place where her granddaughter lived. I didn't bother to explain.

The drive activated, and the room went quiet. It was a VCD of some stuff taken on a Handicam , after her daughter reached the US. It was all everyday stuff, the initial part where the pregnant daughter, almost at end-of-term, was being fussed over by her Mom, and then the coming home from hospital with the baby, the new grandmother receiving them at the door with traditional lamps.

There were whoops and "Aaah" and "Aaiya" and "Aggobaya" as the film unfolded in front. The naming ceremony of the baby. The new grandmother organizing the eats with the help of her daughter's American friends , all dressed up in sarees and causing a lot of mirth amongst the audience in my house as the whole thing appeared a bit difficult to handle while carrying plates and stuff. Occasionally the baby thought all this was too much and did some indulgent crying, lapsing away into a dreamy sleep a few minutes later. Traditional songs were sung, the name was whispered into the baby's ear as she lay , eyes wide open in her crib, wondering what all the fuss was all about.

Amidst the chattering and excited jumping around of kids, I watched Sagunabai, as she peered intently at the screen, nodding happily to herself, then slowly lifted her glasses, as she brought up her saree end , to wipe a few tears that threatened to cascade.

"But what name did they give the baby ?" asked one of the ladies.

Sagunabai was overcome. I asked the ladies to watch the screen. I had seen a board with a name on it in a corner of the room, and it was yet to come up in the event. After a bunch of songs, two young girls from the neighbors who attended, picked up the board, and held it up for everyone to see, the name written in English and in Marathi(my mother tongue).

Sagunabai, could neither read nor write, never having gone to school herself. So she couldn't read the name. It was only when the children shouted out the name that she smiled, a wide toothless smile, that lit up her eyes, and she came up to me at the PC, and patted my back as if I had something to do with it all.


"Asha Vidya, that's a wonderful name. They couldn't agree on a single name so they gave her two!" She nodded at the assembled ladies. Everyone fell quiet. Saturated with the event, thousands of miles away.

Sagunabai sat down next to the PC, crosslegged , on the floor. And then there was a sharp earthy voice, crooning.

Crooning a lullaby to the baby asleep in its crib on the screen. There is something called "Palna" that is a lullaby cum sort of song-of-honor, sung by the immediate relatives for the baby. The song was well known one, and no one had a dry eye, as Sagunabai, in her thick lenses, a tear cascading down one cheek, proceeded to the last stanza. The child was 12,000 miles away and this was all not happening in real time, but to everyone in the room it was real. Virtually real.

Sagunabai suddenly snapped out of it, reminded the children that there were plates and cups to be picked up, and taken inside before they left, and came to me as I removed the "she-dee" to give it back to her, and congratulated her on her wonderful great granddaughter.



"So how did you like the name " she asked.


I had no words. I gave her a small statue of Saraswati, the Hindu Goddess of Knowledge, and wished her well.


Hope (Asha) and Knowledge(VIdya) was what her effort in life, was all about , post her husband's death. The illiterate but strong minded lady, had seen her own family through tough times, and her children's children went to school and did so well, she was proud of them. They were her Hope, and she hoped, that along with this new addition, the new generation would strive to learn more and more at the hands of the Knowledge Goddess.


If she had taken a look at the statue , she would have probably seen a smile on the face of the statue. Sagunabai had ALL the right knowledge , and she was doing a fine job teaching her family about it.