AN item in the newspaper had me sadly amused. A lady doctor who runs a pain clinic, told the press how she saw a destitute woman bleeding profusely on the pavement outside her gym. “She was bleeding profusely, it was all over the pavement and flowing onto the road. I asked the watchman to call the police, but he did not respond.”
She then called the local MLA and the municipality but they paid no heed to her pleas. Finally five hours later she called the local newspaper and the paper put pressure on the police who arranged for an ambulance and carried the woman away. I wonder whether it was too late? Five hours is a long time isn’t it?
I remember Farida. Farida is a lady who lives quite close to my place and loves dogs. One day in the course of conversation, I told her I loved dogs too. “Why don’t you come with me to the animal hospital?” she asked. I agreed. She arrived next day and seated herself in my car with a badly wounded dog, “I hope you don’t mind Bob,” she said as my rear seat was bloodied. At the hospital, she brought out two huge tiffin carriers of foods and proceeded to feed all the hundreds of animals in their cages.
Suddenly we entered the area where the very sick dogs were kept. I watched as Farida placed food in each of their plates. We reached a kennel where a dog seemed to be having permanent convulsions. “Distemper,” said Farida to me, as she put some food in the dog’s plate and handed the plate to me. I put the plate down as near the sick animal as possible, but so bad were the shivers that the animal could not reach the food.
“Pick it up and hold it near the dog,” said Farida. “What?” I shouted in consternation. I loved dogs alright but this was beyond anything I had ever thought of doing. I looked at the poor fellow and then slowly picked it up, felt its spittle drool all over my arm and nearly puked with the effort as I held it near its plate. “Hold the head firmly,” said Farida. I did, and the dog ate.
“It will live,” said Farida as she looked at the little fellow after it had eaten. It had stopped its convulsions. I felt happy. I stooped down and touched it. I had tears in my eyes as I looked at the wetness on my fingers. I didn’t attempt to wash it away. Farida taught me that to be of real help you needed to dirty yourself.
I wonder what happened to that bleeding woman during those five hours, as a doctor equipped to heal dialed phone numbers instead of dirtying her fingers! I wonder how many of us keep complaining, without dirtying our hands and doing something about a situation?
