In another fortnight I'd have completed my 66th Birthday. Funny I didn't remember it until I was dead, finally.
With all those real and semi-fictional accounts on my life, death, and my 'official' death; here's my version of it. I was born on June 1st. I was born a year after India gained independence. I was the youngest of my near-dozen siblings. Back in Haldipur, I had seen both faces of life -- the happy and the sad. The villagers would dote around me. They'd call me an angel, beautiful princess, of sort. "Princess", I'd often smirk. In stark poverty I was, and they called me a Princess.
After my SSC Exams, I went where everybody went. Bombay, or now Mumbai. I found my place as a junior nurse in Kings Memorial Hospital. Must say, the hospital was elegant, and so were the people there. I found the love of my life in a medic there.
Things went on with the usual ups and downs. I sent my salary back home to support my huge family. My fiancé was very supportive. He once asked, "If you had one wish, what'd you wish for?"
"I wish I was an infant again. No trouble. No tension!", I laughed. "Be careful what you wish for", he smirked. I didn't realize the significance of his words until now. All I cared about then was that we were about to get married soon.
I knew most of the staff by name. And the patients. I liked almost everyone, for all were so humane and sweet. There was this sweeper in particular that I didn't like. Sohanlal was his name. Now I know his full name. Sohanlal Bhartha Walmiki. He was a part of our hospital on contract, and I found his ways very suspicious. He would always wait for the aisle to get empty to sweep. "Saves me trouble", he'd say. One day, I caught him stealing food supplies meant for stray dogs.
I complained it to the Dean and promised action against him. One should've seen his face that day. He was very livid. I turned my head away and went back for work. Some days later, it so happened that I got to stay late. It was usual for nurses like us. The night was 27th November of 1973. Once the work was done, I went to the hospital basement to change my dress. I didn't notice a shadow creeping inside the room.
Shoanlal had a dog-chain in his hand. He hastily covered my mouth with his left hand and slammed my body against his. "You will have to pay for what you did. You care for stray dogs. What are you? A bitch? You know what happens to bitches?!", he hissed inside my ears. I was helpless, I was shaking, my legs were giving away, I prayed to God, I tried biting into his hand and I did.
That was not to his liking. He quickly held my neck with the dog chain and kicked me forward. I was choking on the chain, and it was cutting through my neck. He kept his grip tight and stomped on me. He assaulted me, physically and sexually. I don't even remember having been sodomized until after my death.
He robbed my belongings, and left me in my own pool of blood. The last thing I remembered was that I was gasping for breath. There was air all around in the room, but I was feeling this vaccum inside my lungs. It was killing me. I fainted.
I was found the other day by a staff member, and was quickly hospitalized. I was in coma. Preliminary reports suggested that the choking cut off oxygen supply to my brain. I was rendered cortically blind. I was in deep sleep. I wasn't dreaming. It was all blank.
The entire hospital staff looked towards the dean of my hospital Dr. Deshpande for directions. He was a sweet guy and he knew me well. He knew about my marriage. He informed the Police and had a case registered against Sohanlal for robbery, assault, and attempted murder. He concealed the anal rape part. Now, some would say that he made a stupid decision. If I were in my senses, even I'd have asked him to do the same. Come on, it's 1973. Rape is still a hush-hush topic here, and moreover sodomy isn't covered under the Indian Law's definition of rape.
I know why he concealed that part. He knew of my upcoming marriage, and he believed that I'll soon be fit as a fiddle for my marriage. He was always so positive about things. I came to know about it only yesterday. My fiancé lost hope on me, but he didn't.
Funny, a lady Prime Minister at the helm and not a single woman is safe. Sohanlal was caught, tried and sentenced to 14 year imprisonment. Of course, he wasn't tried for rape.
My condition did trigger something. Suddenly, I was famous. My family came to know about my trauma. They didn't come to see me. I was not in my senses to rue about the fact that even after my 30 years in coma, my grand-nieces didn't know that they had somebody called 'Aruna' in their family.
So what if my family didn't own me. The hospital did. They cared for me, fended for me, and fought for me. A few years later, the Bombay Municipal Corporation wanted to have me shifted. That was it. All hell broke loose. Those sweet, caring nurses suddenly became Modern 'Kali Maa' and fought against the system. I had umpteen mothers in the form of my nurses.
Every year, I got to meet new new mothers. They were fresh from college, and were all so cute and kind. Before moving my hand, they'll come to know that I wished to comb my hair. One bad thing that the sweeper did was filled me with paranoia. I couldn't stand any stranger, especially a male stranger. I couldn't stand a male voice. Once an intern came into my ward by mistake and said "Hi!".
I couldn't see him, couldn't hear his "Hi!". All I heard was his voice and I started shaking, shuddering, and screaming. I didn't remember the night of 27th November, but I very well realized that the night of 27th November never really ended for me.
With time, new terminologies were invented and I was no more a human being. I was branded as a 'PVS'. Permanent Vegetative State. Huh? I'm not a vegetable! I'm not some bag of flesh lying on the bed like a jellyfish, waiting to be experimented or feasted upon. I'm Aruna Shanbaug.
It's been 20 years now. One of my family members did come to see me. And that was it. They didn't do anything. No representation in court. No plea. The court, in Sohanlal's trial, shouted over its voice to call for my family members. No one came forward. The nurses did.
Poverty, they say. They say that they were too poor to claim me. But I sent them my heard-earned salary. I even visited them in 1973, months before it happened. Is that all I am to them? A vegetable? I was a vegetable to them -- you gained from me as long as I provided for you, once I started rotting, you raised your hands and said 'This is not ours!'.
It's 2000 and still I'm waiting for death. Apparently the God of death is stuck in Mumbaiya traffic.
All I do is wail, scratch my head, and lie down. Like an infant. Just like an infant. Oh, I should've wished for something better. Like eternity. Wait, even that would've been worse.
Amid all the nurses as friends, I made a new celebrity friend. Pinky Virani. Never heard her name. She calls me her friend. So she is my friend. She filed a plea for passive euthanasia. I knew what it was. She was asking the Court's permission to give me easy, painless death. Soon.
A panel was set up, Justice Katju was also part of it. I wish his surname was Kaju. They observed me, videotaped my daily activities, and played it in full court house. "Look how she's scratching her head. She's is almost alive", one judge remarked. The Supreme Court, I understand now, had a very important decision to make.
If they let me die, albeit in good spirit, I'll be liberated. But, that would invite tons of similar cases which might not be of merit. Plus, there's the factor of misuse. What if a poor family, who can't afford to care for their own, file for passive euthanasia? They turned down the plea for passive euthanasia because my family was against it. My nurses didn't want to leave me. They held me too tightly. You hold sand in your hand too tightly and it slips faster. But, sand has no life.
Pinky. I've always liked the color pink. I always wanted to tell her that her battle was not lost. Thanks to her, and thanks to my comatose body, India saw a healthy debate on passive euthanasia and mercy killing. Sohanlal is alive, is 71, and is not Sohanlal. He lives by another name. There is no file photo of him, not in FIR, not in court, not in hospital, not anywhere. He was a ghost who never existed, except for me.
An infant takes time to learn things. In 2 years he may learn to talk. Okay, 4 years. 5 years?
42 years?
I didn't bite ice cream, and I caught pneumonia. My lungs started to get filled with pus and water. Life is funny. People say; for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction. There was no 'equal and opposite' in my case. I was put on ventilator. It is time now.
I felt that vaccum again, that same vaccum that I felt that night. I was struggling for breath, for little bit oxygen. There was air all around me, and my lungs were filled with my own liquids. I was drowning in my own body fluids. Things couldn't have been better.
I was dead on May 18th, 2015. Post my death, I heard someone in the compound say, "She's suffered too much. Now she's liberated. She will be alive in our hearts". "I am not alive!", I shouted, "accept it already! I am dead. Of all the things I ever wanted, I'm dead!". I cried after a long time. No real tears though.
My family cried. No real tears. My mothers cried. Real tears. Pinky cried. Real tears. As if I were a trophy, my family claimed my dead body. "Last rites must be performed by a family member", said my nephew. "Exactly! That's why we are doing it", retorted my mothers. I don't have some fancy concluding remarks to be made. I don't, and didn't wish anyone, even Sohanlal, to be dead. I have nothing to do with this planet.
I wish they remembered me as an angel, a beautiful princess; and not as a 66 year old infant.
Photo credits: TelegraphIndia.com
P.S. Some remarks are fictionalized
With all those real and semi-fictional accounts on my life, death, and my 'official' death; here's my version of it. I was born on June 1st. I was born a year after India gained independence. I was the youngest of my near-dozen siblings. Back in Haldipur, I had seen both faces of life -- the happy and the sad. The villagers would dote around me. They'd call me an angel, beautiful princess, of sort. "Princess", I'd often smirk. In stark poverty I was, and they called me a Princess.
After my SSC Exams, I went where everybody went. Bombay, or now Mumbai. I found my place as a junior nurse in Kings Memorial Hospital. Must say, the hospital was elegant, and so were the people there. I found the love of my life in a medic there.
Things went on with the usual ups and downs. I sent my salary back home to support my huge family. My fiancé was very supportive. He once asked, "If you had one wish, what'd you wish for?"
"I wish I was an infant again. No trouble. No tension!", I laughed. "Be careful what you wish for", he smirked. I didn't realize the significance of his words until now. All I cared about then was that we were about to get married soon.
I knew most of the staff by name. And the patients. I liked almost everyone, for all were so humane and sweet. There was this sweeper in particular that I didn't like. Sohanlal was his name. Now I know his full name. Sohanlal Bhartha Walmiki. He was a part of our hospital on contract, and I found his ways very suspicious. He would always wait for the aisle to get empty to sweep. "Saves me trouble", he'd say. One day, I caught him stealing food supplies meant for stray dogs.
I complained it to the Dean and promised action against him. One should've seen his face that day. He was very livid. I turned my head away and went back for work. Some days later, it so happened that I got to stay late. It was usual for nurses like us. The night was 27th November of 1973. Once the work was done, I went to the hospital basement to change my dress. I didn't notice a shadow creeping inside the room.
Shoanlal had a dog-chain in his hand. He hastily covered my mouth with his left hand and slammed my body against his. "You will have to pay for what you did. You care for stray dogs. What are you? A bitch? You know what happens to bitches?!", he hissed inside my ears. I was helpless, I was shaking, my legs were giving away, I prayed to God, I tried biting into his hand and I did.
That was not to his liking. He quickly held my neck with the dog chain and kicked me forward. I was choking on the chain, and it was cutting through my neck. He kept his grip tight and stomped on me. He assaulted me, physically and sexually. I don't even remember having been sodomized until after my death.
He robbed my belongings, and left me in my own pool of blood. The last thing I remembered was that I was gasping for breath. There was air all around in the room, but I was feeling this vaccum inside my lungs. It was killing me. I fainted.
I was found the other day by a staff member, and was quickly hospitalized. I was in coma. Preliminary reports suggested that the choking cut off oxygen supply to my brain. I was rendered cortically blind. I was in deep sleep. I wasn't dreaming. It was all blank.
The entire hospital staff looked towards the dean of my hospital Dr. Deshpande for directions. He was a sweet guy and he knew me well. He knew about my marriage. He informed the Police and had a case registered against Sohanlal for robbery, assault, and attempted murder. He concealed the anal rape part. Now, some would say that he made a stupid decision. If I were in my senses, even I'd have asked him to do the same. Come on, it's 1973. Rape is still a hush-hush topic here, and moreover sodomy isn't covered under the Indian Law's definition of rape.
I know why he concealed that part. He knew of my upcoming marriage, and he believed that I'll soon be fit as a fiddle for my marriage. He was always so positive about things. I came to know about it only yesterday. My fiancé lost hope on me, but he didn't.
Funny, a lady Prime Minister at the helm and not a single woman is safe. Sohanlal was caught, tried and sentenced to 14 year imprisonment. Of course, he wasn't tried for rape.
My condition did trigger something. Suddenly, I was famous. My family came to know about my trauma. They didn't come to see me. I was not in my senses to rue about the fact that even after my 30 years in coma, my grand-nieces didn't know that they had somebody called 'Aruna' in their family.
So what if my family didn't own me. The hospital did. They cared for me, fended for me, and fought for me. A few years later, the Bombay Municipal Corporation wanted to have me shifted. That was it. All hell broke loose. Those sweet, caring nurses suddenly became Modern 'Kali Maa' and fought against the system. I had umpteen mothers in the form of my nurses.
Every year, I got to meet new new mothers. They were fresh from college, and were all so cute and kind. Before moving my hand, they'll come to know that I wished to comb my hair. One bad thing that the sweeper did was filled me with paranoia. I couldn't stand any stranger, especially a male stranger. I couldn't stand a male voice. Once an intern came into my ward by mistake and said "Hi!".
I couldn't see him, couldn't hear his "Hi!". All I heard was his voice and I started shaking, shuddering, and screaming. I didn't remember the night of 27th November, but I very well realized that the night of 27th November never really ended for me.
With time, new terminologies were invented and I was no more a human being. I was branded as a 'PVS'. Permanent Vegetative State. Huh? I'm not a vegetable! I'm not some bag of flesh lying on the bed like a jellyfish, waiting to be experimented or feasted upon. I'm Aruna Shanbaug.
It's been 20 years now. One of my family members did come to see me. And that was it. They didn't do anything. No representation in court. No plea. The court, in Sohanlal's trial, shouted over its voice to call for my family members. No one came forward. The nurses did.
Poverty, they say. They say that they were too poor to claim me. But I sent them my heard-earned salary. I even visited them in 1973, months before it happened. Is that all I am to them? A vegetable? I was a vegetable to them -- you gained from me as long as I provided for you, once I started rotting, you raised your hands and said 'This is not ours!'.
It's 2000 and still I'm waiting for death. Apparently the God of death is stuck in Mumbaiya traffic.
All I do is wail, scratch my head, and lie down. Like an infant. Just like an infant. Oh, I should've wished for something better. Like eternity. Wait, even that would've been worse.
Amid all the nurses as friends, I made a new celebrity friend. Pinky Virani. Never heard her name. She calls me her friend. So she is my friend. She filed a plea for passive euthanasia. I knew what it was. She was asking the Court's permission to give me easy, painless death. Soon.
A panel was set up, Justice Katju was also part of it. I wish his surname was Kaju. They observed me, videotaped my daily activities, and played it in full court house. "Look how she's scratching her head. She's is almost alive", one judge remarked. The Supreme Court, I understand now, had a very important decision to make.
If they let me die, albeit in good spirit, I'll be liberated. But, that would invite tons of similar cases which might not be of merit. Plus, there's the factor of misuse. What if a poor family, who can't afford to care for their own, file for passive euthanasia? They turned down the plea for passive euthanasia because my family was against it. My nurses didn't want to leave me. They held me too tightly. You hold sand in your hand too tightly and it slips faster. But, sand has no life.
Pinky. I've always liked the color pink. I always wanted to tell her that her battle was not lost. Thanks to her, and thanks to my comatose body, India saw a healthy debate on passive euthanasia and mercy killing. Sohanlal is alive, is 71, and is not Sohanlal. He lives by another name. There is no file photo of him, not in FIR, not in court, not in hospital, not anywhere. He was a ghost who never existed, except for me.
An infant takes time to learn things. In 2 years he may learn to talk. Okay, 4 years. 5 years?
42 years?
I didn't bite ice cream, and I caught pneumonia. My lungs started to get filled with pus and water. Life is funny. People say; for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction. There was no 'equal and opposite' in my case. I was put on ventilator. It is time now.
I felt that vaccum again, that same vaccum that I felt that night. I was struggling for breath, for little bit oxygen. There was air all around me, and my lungs were filled with my own liquids. I was drowning in my own body fluids. Things couldn't have been better.
I was dead on May 18th, 2015. Post my death, I heard someone in the compound say, "She's suffered too much. Now she's liberated. She will be alive in our hearts". "I am not alive!", I shouted, "accept it already! I am dead. Of all the things I ever wanted, I'm dead!". I cried after a long time. No real tears though.
My family cried. No real tears. My mothers cried. Real tears. Pinky cried. Real tears. As if I were a trophy, my family claimed my dead body. "Last rites must be performed by a family member", said my nephew. "Exactly! That's why we are doing it", retorted my mothers. I don't have some fancy concluding remarks to be made. I don't, and didn't wish anyone, even Sohanlal, to be dead. I have nothing to do with this planet.
I wish they remembered me as an angel, a beautiful princess; and not as a 66 year old infant.
Photo credits: TelegraphIndia.com
P.S. Some remarks are fictionalized
Touched :(
ReplyDeleteI understand. .
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