The Doctor's Soul

    || Hari Om || || Shree Ram || || Ambadnya ||

|| Naathsamvidh ||

 I am blogging after a very long time. This post finds its origins in something that I had written for a competition, sometime in the remote past.

It was in a forgotten file, lost in piles of junk, accumulated over the years in a neglected, dusty laptop. I could say much the same about my mind.

Somewhere along the line, I had ended up forgetting that I am a writer at heart.

Finding this, was like my past self shouting across all those years to wake me up! 

I think its time I follow my own advice :)

The Doctor's Soul

Let's keep this simple. No clichés.

 The Hero of our story is a young doctor. He could be any of us. At his core, he is all of us.

Well, this is how I see it. At the end of his journey, when he has finally achieved the success he have always dreamed of, he will get a bit of free time. A few moments of peace.

But he has nothing to do! The workaholic doctor, immersed in work or books throughout his life, now has no hobbies left to enjoy. They were all cut away to make place for "success". There would always be time for them later. And that "later" never came.

So the shades of all the lost loves he buried in the past continue to haunt him, and instead of looking with content upon what he has, he is stuck with a long list of regrets.  " If only I had..."

He has become so used to seeing pain, that he no longer notices his own. He is so used to declaring bad news, that he fails to notice that it costs him a piece of his soul every time. So many times he wants to shed tears of joy, of fear, of compassion. But work must move on. There is always someone else to treat. So he must move on.

The strong face that he wears, is much more a mask than any N-95 would ever be.

Was he the only one to suffer ? Perhaps not. Perhaps this doctor, so removed from the art and beauty of the world, may have hurt a few others along the way.

A few patients. A few colleagues.

As we become more involved in our work and study, we may tend to forget that those we hope to heal are also people. At times, we may heal their bodies, but end up scarring their minds. We should always remember that we are human too.

It is true that Medicine is a science, but the practice of Medicine is an art.

So too our lives should be. Not just the bland following of strict rules and protocols, but a little flavour of creative expression. A sprig of music. A dash of poetry. A spot of philosophy for seasoning. And above all, Faith.

What we have at the end of the day is an enhanced Doctor, at peace with the world and with himself. After all, only one who is at peace with himself can bring peace to others.

So all I have to say is: "Physician, Heal Thyself". Find that piece of music that you can hum in troubled times. Find that little novel that you can lose yourself in when things seem dark. Discover a hobby that you can pursue if time permits. Nay, find something you like so much that you MAKE the time to pursue it!

" Then when the shadows overtake us,

   Just when we feel all hope is gone

   We'll hear our song and know once more

   Our Love lives on." 

-How Does a Moment Last Forever
 (Disney's: Beauty & The Beast)


 

Finding light is not achieved by ignoring the darkness. Light is found and preserved by keeping that little flame burning inside. It does not matter what it is. If it matters to  you, it will keep you warm, even if you're buried in the snow.

Then there are those you will remember, because you touched their lives, and they touched yours in return. There is an inexplicable alchemy in the simple smile of someone who is healing. Some lives, some stories resonate with you. And the smiles and love that you have accumulated is the strongest talisman, something that will stay with you forever.

Keep that little flame burning, and it will sustain you .

Then, when your career has reached your targets, your dreams will still stay fresh and life will be just as sweet as it was when you started off.

Never be afraid to try. Never be afraid to fall. Our scars teach us more than we can imagine.

 Our mistake is a simple one. We look for happiness at the end of the journey. And that remains a mirage. One can never capture the horizon.
 Instead, happiness is the journey, and we must live it all the way!  

Light the fire deep within,

Nurture it, let it burn bright,

For the only way to beat the dark,

Is to become the light.

Start! Now! As you are,

Take a single step ahead.

Let the world unfurl before you,

The Earth shake beneath your tread.

You are the chains that bind yourself,

The weight upon your back.

Spread your wings and you break free,

Rise, and don’t look back.

 

                                     || Hari Om || || Shree Ram || || Ambadnya ||

|| Naathsamvidh ||

Poem- The Pianist

                                            || Hari Om || || Shree Ram || || Ambadnya ||

This poem is inspired by the magic of music and its power to cross all boundries of time and space.  

The Pianist

The morning of

That fateful day

His final song

He sat to play

Eyes shining bright

His smile so wide 

His beloved, she sat

By his side

He started slow

A soulful piece

Deep as sorrow

And soft as fleece

The chords and scales

Rose on above

Rich and full

Just like his love

He rose, he stood up

With a start

Incomplete he left,

The final bar.

" My love,

It is now your turn

Complete our song

Till I return "

But his life reached

It's final turn

She was alone

To long and yearn

Never were they

Again to meet

For years, the song

Stayed incomplete.

She was broken,

No longer whole

Music had left her

When she lost her soul

She tried so hard

To bring him back

Played till the keys

Did start to crack

Music could not

Start his breath

There was just no way

Back from death

That last day was different

With hope she woke

As though the Pianist

In her dreams, he spoke !

That last day

She stood up tall

Heart and soul

She gave it all

Once again that

Melody grew

Full of his love

So strong and true

And as she reached

That final bar

The music healed

Her pain, her scars

She saw him now

Within her soul

She was him

And they were whole

She smiled in peace

And closed her eyes

He welcomed her

Towards the skies

The last notes played

The song was done 

The Pianist and 

His love were one.

|| Shri Ram ||

|| Ambadnya ||

|| Nathsanvidh||

|| I Love You my Dad ||

-Arnav H. Tongaonkar

( Charcoal sketch courtesy- Devanshi Doshi)

Click here to read my Short Story: 'The Pianist'- http://arnavht.blogspot.com/2016/05/The-Pianist-Story.html

 If you liked this post, do post your comments and provide your valuable feedback. And do read my other poems and short stories. They are listed at the top of this page. A list of my blog post topics is also provided in the column on the right. Happy reading!)

Poem-Twilight

|| Hari Om ||

A romantic poem inspired by the monsoon weather.

Twilight

The sunlight through
The leaves does dance
And twilight casts
A dreamy trance

A strange game this
Of hide and seek
The wind of love
And hope does speak

They stand, in silence
At the sandy shore
So much they speak
But hide much more

There are no words
For certain thoughts
Some feelings deep
And battles fought

At the eb and flow
Of the sea they stare
But to speak,
They do not dare

A fear deep
In love is wrought
That all of this
Shall be for naught

A fear that
This spell shall break
And leave them shattered
In its wake

Perhaps forever
They may have stood
So much felt
Less understood

But Love can speak
Without a word
A heart just beat
And the other heard

They walk the shores
Now hand in hand
A pair of footprints
In the sand

This twilight is not
The setting Sun!
For their dawn bright
Has just begun.

|| Shri Ram ||
|| Ambadnya ||
|| I Love You my Dad ||

-Arnav H. Tongaonkar

17.6.16

( If you liked this post, do post your comments and provide your valuable feedback. And do read my other poems and short stories. They are listed at the top of this page. A list of my blog post topics is also provided in the column on the right. Happy reading!)

Short Story- ANGEL

|| Hari Om || || Shri Ram || || Ambadnya || 

ANGEL

‘F’

That single letter shouted out of the page at me. I had failed to clear my finals, the fourth time over. I was stunned. To stunned even to cry. I had given my all, genuinely this time.

But still that letter stared at me. F

And I wept inside. That this brilliant student, school topper, envy of all, was reduced to this…

A mere shadow, a wraith, haunting the corridors of this ancient institute that I had once thought was my domain. My friends long since graduated and moved on life in life. They were “Doctors” now. The juniors knew me only as ‘that failure’ and shunned me in general. They had watched me struggle for years. This was nothing new to them. So where was I to go ?

In my despair, I sought advice from my only comfort in this college. A senior teacher, well past the end of her career, but still one to give solace to lost ones like me.

She saw me enter her office and smiled, “You are not the first to struggle so, son. I have taught you and you do not lack talent. But I do not see that fire in your eyes anymore. “

“It’s gone!”, I shouted. 

“Well then, let’s get it back” she said. She smiled. 

“Ours is an ancient institute. Generations of students have struggled like you, and eventually found the will to succeed. Let me give you some advice. It may seem strange, but trust me. I’ve been around a long time. Walk around the campus, just walk, and call out to the soul of this college. Something, somewhere will respond, and you will find your path again.”

So I walked, I walked and I walked, around the classrooms, through the wards, through the lawns, and found nothing. No ray of hope nor answering voices. Just a lonely wanderer, with only the weight of his failures for company. Finally I collapsed and wept. It was too much for me. Exhausted, I fell asleep, hoping never to wake.

I woke to the sounds of footsteps. I was a little startled.

The place I was hiding in was a place I had discovered after years of solitary wandering. And now another stood before me. She stood there looking at me, and I looked at her, not sure how to react.

She sneezed violently, which broke the spell.

I laughed, she laughed too.

“Hi” I began, “I’m…”, but she interrupted me.

‘The Failure’, I know” she said, but without any sarcasm. In fact the compassion in her voice struck a chord. She paused, but it seemed as though she spoke so much, just in that single moment of silence.

She was young, not extraordinarily pretty, but with a pleasant smile and deep thoughtful eyes.

“My friends call me Angel” she said. “The Professor sent me to find you. I was ill and missed my exam. She said we could study together.”

I was apprehensive at first, but soon warmed up to my new companion.

It was as if we had known each other forever. There was no element of romance to it, just the feeling of two old friends, meeting after a long time. So we began studying together.

She was brilliant, intelligent and a patient teacher. But I was depressed and often left things halfway. And she would cheer me up and we pressed on. Two failures, limping forward in our own way.

Once, particularly frustrated, I said to her,”This is my last attempt. One way or the other. Either I live a doctor, or…” I stopped.

 The sorrow on her face was so intense that I couldn’t speak.

“Never say that again” she said, “You do not know how lucky you are that you can try again. So many would give anything for this chance.”

I apologized. I had hurt her. Now, I worked doubly hard, just to make her smile again.

The exams were a week away. She said she wanted to go home and spend time with her family.

“Where do you live?” I asked. “Oh, quite faraway” she said with a wink. “Clear your exams doctor and l will tell you where I live!” A strange one, she was, Angel, so full of life and fun. But beneath all that, past the facade, there was a depth to her I couldn't quite fathom.  

“Well”, I said hesitantly, mustering up my courage. “Let’s click a photo together, so that we remember each other. Lord knows when our paths will cross again.

“Why, going somewhere Doctor ? I’ll always be here you know. Besides, I look terrible in photos!”She laughed her sweet little laugh, and walked off, a ghost of a smile still playing on her lips. But I disobeyed and clicked a snap of her smiling face as she turned and walked away. I had to keep some part of her with me after all. A week is sometimes too long to wait!

On the day of the exam she was nowhere to be seen. A different centre maybe? Her phone was not reachable. I wanted to tell her that I would clear this time, that I had written the best I had ever written, all thanks to her. But I couldn’t find her.

In desperation, I went to the old Professor, my mentor and asked her, “Where is Angel? Why did she not write the exam with me?”

“Angel?” asked the Professor. She looked perplexed.

“The girl you sent to study with me” concern creeping in my voice.

“What girl are you talking about, child?”

My hands felt cold. I shivered. “This girl !”, I said, almost shoving my phone in her face.

She frowned. The photograph only showed an empty corridor. The phone fell from my hands. I ran out of her office, dizzy and confused.

What was going on?

Then I heard a familiar laugh. I saw a familiar profile enter the college archives, where the memories of generations were preserved.

I followed her voice inside. The room was empty. As I looked around, to my surprise, I saw a book on the desk near me. It was a college magazine, some 20 years old, moth eaten and full of dust.

And she looked up at me from its pages, her face frozen in her last smile.

And below it the caption said,

“We hold the tears deep inside

Smile despite the pain

For this is not the end dear one

Someday we’ll meet again.

 ‘Farewell beloved friend,

Illness may take your body, but cannot defeat your spirit.’ 

An obituary, written by loving friends. And my tears stained the yellowed paper, as their tears must have, all those years ago.

 The book fell from my hand.

 “I told you I fell ill, and missed my paper.”

I turned. There she stood behind me, smiling. Around her were more, so many more. The shades of all those who over the years had given up, and lost the battle to disease or despair. All of them smiled.

“This is my family. This is where I live. Our energies suffuse the very bricks of these buildings.  And we have sworn, we will never let another give up and let go.  We know the pain of having our dreams broken, but you have the chance to try again. Never forget how great this gift is.

Take care my friend; this life is yours to live. And remember us. Remember me. For we live on through you.”

“Angel.” They called out to her, welcoming. 

She gently held my palms gently in hers.”Goodbye.” And all was silent. 

I sat up.

Fresh sunlight streamed in through the windows. Flecks of dust danced merrily to greet the new dawn. A frail hand held firm my own, and pulled me to my feet.

The Professor looked at me knowingly. She closed the book, and placed it on the shelf, back where it belonged. 

“I may be wrong, but it seems that two of my students found peace today.” She turned, and walked out of the room.

I followed her out into the bright morning light. 

And as I latched the doors to the Archives closed, I could almost hear her voice,“Why the gloomy face ? Chin up Doctor! I’m always here!”

 I shook my head, smiling, and walked into the sunshine. Her voice, her words, would stay with me forever. I was now a doctor and no longer alone.

From her place in the shadows, Angel watched him go. She smiled. Their time together had always been brief. She had known that from the start. But that was enough. That was the beauty of it.

And a part of her would live on in him, forever.  

-Arnav H. Tongaonkar

||Shri Ram || || Ambadnya || || I Love You my Dad ||

( If you liked this post, do post your comments and provide your valuable feedback. And do read my other poems and short stories. They are listed at the top of this page. A list of my blog post topics is also provided in the column on the right. Happy reading!)

Marathi Story 1: 'त्या' दाराच्या पलिकडे

|| Hari Om || || Shri Ram || || Ambadnya ||

This is my first attempt at writing a short story in Marathi.

Rewritten (Calligraphy) by my father, Dr. Hemant Tongaonkar.

I have had Marathi as a very small part of my formal education. My developing knowledge of the language is only due to the encouragement of my beloved Bapu ( Dr. Aniruddha Joshi). I am indeed grateful to You, Bapu, for getting me in touch with my Mother-tongue, my roots.

I hope you, the reader like the story!

I shall keep striving to improve.

And many more to come. 

Story-The Pianist

II Hari om II 

The Pianist

He stood there staring at the old piano. It lay there, covered in dust; as though unloved. A year’s worth of dust. 

That old piano was his soul. But he hadn’t had the heart to even look at it. He hadn’t even entered that room.

The past was too painful. Every now and then, something would occur to trigger off those memories. He would crumple in a moment,  remembering how hollow he was.

How hollow he was without ‘her’. 

There it was! That fatal connection. He should never have entered the room! Never! Every speck of dust, every crack and crevice breathed her name! The memories came crashing down on him and he could resist no more. 

He let himself drown, and the current swept him away…

That first day he had met her. How strange it had all been. He a fledgling piano tutor, just barley out of his nest. And his first ‘apprentice’: a young lady, barely a couple of years younger than he!

They had started the lessons fairly normally. But from the very first, it was apparent to both of them that there was more to it. They were like two parts of a song, treble and bass, music and lyrics, each so distinct, so different, and still complete only together. 

At first she was hesitant and shy, both in manner and in her playing. 

That first time, she had blushed and shyly tried to show off her self-learned prowess.

A few broken notes rose from the old piano. And he grinned. A subtle, playful grin she would come to know well. “What’re you playing kid?”, he asked. “Mary had a little lamb”, she said, barely speaking.

“Well, may your lamb run in rhythm next time young lady! “, he winked.

They shared a laugh. That first laugh. The ice was broken, and irreparably so. 

He soon realised that she had prodigious talent. In months, she had practised so hard that it became difficult for the listeners to differentiate student from teacher.

Indeed, he played purely on instinct, not much inclined to practice. Soon, she became technically superior to her ‘Sir’ and the roles of their little game were reversed!

“What was that last note you played ‘Sir’, she asked playfully, poking him in the ribs, “Sounded way off the scale. I think someone could do with a bit of training eh!” 

He turned and looked at her smiling face, mesmerised. His mind had been on her, not on the scales after all.

The image shattered.

He was on his knees in  front of the old piano. He was shivering. His vision blurred.

He was with her again.

The best of times. They were truly complementary. He, with his artistic flair; all ”feel”, ”instinct” and “composition”; and she with her meticulous attention to detail, harsh criticisms & detached, frank corrections. But he was still the teacher. And he was competitive at heart.

It became a game between them: He used to leave his compositions incomplete, missing a few of the last bars.

And she had to complete the song! It was his way of teaching her to feel.

And often, other, stranger, unexpressed feelings found an expression in those moments of music.

She had succeeded every time; struggling a bit, but getting there in the end.

Except that last time. That last song left incomplete.

With tears in his eyes, he flipped through the pages of her notebook.

That last blank page stared at him. A page she would never fill. For she existed only in his memories now.

And the only place they could meet was in the music.

He sat at the piano. Restless. He had to complete  the song. But he hesitated, as he had before. Perhaps he knew that completing the song would mean letting go of her for good.

It was that single unfulfilled promise that bound them together, still. Across time and space. 

But he knew had to complete it today.

With trembling hands, the Pianist started to play…

She woke with a start. It seemed so real. It seemed like her dear ‘Sir’ was calling her.

She looked at the clock, then at the calendar. The cruel truth!

Exactly a year since his passing. 

She could still see his smiling face as he walked out through the door that last time, never to return.

The same smile now frozen in a single picture on her mantlepiece.

But something was different that day. She felt him there.

Suddenly, the music she had tried so hard to forget came flooding back!

But not with grief, with joy and hope. It was as though he was composing for her again. 

And the old piano called out to her from beneath its layer of dust.

… Her notebook open to that final blank page. 

She had tried a couple of times, failed and then stopped altogether.

For who was she to play for, if not for him. What was the point of completing the song, for he would never hear her playing it!

But that was her folly. She knew that now. He WAS here.

The piano, that silent witness to their bond, their love, their resonance.

That piano vibrated with his energy, with their energy.

And she closed her eyes and started to play. Purely on instinct.

She could almost hear him whisper words of encouragement.

Without even realising it, she completed the song. Of course she could!

For he was her and she was him. 

True, they would never meet again. Never speak, nor laugh, nor fight, as so often they had before. But there was no need for that.

Here, at the piano, in  their music, the Pianist and his love were one.

They were inseparable.

He smiled.

She smiled.

She looked at that last blank page a final time.

She closed the book. Best leave some things incomplete.

She laid a fresh rose before his smiling face, took a bit of his smile into her soul & stepped out to meet the world again.

|| Shri Ram || || Ambadnya || || I Love You my Dad || 

-Arnav H. Tongaonkar

17.04.2016

  

The Soldier/The Soldier's Mother

|| Hari Om ||

 Our soldiers risk their lives so that we can be safe. We live peacefully in our homes, only because they stand between us and danger. Words are insufficient to convey the magnitude of their sacrifice, as well as the anguish of their families.

Through these twin poems : "The Soldier" and "The Soldier's Mother", I have tried to tell the story of a valiant soldier leaving for war from two perspectives: The brave warrior, and the family left behind.

Let us pray for our soldiers, and honour their sacrifice.
Bapu! May my life, and my end, also be so worthwhile.   

The Soldier

In service to 

My country I

Pledged my life

And joined the fight

To protect the people 

Of my land

My family

They understand 

For today

I must now march

The clouds of war

Loom ever dark

My first step

I steady take

Then my hands

Do start to shake

How can I leave

them all behind?

What if my fate 

Be so unkind

That I never 

May return

For their faces

I shall yearn

I close my eyes

Chant His name

And my resolve

Stays strong and same

With firm steps

I forward walk

Not turn, look back

Nor stop to talk

Let them remember 

This lion now

Who left his home

With an uphled brow

Shed his blood

On his own soil

To save them all

From the turmoil 

With blazing eyes

And strong last breath

I see their smiles,

And embrace death !

The Soldier's Mother

Late that night

There came a call

That broke the sleep

Of one and all

The Soldier,

He was called to war

He could live

At home no more

He packed his bags

And firm in tread

Walked forward with

No fear or dread

But those that watched him go 

did weep

The tears hidden

From him they keep

The Mother thought

"There goes my son

I'm so proud that

My little one...

" Once so scared 

And weak in play

Gives his life up

For us this day"

"His hands they tremble

Yes they do

And only a Mother,

Can see through 

"That lion's mask

That cloaks his pain

But he shan't turn

To look again.

"Good, I'm proud

I shall be strong

For our home

In these days long

"Until we see his

Face again

Perhaps our wait

Will be in vain"

These thoughts again

Did cross her mind

As she stood by

His coffin side

Her hands raised

In a last salute

Her face so firm

And resolute

In Peace, The Soldier

He does lie

Shaheed, Martryed 

For you and I !

|| Shri Ram ||

|| Ambadnya ||

|| I Love You my Dad ||

-Arnav H. Tongaonkar 

10.2.2016