Shreya, my four-year-old granddaughter, was running a temperature which the thermometer recorded at 101 Fahrenheit. I knew such mild fevers are common and transient in children, and in fact welcome, in that they prove that the child’s immune system is up and alert.
Nevertheless, my daughter, a busy techie in New Jersey, wanted no chance to be taken and didn’t wait for the abatement of temperature on its own accord sans medical aid. She wanted to consult her family doctor, who was a couple of kilometres away, pronto. Before starting the car engine, she asked me to join, to handle Shreya who might throw tantrums—as any child would—at the mere sight of the doctor approaching with a syringe in his hands. Perhaps I might be able to inject confidence in her. So, I hopped in; the child fastened in her special seat at the back, a strict American regulation.
The doctor’s apartment was surrounded by trees. Many birds were busy hopping up and down. I wondered whether they ever had viral or avian fever. If so was there a Dr Owl?
My daughter said the doctor was an Asian, but popular with Americans. After waiting for a few minutes, when I was secretly debating with myself if the receptionist resembled Nargis or Waheeda Rehman, we were let in.
The doctor, who had a pleasant disposition, shook my hands at my daughter’s introduction. My granddaughter was smiling broadly, as she had not yet seen the syringe.Before he could draw the medicine from the vial, I spoke to him in whispers. He nodded gravely. Shreya was astonished to see him approaching me, a wrong target, instead of her.
I rolled up my sleeves, closed my eyes tightly and moaned audibly. “Don’t be daft. It is only a small prick. Come on, even children are not afraid, is it not Shreya?” he said. She nodded and tried to console me, as I started sobbing, my amateur theatrical stints coming to aid.
Before she could know what was happening, he gave her the shot, while she was comforting me. My daughter went out with Shreya to pay at the reception. “Good, psychology, sir,” he said, looking pleased. “O, it is nothing, doc. I remembered an old joke. A patronising mother went to meet the teacher of her mischievous son. ‘If he is bad, don’t hit him. He is very sensitive,’ said the mother. ‘Just hit the boy sitting next to him. My son will behave.’”
Email: writerjsr@gmail.com