Dr. Nripendra

Dr. Nripendra

[Born: 1.9.1904 — 2004 was his centenary year]

An apple a day
Keeps the doctor away

Old Proverb

An old adage, but I speak of this doctor who provided the “apple” also! He is Dr. Nripendra — to us, simply Doctorbabu or Nripen-da. There was no confusion — he was the one and only doctorbabu. A thought may arise: “You had no choice” — but we did not need a choice!

In the early 40’s the Dispensary was a very homely and popular place — not because of the “need” of the patients or the aged —but from the children’s point of view. Nripen-da loved children.

The building was unimposing, single storeyed, but clean and inviting. There were just 2 ½ rooms. A small open front-yard (the same as now) let you into a biggish room on the left, with white tiled walls up to 5 feet or so and a smooth black floor. I think a neatly laid brick floor pre-dated this. But it was not so cluttered up as it is to-day. One corner had a mobile tray of medicinal paraphernalia, a high bench in the far corner for patients, and in the centre, a little to the rear, a largish table behind which sat the smiling doctor, Dr. Nripendra. The next room, behind this one, was the domain of the “compounder”. (This word “compounder” was very much in vogue then. The word means an individual, in a dispensary or hospital, who mixes or combines different elements or liquid chemicals to make up the doctor’s prescription.) That was the time when the doctor’s prescriptions had to be concocted on the spot. The compounder then poured the medicine into a bottle and stuck on the outside a strip of paper with notches cut at equal intervals. Each notch indicated the “dose” the patient had to gulp down once, twice, or thrice a day. Nowadays the practice is to just hand out ready-made pills. What the “handing out” person is called, I wouldn’t know. The job is made easy and uninteresting. For every disease there is a pill packed in tinfoil (could we call the man a “piller” and the times a “pillage”? The beneficiary is of course a pill-popper). The pill, I admit, is very convenient for both, the doctor and the patient.

The compounder of those days was a young man named Salil (late). Salil later shifted to watch repairing. Another young man named Manilal also helped the doctor. (Manilal was the younger brother of Moolshankar. Moolshankar was a beautiful person. He attended on Sri Aurobindo. He was stabbed and died on the night of the 14th of August 1947, the eve of India’s Independence, during a dastardly attack on the Ashram.) Manilal left the Ashram soon after. Next, a young man named Akhil was the compounder. He too left after shifting to our Electric Department. Then came Vasant-bhai, sometime in April, 1957. The late Madhav Pandit introduced him. He came IN and never got OUT. He has become now a part of the Dispensary. I suspect he is stuck at the centre of a whole network — like a spider caught in its own web! These days anyone can get himself caught in any one of the millions of “Websites” festooning the globe.

The ½ room mentioned earlier was a country-tile-roofed verandah set to the East of the two above-mentioned rooms — where now the pills are stocked and dispensed. This is where Manilal worked. Here it was that Manilal distributed soup and sometimes a piece or two of papaya. We ran hither for these in the recess period (papaya was very rare, so a much sought after delicacy).

The Doctorbabu & the Apple

This apple was not just a fruit one munched and forgot the doctor. It is the fruit of all his labour and the man himself. There have been 2-3 doctors before him, a few during his time and quite a few after him. But he is the “Flag bearer”. He, Nripen-da is the one etched into our minds (of the earlytimers, 1940’s to 1970’s).

The Doctor

Nripen-da sat behind that big table in the first room — a big man, with a big smile and a bigger heart. He stood tall and straight. A good face with a straight nose, spectacled kind eyes ready to smile along with the lips. (It was pointed out to me that the upper lip hardly had the vertical depression at the middle, like what we normally have. Why do some have it? Why some not?) He carried a headful of wavy dark hair the colour and quantity of which did not change much through the years. He was a solid, handsome man. He was very approachable! The reassuring smile made it easy for children and the old alike. His voice was strong and it carried far. In fact it could be intimidating but seldom was it so. His dress was ever the same — dhoti “Bengali way” and kurta — all white, Ashram-given.

Nripen-da came to the Ashram in 1941. He was Chitra-di’s (Chitra Sen — captain in the Department of Physical Education and also of the Trésor Nursing Home) maternal uncle (i.e. mama). Chitra-di’s father, Nolini Sen, happened to lend Nripen-da a typed copy of Sri Aurobindo’s The Synthesis of Yoga. (Printed books were then hard to come by. The devotees had enough urge to get whole books typed to take home and read — a coveted possession.) Nripen-da read and was impelled to come to Them (The Mother and Sri Aurobindo). He was given charge of the Dispensary. The Ashram was small, both in extent and numbers. Most of it was limited by the Canal, the sea, Rangapillai St. and North Boulevard (Sardar Vallabhbhai Salai). So Nripen-da could and would walk to the patient when called or needed. Later he took to a cycle (pedalling — no motor). Much later, a car was given him. That (car) was the end of one era and the beginning of another. Nripen-da had also a younger community, so a healthier community to care for. I suspect too that we were more hardy and less concerned about ourselves.

The Apple (“CART”)

I add the “cart”, for Nripen-da did so much (so many projects) that it could not be just one apple. Any way one looked (especially if unwell) — the hand of Nripen-da was evident (obviously in the realm of health care). His the idea, and his the hand that gave the push and kept pushing — often against heavy weights.

Nripen-da’s first and foremost thoughts were probably for the children. One can understand the Dispensary’s popularity with the children for there was first the soup, then came, occasionally, a piece of papaya. Often one could get “Lithini” (I think that is the right word). This came in two small paper packets, one of ordinary paper, the other of cellophane paper, each containing a few grammes of powders. You mixed them in a glass of water and it started to fizz! One could add a little glucose and it was a great drink — our home-made soda. This was to be had on demand — not too often, though. One or two remedies which we don’t see now were common in those days. We derived some pleasure from them. They were “Throat paint” and “Eye-wash”. The first was sweet (glycerol +…?) which was applied to the back of our throats with a long swab. The second was literally an eye-wash. A saline solution (distilled water) which he or a “sister” poured in a steady trickle onto your unblinking eyeball while you held a kidney tray against your cheek to catch the overflow. There was also pora, Neem-pata or bhaja — Neem leaves were deep-fried (I wouldn’t know in what oil) and it was not only the children who took them home — to mix with a handful of rice — considered very healthy. I think some refinement or improvement was achieved by adding a few pieces of brinjal. Many took the neem-bhaja to the Dining Room at lunch time. These three items are no more part of the Dispensary’s repertoire — a pity and a nostalgia.

Nripen-da it seems urged Jalad-da to start a poultry. The eggs were for the children. The first egg was sent by him, through the Mother, to Sri Aurobindo!? He was happy that the Department of Physical Education later took it upon itself to open a tiffin-room for children where eggs were served. (This tiffin-room was in a way the precursor of our present day Corner House.)

We, at least the young ones, had no serious physical problems. (Usually a common cold or a common fever. The word “virus” was not yet in common use.) So if Doctorbabu came home on a visit he would sit down with a loud “Ki holo?” (What’s happened?) Then the usual stethoscope, percussion, smile and “Gorom Roshom khao, theek hoye jabe” (drink hot mulligatawny — you will be all right). Sometimes it would be Khichuri instead of Roshom.

Nripen-da thought (rightly so — at that time) that the Dining Room (DR) was not adding sufficient greens (= spinach) to their cooking so he started a small kitchen and started cooking spinach. Children used to drop in (during the 9.30-9.45 recess in school) and have it along with soup. It was for long popularly known as “Vitamin”. Some older persons also took this as an extra item to the DR at lunch. This kitchen now has grown tenfold in size and variety, and caters to many, not only children. The children have shifted to Corner House.

One child contracted the much-feared smallpox. The child had to be quarantined and even other members of the family could not approach her. But Nripen-da would visit the child every day, get into her mosquito net, and play with her. He would later go home and discard all his clothes and have a thorough cleansing bath. He had no fear or hesitation.

I wonder if a gadget, then very much appreciated, is lying somewhere forgotten if not neglected or has it been got rid of? It was a bandage rolling, hand-driven machine, made of aluminium. All I can describe is that, the bandage’s end was engaged and given an initial winding or two, then the cloth was spread out and held with one hand, the other hand was used to turn a handle. The spreading out was achieved through two or three other rods. The machine was fixed onto a table end. It was a work fit for an old lady. It may interest us to learn that a notice would appear every so often “Please give your old sarees and dhotis for bandages. The Dispensary needs them badly.” Bandages were not bought, the Dispensary and many other departments hung on a shoestring budget.

If anything beyond Nripen-da’s capacity — technically or equipmentally — cropped up, there was the Govt. General Hospital to fall back upon. But that hospital’s general wards were more like cattle sheds — a tiled roof on pillars linked up by a three-foot wall, an opening or two for entrance. The beds were placed with no space wasted. Maybe an attendant could fit in a stool. A line of bedbugs could be seen making for the patient and attendant alike. (It reminded me of cars on a highway making for a filling station.)

I never entered the special wards or rooms until many years later. But I did attend on a patient in the above-mentioned general wards. But things have changed. And much later came JIPMER, then Apollo (at Chennai) and PIMS to fall back on!

Nripen-da moved on. He wanted to establish a well-equipped Nursing Home. For a beginning he ordered an X-ray machine from Germany. The customs held it up — he got round their regulations. When it arrived, it wouldn’t work. He got Arun and Mahi (Projector Room) to look at it. They managed to get it going. And all the time he had to struggle to get some funds. His till was always empty. He was full of ideas and his hands were full of work. So it was often start and stop, start and stop — but it went on. He started a “Lab” with an old German lady who had some lab experience. Her name was Krista. When a sample of blood had to be taken, she would say, with big eyes and mock ferocity: “Come, I will suck your blood.” And she really did! I gather the German way of collecting blood was to puncture the ear lobe and with a thin tube suck out the blood! The English puncture the inner side (i.e. palm side) of the forefinger. The French of course had to oppose the English — they puncture the nail-side of the forefinger. (These three got us two WWs and more with their bickerings.)

All these activities and our increasing numbers needed more place. That old single-storeyed building was not enough. By now Nripen-da had to rent one or two houses. He also had to remodel the old Dispensary. He got permission to build another floor. There was some opposition (neighbours saying that there was too much noise and even that the view was being obstructed, etc.). But I think finally he got round all obstacles. (Even now some improvements are carried out but with less opposition.) Once Madhav Pandit came to tell Nripen-da that a neighbour was complaining about the breaking of a boundary wall. Nripen-da requested Pandit-ji to take a seat and went out, came back after 20-30 minutes and assured Pandit-ji that he had stopped the work — to everyone’s satisfaction. Actually he had got the work completed (only the last bit was remaining).

We come now to Dr. Nripendra’s chef-d’œuvre or pièce de résistance. It must have been an ever-present dream or even a mirage for a long time. For, to fulfil this dream, he had to run himself giddy. We often heard him in his moments of leisure — start off with a Bujhle (=listen to me, understand and dream with me….), then his eyes would shine and as he built the Nursing Home in front of us, a satisfied smile would break on his lips. It must be remembered that that period was quite different from the present, as far as the financial condition was concerned. There was not much money. He had to ask for donations from anyone showing a little sympathy and who had a little money to spare. In fact all his projects were undertaken in this manner. The ground was bought, plans were made, one floor was done. The coffers were empty. So just wait out the drought! Dr. Karan Singh also took interest and gave a great helping hand. Nripen-da had the satisfaction of seeing it function, though not completed. The two marble statues of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo that we see near the entrance, were got done by one Shobha-di.

The Nursing Home was probably the last of his achievements. He fell ill and had to keep to his bed. He was looked after by his new assistant, Dr. Dutta, who was already very much the incumbent doctorbabu. Nripen-da’s condition got worse. He was shifted to the Nursing Home. Once I went to see him; he was not talking. He wouldn’t or couldn’t, I can’t say. I heard he had stopped eating too. I asked him why he was not eating. He just smiled. I then tried his recipe. I asked him: “Gorom-gorom Roshom khaben?” He did not speak, but nodded assent. I went home and got him some Roshom. That was but a short reprieve. He passed away on the 21st of July 1981 — not too old at 77. He never seemed to age at all in many years. His old faithful friends and assistants were on close attendance those last few days. They were Vasant-bhai, the present “compounder”, Nripen-da’s protecting hand (Abhaya mudra), and Manashi, his “giver of food” and cook, the giving hand (Varada mudra).

The last moments were interesting. Though he was lying inert for a long time, he suddenly made a great effort and swept his arms as if gathering something, at the same time he sat up, opened his eyes, looked and then just lay back with his hands on his heart, breathed his last of this earthly air and left for the greater Realms of Love and Labour.

For 40 years Nripen-da served the Mother by looking after Her children. He did so much with so little that one is left wondering as to how he did it. But on second and deeper thought, looking just a little behind the good doctor — or is it inside? — we no longer wonder, we are wonderstruck.

Tomar karmo tumi karo ma.

Yours is the work and you are the doer, O Mother.

That was probably an unspoken, unwritten but deeply felt motto by which Nripen-da (and many of his contemporaries) laboured on and on. It was a labour of love. It cast a spell on them — they ploughed and sowed. It casts a spell on us — we are reaping.