Hubris and surgery

Laying yourself on a table. In the barest of garbs. Under the harshest lights, that which reveals every wrinkle, freckle and mole. With half a dozen cloaked and masked strangers milling about, partially disrobing you while sticking and prodding. A hand which politely smothers you with oxygen, no less.

It is hard to fathom the extent of vulnerability that the surgical patient is exposed to. The trust  a surgical consent implies. The desperation that every patient and her dearest ones have to encounter, before they finally relent to fate and agree to lie upon The Table.

Modern man takes many a thing for granted. He flies across continents. Doesn’t spare a moment ruminating his safety prior to stepping onto an aircraft, which is marvel of science agreed, but is not beyond malfunction.

He agrees to let machines take over his major organ systems, and willingly allows dangerous chemicals to be injected into his bloodstream. The science, the sacrifices, the disasters that have made these things routine are rarely thought of. It is assumed that the experiments have been concluded, that the proverbial sacrificial lamb has been long offered at the alters of science and research. And therefore, he shall be fine.

The wise often claim that doubt grows with knowledge. And that is why surgery and hubris are such strange bedfellows.

One must read, process, practice and retain tremendous amounts of facts and information to become a cutter of humans. With all this knowledge, should the human scalpel wielder not be quaking in his clogs?

Some who are in the business of treating human diseases (but not “cutting”), believe The Cutters are not as learned as they are. The Cutters apparently have nothing more to do than “Monkey see, monkey do”! 

Curiously, the opposite is the norm. He may deflect questions about possibilities of complications, guffaw at queries relating to failure, patriarchally skim over technical details of the surgery and generally air a feeling of surety.

Is it an act? The haughtiness, the overbearing self- assurance.  Is it a charade for the scared, finicky and can- seek- another- opinion- anytime patients? Is it an obligatory trait of the successful pliers of this trade?

Whatever the raison d’être for the co- existence of hubris and surgery, it isn’t a pleasant circumstance. It is garish, and unbecoming of a woman or man of science. For science teaches us to believe facts but to never accept the certainty of them.

Humility is at times mistaken for lack of skill or self- assurance. It is so rare to behold in these pompous times, one forgets how elegant, gracious and pleasing it can be.

Till next time,




The Obsessed.

“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”
Franz Kafka

The problem with mercilessly following our intense obsessions is the relationships that we leave on the wayside. The fun- times that we discard at life’s sidewalk. The holidays we sacrifice at the alter of it’s pursuit.

Is is fair that people around you may have to bear some of the weight of the millstone that you perennially carry around your neck. People who dare to love or care for you may inordinately be forced to share some your vexation.

Will my progeny remember me as the selfish human who hounded my own obsessions, rather than cherish their fleeting childhood? Are missed park appointments and hasty bedtime routines a true benchmark for the parenting prize?

Is spending time massaging others’ egos a prerequisite for the “good human” epitaph.

Are romantic pursuits as wasteful and corrosive as they seem?

If one chooses to integrate into conventional society, one is signing an unconditional waiver of one’s true nature. We lie, make polite conversation, bend to others’ will, alter our basic personalities, practice meaningless small talk and generally waste the precious and limited time that could otherwise be utilised to nurture our obsessions.

Whatever people might say, and despite the mockery that the Obsessed are subjected to; we must thank them for all the things that they have brought forth, out of their convoluted minds. Their fruitions have given us every great book, piece of art, scientific innovation and technological advancement.

Let us let them be, please. For they allow us our fun, hassle- free and easy lives.

Till next time,


Back to base

Surprises, change and death are probably the only constants in life.

I was pleasantly surprised when folks I have never met, asked about my wellbeing and said they missed the written word of this wandering mind. I’m thankful, and yes; a little jiggered.

Anyhoo, thank you once again to the faceless email-ers. I would like to report that I have moved again. This time- back to base. To the place I have always called home. Surgery has brought me  back home. Or rather the desire to learn something new has got me here.

Mr H continues to enjoy the expat life, albeit in a different country this time. Sleeps, works, eats and trains whenever he pleases. A beautiful existence if you ask me.

Lil Z (now 5!) has squabby Dum Dum (2 already :-)) for company. They drive me nuts, try to commit sibling homicide, go to school, keep me up and miss their Papa. They have grandparents around, who they mercilessly bully. For now, this is how things are going to be. Until my training here is done, at least.

Yours truly still loves all the same things. Sweating, cutting, guffawing, reading and whining about sleep deprivation.

So, as you folks can see- nothing much has changed around here!


Till next time,



On friendships. And yes, HELLO AGAIN!

Well, well, well. Look who’s here. It’s been a hot minute since I have last been here. I even let my domain expire, for a while. With the “big move” and children and a new job; not to mention being a single parent (albeit temporary)- somethings had to be allowed to slide. 

I missed this though. This weird diary. My own little pensieve. A doodlepad. For someone who has a remarkably feeble real- life friend count; it’s curious (even to myself) that it can be reposeful to write on a platform that is often read by utter strangers. We live in that sort of world, don’t we.

Friends. Almost every person I know has an average 500 “friends” on Facebook. Every acquaintance of mine, seems to have at least two dozen people who they are in constant touch with and would be referred as friends.

How many friends do we truly have? How many does one need?

I think I may have one. ONE. The key word being maybe.

On Friendship
 Kahlil Gibran

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”
And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.
If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.
For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Till next time,