The hour has been decent in a while has it not ? ‘West Wing’ has played itself out and while there is a desire to view some more I imagine we shall have to wait till the next season starts. In the meantime, fresh and other serials, recommended strongly by some friends, are in the process of being procured and I guess till they arrive, my timings which have been of some concern to FmXt, shall remain within limits.

Happy smiles of relief by a few can almost be heard here !

Your reactions to my rather grim tale of August 2, 1982 has been received with some grimness as well and that is disturbing. My desire is not to do that. It is but to share a moment of my life that had its importance yesterday, 27 years ago ! That is all ..

I hesitate to go further. But since there wasn’t a dedicated disapproval on what transpired beyond 2882, I shall try and reminisce.

It has been commonly believed with some certainty, that it is the days after the surgery, the days after you leave the Hospital, that are the most difficult to cope with. Severe treatments to the system and the body are generally executed under anesthesia. In a state of unconsciousness we are spared the rigors of invasive medical treatment. But when the conscious is revived, the effect of drugs weaned away that is when your body takes over. It discovers to its great horror that what nature had blessed you with has been tampered. Assets that were HIS natural gifts have been invaded by strange outsiders that do not necessarily belong to the body. That do not necessarily function the way they used to before. That rouse and rebel against the foreigner in their midst. Some generously accept the visitor, most do not. It is a battle that ensues soon after. And it is this battle that we have to cope with, not just for days or months or years, but for the rest of our remaining lives.

When I was revived that 2^nd August, a sigh of great relief was taken no doubt, but furrowed brows of anxiety on those that were managing my system appeared soon after. The peritonitis that had afflicted my internals was attacking all the organs and a systematic medical procedure was diligently set into place to monitor and control every aspect of what was to follow. The cortisone tore the stomach immediately and I developed a bleed internally. Dr Cotton, I think his name was, a brilliant endoscopy specialist from London was requested to travel out. He thankfully accepted after huge persuasion. Antibiotics that had still not been patented were being sought out and administered. There were machines all over my body that made rhythmic peculiar sounds within the constricted space of the glass cubicle ICU room. The gracious and most endearing Sister Amaria, a true General, commanding the operations day in and day out, diligently with her team, constantly by my side, assuring and keeping my spirits up. And the incredible team of doctors led by Dr Udwadia – Dr Shah, Dr Bhansali, Dr Dastoor and so many other interns, all gave invaluable time and attention to make sure that I would continue to repair.

The night of August 2^nd when I gained consciousness was the most trying for Dr Udwadia. An individual of great integrity and knowledge, of immense discipline and form, one who had dedicated his entire life in the practice of medicine and patient care, a celebrated professional revered and honored in the medical fraternity, had never stayed beyond the working hours of the Hospital. He had a routine and followed it without any space for compromise. When he was working on me that night, it was the longest he had ever stayed back for a patient I am told. And when it was all over and I had stabilized, he drove home, woke up his aging Mother well past midnight and asked her to pray for a young man who was seriously ill. His Mother never knew who it was she was praying for, but she did it. Did it for me. Thereafter Dr Udwadia, I am told went to his room, picked up his violin, an instrument he was very fond of and one that he played with some dexterity and played on till almost 3 am !!

Dr Udwadia was a man of amazing principle and quality. Due to an earlier bad experience with patients from the film fraternity, he had been extremely hesitant in the beginning to admit me at Breach Candy. But he relented and as he came to know us better he showed the qualities of his character that he was renowned for. A month into the treatment he called my brother, who was managing my affairs and refused to take any fees. When my brother insisted he abruptly brought the discussion to an end by saying –

‘I do not charge patients who’s lives I have saved from sure death. And don’t try to send me any gifts later on, to compensate for this. God willing if all goes well I would like Amitabh and his family to come over for a meal at my house.’

End of conversation, end of topic !

During my extended stay at the ICU, Dr Udwadia brought his own personal domestic in the same ICU for treatment and took care of all his costs.

In an emergency he still remains the first one that I turn to. And he has still never charged me for any of my visits to his clinic.

Back in the ICU the struggle to cope with my body became almost a minute by minute affair. Every now and then some emergency would occur and the team would rush in. They had done a trachea incision at the base of my neck through which a pipe is inserted which is then connected to a machine that breathes for you. Once the trachea is cut you lose the ability to speak. So all communication is done through gestures of the hand. I was negated any intake, including water. This was the most painful. The thirst used to kill me and without it I was in such miserable state that I would get nightmares of me lolling on blocks of ice laid all over my lawn in Prateeksha. I asked for pen and paper to write out what I wanted and somewhere in my records are those files containing all those bits of paper I wrote on. The contents of most of them are pleading requests for water. One of them is a request written in Bengali to Jaya, with the hope that the doctors would not understand it and the wife would comply, out of extreme compassion for her husband. But it didn’t work !

When I became presentable in the ICU, the children were brought in to see me on my request. They were small and young and afraid, but brave. Shweta the elder has always been paranoid of doctors nurses and hospitals. Even now it is a major exercise for her to take an injection. She had seemed as though she would break into tears the moment she saw me. And Abhishek though shaken by the sight was still the perky mischievous one. He settled down, soon after I told him, after he inquired on the numerous drips that were dangling above me, that they were all kites that I played with during the day. He believed me. My stomach had been punctured at various places to drain out all the impurities, and thin corrugated rubber strips used to stick out from the belly. This I told Abhishek were several flags that were put there to play with. I had 18 of them and I had joked of my stomach being a mini golf course. (The ‘holes’ in the ‘course’ have of course increased due to the several other episodes that followed, but that’s another day, another post perhaps). He believed me. But, as narrated in an earlier blog, he was most upset when his friend in school told him – ‘your Father’s going to die, no ?’.

The ICU is a remarkable place. I would never wish for anyone to ever be there. But I cannot restrict myself from describing my days spent there.

Sister Amaria, for some reason, shifted my room after the 2^nd of August. She brought me into cubilcle 1, and as she told me later, the one that had been lucky for all her patients. It was at the end of the facility and so had the benefit of two glass windows – one behind the head and the other to the right. As I progressed I asked to change the position of the bed. I wanted to be able to see both windows. The one behind the head now came to my right and that is the one that I most looked out of. It faced the sea. During the monsoons the grey skies and the lashing rain on the black rocks by the embankment had inspired me one day to write a few words in poetry. I titled it ‘Outside, Inside’. I shall try and be brave and unselfconscious one day, to put it up on the blog. But my Father read it and returned the next day to the Hospital with his Hindi translation of the poem. It was glorious. He had just taken the thought from my poem and made it into a classic. Something only he could have done justice to. I remember Javed Saheb visiting me in Hospital and my father asking me to recite it to him.

There were many close and generous visits by near and dear ones during my stay in the ICU and I shall ever remain indebted to them for all the wishes and prayers and the talismans they brought for me to keep under my pillow. The blessings and waters from Virgin Mary at a location of great belief in Italy, the Aab e Zam Zam from the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, temples and mosques, churches and gurudwaras, prayers and offerings, bracelets and amulets, stones and religious threads, every conceivable element that would bring me respite and cure. How can it be possible to thank or even acknowledge all those that thought of me in prayer ? It is an impossible task. Till date I come across people, that when they meet me, talk to me of the penance they undertook for my well being. This is a debt I shall never be able to repay. But it is one that I shall carry to my grave with great pride and joy.

Nights in intensive care were the most difficult to pass. I never slept because of the pain and the insomnia and when it became intolerable I decided to use that time for myself as a diversion.

When I was first put on my feet as I repaired, I dropped to the floor. My legs were like rubber. I had forgotten how to walk. Some silly bravado within me prevailed and I requested the Hospital to let me remain in the ICU. I had come in on a stretcher I pleaded and I wanted to walk out !! They reluctantly agreed and I remained in cubicle 1, struggling each night to teach myself how to walk again. It would take me an hour to move my foot an inch ! But I would persist. And the entire night would go in pulling myself out of the bed, holding on to objects, to strive to reach the edge of the room, a few feet away and to bring myself back in bed.

The ICU is a place where patients in extreme distress are brought. Mostly they are either comatose or in relatively less consciousness. Their state does not give them an opportunity to ascertain what else is happening in and around them. The moment they do they get shifted to a private ward. My case was different. I was in conscious state but due to my adamant desire was still in the premise. I therefore became conscious of not just myself, but of others too. This was a bad decision. I was now exposed to the conditions of others who suffered there. The groans and painful screams of those in severe conditions were unbearable. I would see extreme cases suddenly rolled in to the ICU and the nurses and doctors battling with them to save them. How they fought to bring relief, how much energy and concern they would put in for each patient, was remarkable. The people that came in were unknown to them, but they fought for them and their survival like they were their own blood. Such devotion and dedication. Truly a most noble profession. May they and their tribe multiply. They are God’s own men and women !

MF Hussain, that great artist, painted a Hanuman for me and presented it when I was allowed visitors. It was Hanuman in his favorite posture, of carrying the entire mountain which contained the herb that would heal the wounded Laxman, brother of Ram in their battle with Ravana.

Bala Saheb Thakeray, a cartoonist of great skill, apart from his skills as a politician made a special cartoon which depicted Yamraj, the apostle of Death, being beaten back by Amitabh.

This young gentleman from Baroda took a pledge that if I healed he would run backwards to Bombay and back to Baroda, a distance of some 800 kilometers after meeting me. I did meet him and flagged him off on his run back.

One morning in Prateeksha as I recuperated, the office brought in a huge basket full of delicious samosas. They belonged to a samosa stall owner in one of the theatres where my films used to run. He had an entire truck load of these baskets waiting outside on the road and he just wanted me to touch one of them so he could go out and feed the poor. It was a vow that he had made during my illness. When asked why, he told us that every time my film would release in the theatre, he would increase the rate of his samosas for greater profit. Today he wanted to pay back in some way to the poor, for the sake of the man, who was responsible for his profitability and to thank him for making all this possible.

Every day of the entire two months that I was in Hospital, the lone figure of a man would be noticed by all, standing at the gates of Breach Candy with a fresh rose in his hand. He never moved from there until he was able to give that rose to someone to deliver it to me. He never asked to see me, never said a word, just the rose and the desire that it be delivered to me. When I reached home, one day that beautiful rose was brought to me again, except this time the man wanted to meet me. I went out and spoke to him. He was a man of humble means from Kashmir. He came to Bombay to earn a living. He became a black marketer, the guy that sold tickets at movie theatres in black, at a premium, illegally. He had come to say goodbye to Bombay and to black marketing and to me, for, he said, with the amount of money he made by selling tickets at a premium from all my films, he was able to get his sisters married off and for him to start a business.

There are endless stories of sacrifice and vigil, of penance and resolve, of wanting for me to survive and be healthy. I am unable to reconcile why they all did what they did. Unable to reconcile the goodness of the creator in making me the recipient of all this love.

For now, I shall remain with this. There is more, much more…

The year after in 1983, same director, ManMohan Desai, another film shoot at Mysore for ‘Mard’, close by to Bangalore and I collapse again ..

And then soon after that, within a year, an explosion …

But of that some other DAY ….

Amitabh Bachchan