Barkya's confusion

[Guest guest]

I was posted as a senior registrar at the Wardha Civil Hospital. (Does this

still continue?) The fun part there is that you are pretty much your own

king. The Medicine and Surgery residents had daily postings, so they were

more like transients. The Gynaec resident usually lasted for a month or two.

This made him or her the boss there.

A girl called Poonam Verma from the 1975 batch was my house officer. We

secretly called her ‘Bhaisaab’ because of the pitch of her voice. She was a

very good-natured girl with an extreme fear of exams. She was going steady

with her classmate called Mishra (Sudhir, I think). This Mishra was as

effeminate as Poonam was masculine. (Duggal, your comments please.)

Everyday, after the OPD, both of us would go for lunch to the canteen at the

Bus stand. Imagine, canteens were the best that we could get at Wardha. A

rice plate there was for Rs. 10/- or thereabouts and fairly good. (I think

rice plate is a word found only in India. If you ask for a rice plate in say

England, I am sure they will raise their eyebrows and show you the door

through their stiff upper lips.)

We had a favourite table where Bhaisaab and I sat nearly everyday. We also

had a favourite waiter. He was about 14 years old. Though his name was

Suresh, everybody called him Barkya, which in Marathi means Junior. I always

used to tell him, “Barkya, Jara Tarri jasta taak.” (Put more tarri.) In

those non-health conscious days, the oily, spicy float above the bhaji was

considered the epitome of gastronomic Nirvana. He used to get us special tit

bits from the kitchen quietly. And he was always happy with the meagre tip

that we could afford in those impoverished times.

House Officers have a shorter posting. So one day Poonam Verma went back to

Sevagram. She was replaced by my classmate Lalit Kose. Kose was a local guy

from Wardha, so you can easily guess how long he stayed with me. I continued

patronizing the Bus stand canteen, albeit alone. I was quite unaware of the

pitying glances that Barkya started giving me.

After a couple of days, Barkya mustered courage and approached me. “Saheb,

ek saangu ka?” (Sir, May I tell you something?) I was mystified. What had

Barya worth telling me?

He lowered his voice in a conspiratory whisper and said (in Marathi), “Sir,

I shouldn’t be telling you this, because it will break your heart. I have

seen your state for the past few days, but I feel that you should know this.

Yesterday, your girl had come here with another boy! I didn’t like that

stupid fellow at all.”

I was stumped for a few moments, until my tubelight started up. The simple

minded Barkya had assumed that Poonam and I were steady dates. Instead of

howling with laughter, as I wanted to, I assumed a serious face and called

him near. Then in an equally ‘Khatarnak’ whisper I told him, “Barkya, I’m

telling you this in confidence, so don’t tell anybody. I found out that the

girl was actually a boy, so I told her to go away. She has found a boy who

is actually a girl!”

Barkya was so surprised that a glass of water fell out of his hands. To this

day, I am sure, Barya must be relating the amazing things that can occur in

the real world to his grand children.

Kishore Shah 1974