TAKING THE HIT
“I was told that a taxi sped towards me, snagged my lemon yellow dupatta on its meter box, and dragged me along a few meters. I was knocked out cold, while the vehicle made a speedy getaway” To complain about the traffic in Mumbai has become a matter of course for those of us who live in this vast teeming metropolis. We quake in terror at the sight of speed junkies zooming about in shiny, fluorescent hued Pulsars and Avengers. We gawp with a mixture irritation and awe, as brand after exotic brand of spanking new automobiles descend on the city’s traffic clogged roads daily, making the Premier Padminis look like prehisotic dinosaurs. We fulminate over the persistent tardiness of BEST buses that lumber majestically amidst these colourful breeds, condfident in their rightful place on Mumbai’s roads. And we deplore the rising numbers of black and yellow taxis and rickshaws, zipping in and out of the flow of traffic, like drones that are tolerated rather than appreciated. Many are barely roadworthy, held together by little more than rusty nuts and bolts and beast up engines, but what these tin boxes lack in speed, they seem to make up in rash driving. These were the idle thoughts running through my mind on August 19, 2003, as I stood at the Poonam Chambers bus stop in Worli , waiting for the 83 Lid that would take me to Kirti College in Dader. Frustration warred with anxiety at the prospect of missing a class (I was in my FY B. Com) as I craned my neck to spot the Red Top. My shoulders drooped with the burden of my tote that was chockfull of Commerce texts and notes. It was only 7 a. m., and the vehicles were taking advantage of the slack hour by picking up their pace. What happened next can only be recounted from the point of view of eyewitnesses nearby, because as far as I am concerned, life came to a halt for the next 5 weeks. I was told that a taxi sped towards me, snagged my lemon yellow dupatta on its meter box, and dragged me a few meters. Before anyone could register that fact, I was lying flat on the road, knocked out could, while the vehicle made a speedy getaway. Not a spot of blood marred my salwar kameez, and yet it was as if all the life fluids in my body had been drained by some Alchemy. I lay on m back with my right knee bent at an awkward figure of 4. I was foutunate, Dad told me late, that one of his coleafues happened to be near the bus stop at the time, who immediately informed him about the incident. Yes, despite everything I was to endure afterwards, I was lucky I didn’t suffer the kind of misfortune that befalls countless other accident victims viz. an anonymous body lying on the road, while frantic relatives searched high and low. Over the next 3 years, I was to cling to this thought every time I found my patience being tested, my willpower running threadbare.
IN ON MAN’S LAND I was taken to the nearest hospital, Poddar, for First Aid , before being transferred to the KEM in Parel, where I lay in coma while doctors, friends and family debated my fate. A CT Scan revealed bleeding within the brain and an X ray uncoverd multiple fractures in the lower and upper limbs. But the first priority was to stabilize my condition, control the fallout of my head injuries. The silver lining was that the internal bleeding wasn’t major. Medications were administered to reduce swelling in the brain, and then I was put on life support. So man tubes went down my throat, said Dad, that doctors had to remove 4 of my front teeth (replaced later) to facilitate their insertion. And then al they could do was sit and wait, and keep a vigil for any signs of recovery. Mum confided that the doctors had warned them there was simply no way of telling when I’d gain consciousness if at all, that is. There have been instances where coma victims have surfaced after a month, a year and sometimes never. My people had a lot of time to brood over the injustice of my situation. In most countries, perpetrators of hit and run cases, such as the one that knocked me down, would have been tracked down and punished with a jail sentence, and the victim compensated for whatever injuries he or she suffered. So even if you never came out whole after an accident, at least you had the consolation of receiving some form of redressal. Over here, not only does a victim have to bear the physical debilities and the financial costs of the mishap but also the indignities of a lopsided justice system The taxi driver did report the incident to the Worli police, and admitted that he didn’t stop immediately because he feared bystanders would have ganged together and beaten him up before he go his version across. What happened afterwards? Nothing much. A statement was recorded, a measly bail amount of Rs. 950 slapped, which was imnmediately paid up, and he was let off scout free. Three years down the line, we’re still waiting for a court hearing to come up. In any case, after so much time has elapsed, who can give an accurate account of the event? Meanwhile the man’s still plying his vehicle (he has a license), perhaps even now endangering other lives on the road. There’s not a hope in hell that he will get his due, or settle the Rs. 11 akh compensation Court (MATC) has ordered him to pay me. Is it any wonder that my people (and I) feel so bitter? “not only does a victim have to bear the physical debilities and the financial costs of the mishap but also the indignities of a lopsided justice system”
MIRACULOUS RECOVERY Dr. J. V. Hardikar (KEM Head of Department, Surgery) and Dr. Jignesh Gandhi (Consultant Surgeon), who were supervising my treatment advised my parents to keep communicating with me even if I remain unresponsive: “It’s wrong to assume that the patient cannot understand just because she’s not responding. Sometimes a familiar sound, voice or word may be all that is needed to jog the victim out of her stupor.” Their words proved prophetic. Mum told me friends and relatives took turns to sit at my bedside and talk about all the memorable times they shared with me. And so it was that on the evening of September 26, five weeks after the accident, I surfaced to fin Mum by my side, and my best friend Tejal Sansare ad Dad hovering outside the ward waiting for their turn. I faced a barrage of questions the minute the tubes were taken out of my mouth: is your name? Where do you stay? Which college do you go to? What is your mobile number? My brain was being rested for the injury’s impact. As it turned out, there was little damage. My recall was perfect. I answered all the queries, patiently at first, and then irritably. I wasn’t used to being immobilised and was just beginning to get a sense that life would never be the way it was again. How entertaining it is to see a come victim come to life in a movie, and how difficult it is to live it out in actuality! But if it is bewildering to learn that 5 weeks had been erased from your like life like it happens in Sci Fi, it’s even more difficult to come to terms with the fact that your body isn’t any more like you remember it to be. The brain injury had been give top priority all along at the cost of the rest of my injuries. Now that the doctors were assured everything was working fine in m upper storey, they set to work on the fractures that threatened to disable me for life. While I’d been lying inert, abnormal spurs were growing in my right hip where the bone abutted the blood vessel that provides nourishment to the leg. Under normal conditions my brain would have sent an instant message to the errant limb to STOP THAT, RIGHT NOW! Unfortunately with that organ having gone AWOL, my body’s workings were up for the toss. The overlapping bone growth had shortened my right leg by 4 inches . Meanwhile the leg was still in the awkward figure 4 pose it had taken up when I’d fallen. So the tasks before the doctors were multiple: The leg had to be straightened, the bone spur’s growth had to be halted, and sensation had to be brought back to the brain was severely damaged. I was sent back home on a stretcher to recoup before any of the surgeries could be taken up.
COMING TO TERMS If you ever want to know how to make your life thoroughly miserable, try tying up your kind to the bed for just half an hour. It’s amazing how quickly one can tire of unlimited TV (Dad had shifted the thing into my room to keep me entertained); how difficult it is to focus on music, books or sketching, when each pastime only serves to remind one of all the things one can’t do any more, like Kathak dancing (I’d just given a recital), beach walks with pals. I drove poor Mum, who shouldered much of the burden of caring for me, crazy with my wildly swinging moods. On the one hand I was berating her for “keeping me alive when I can’t even make it to the loo on my own,” and on the other, gazing vacantly into the distance as I contemplated a bleak future of life within the 4 walls for the next 4 score years. Wisely Mum ignored my ravings as well as my sulks, and hired a nurse to help with the day care. As much as she loved me, she needed a respite, too. The next 6 months proved to be the longest in my life as I awaited the green signal from doctors for the removal of the bone spurs that were paralyzing my lower limbs. On March 24, 2004, under partial anesthesia (to numb me belly down), a surgery was performed to get rid of the “heterotrophic ossification”. A physiotherapist was called in thrice a week to put me through 2 hours grueling “limb retraining” sessions to strengthen the right leg muscles and joints, and encourage it free movement. There months later, a second operation was done to correct the foot drop with the insertion of rods and rings, a procedure called the llizarao method, after the Russsian inventor. But my leg remained 4 inches shorter. I started moving around with the help of a walker which I soon got rid off in favour of specially designed sandals. Learning to walk in these unwieldy contraptions is an art in itself. It’s not like you’re on 4 inches clogs. My right foot has no idea of where the floor begins or ends, what terrain it is on, how to maneuver the corners, because my brain’s messages aren’t reaching it. But frustrating as these matters are, it’s the occasional lapses of memory that madden me. We human beings are creatures of habit. There I’d be, stretched out on the sofa watching TV. I get up for a glass of water, and collapse on the floor in a heap, because I’d have forgotten my shorter tight leg needs to be propped up on the sandal before I take a single step. And when I do need to forget the damn thing like when I’m swotting hard for my finals all my attention would be trained on it. I had to cover the leg under a blanket to put it out of mind. Dr. Pradeep B Bhosale (Orthopaedic Surgeon) says my sciatic nerve needs to heal completely before I can undergo the third procedure that will correct the 4 inches lack and allow me to get around on my own without help. I can’t wait for the day when the leg will be released from its bondage. I’ll have to learn mot cope with the world outside all over again. One thing I’m certain I’ll be watching the traffic warily whilst crossing the road, hugging the pavement when I walk on the streets. It takes just own life altering moment to rewire the brain permanently. Which is why even when things get back to normal, I know, “normal” will never be same as what a typical twenty years old would envisage. Because beneath these pretty clothes that I wear, I have constant reminders of what’s more important in life. “It’s amazing how quickly one can tire of unlimited TV; how difficult it is to focus when each pastime only serves to remind one of all the things one can’t do any more”
