Families pass down wart cures like they pass down secret recipes. “Cut off an eel’s head and bury it. As it rots, so will the wart.” “Go to a wake and discreetly rub the wart on the corpse.” “Walk for three minutes in the shadow of someone whose face is covered with smallpox scars.”
That’s why I came to see DOCTOR X. (That’s not his name, but it means I’m not telling you.) His specialty is warts. His name was on his board, followed by the letters: MD(h) (USA), MRVR. Such a board you would expect to be nailed to a pukka building with tile roof, not a shack next to a tire-puncture stall, with a gutter carrying smelly water in front of it. A shirtless man in a dirty mundu stood grinning outside. I asked, Where is Dr. X. He said, I am he. Naturally, I asked about all those letters behind his name. He said the MD(h) stood for Medical Doctor Homeopathy. I said, Aah, so you attended Homeopathy College? (Between you and me, I was suspicious.) He said, Oh yes! Right here in my home I studied the British Pharmacopeia, 1930. I have it by-hearted. Ask me anything! I wanted to say, Surely you know there is a newer edition. Instead, I said, How is studying the Pharmacopeia connected to homeopathy? He said, If there’s dilution, why not? Dilution is critical! Aah, I said. What about the USA after the MD(h)? (He didn’t look like a man who had traveled far from above-mentioned smelly gutter.) Oh that, he said, means Unani, Siddha, and Ayurveda. All three are systems of medicine in which I have a great interest, he said. You could say I specialize.
The nerve of this fellow! Brother, I said— He interrupted me. Call me Doctor, please. Aah, Doctor, then, don’t you think people might confuse those letters with United States of America? Stop! he said, putting his hand out, like a policeman. Let me remind you that Unani, Siddha, and Ayurveda are ancient practices that existed before America. I dare Churchill or anyone to say otherwise. Aah, I said, let that be, but what about the MRVR? He said, It’s for the Latin, Medicus Regius Vel Regis, or Physician to Royalty. I said, Wait! Did you treat someone at Buckingham Palace? No, he said. I successfully prescribed a purgative to a severely constipated man who was the sixth cousin of the previous Travancore Maharajah—all other treatment had failed. Instead of dilution, this time I went for concentration. I used cascara, senna, mineral oil, milk of magnesia plus my secret ingredient. I said, Does that work? (I had a personal interest because which of us doesn’t struggle with constipation?) Aah! My friend, he said, laughing in a distasteful manner and dropping his voice. Does it work, you ask? Let me put it this way: If you happen to be reading a book when you take this medicine it will rip the pages right out of the binding! Anyway, my patient was very grateful. Therefore, I consulted the Malayalam–Latin dictionary to add MRVR to my name.
Aah, I said. Enough about that. I didn’t come to talk about your signboard. I’m a collector of wart cures, of which there are legion. Yes, yes, he said, most agreeably, and moreover, he added, the common ingredient to all the cures is belief. When a cure works it’s because the patient believes. When the cures are elaborate it’s easier to believe. That’s human nature. Fair enough, I said, because for once I agreed with him. So, I said. Tell me, what do you do for your wart patients? He held out his hand. I asked, What’s that? Put money there, please. If a patient cares enough to put money in my hand, that means they have faith. Then my cure is sure to work.
I took my bicycle off the stand, ready to leave. I don’t have warts, I said. I’m asking as a journalist. He said, You are sadly mistaken—I diagnosed warts the first moment I saw you. Where? Show me! Aah, but your warts are all on the inside, as you surely know. His hand was still held out.
Dear Reader, don’t judge me harshly. Tears of understanding sprang to my eyes. I put money in the doctor’s hand. Doctor, I said, I am desperate. And I believe.
CHAPTER 54
An Antenatal Angel
1951, Parambil
An uneasy truce abides during the rest of Elsie’s ripening. Big Ammachi sees her avoid her husband. Who can blame her? Ever since the kaniyan’s visit, Philipose’s behavior has grown more erratic.
In Elsie’s seventh month, Big Ammachi sends for Anna, a young woman she knows from church because of her beautiful singing voice. She’d heard that Anna’s husband had vanished, and that she and her daughter were struggling. Big Ammachi is sixty-three and feels every bit of it. With a new baby coming she could use some help, and if Anna is willing, the arrangement could be mutually beneficial. She misses Odat Kochamma terribly; the old lady’s unflappable presence would have been a blessing during Elsie’s delivery. She has no photograph of her beloved companion and so she keeps Odat Kochamma’s wooden false teeth in a jar in the kitchen. The old lady “borrowed” them from her daughter-in-law’s father and wore them when the mood struck her. Big Ammachi smiles whenever her gaze falls on the leering teeth. Every night in her prayers for the departed, she cries when she comes to Odat Kochamma.
Anna shows up after lunch, just as Big Ammachi sits on the rope cot with the newspaper and her plug of tobacco; other than the breezeway flies, no one is around to scold her about her habit. Anna is in her late twenties, with a wide forehead, wide hips, and a smile that looks wider than both those together. For a big woman, Anna’s cheeks look unnaturally gaunt since Big Ammachi last saw her in church. Hiding behind her is a frail little girl wearing oversized shorts tied with shoestring; her eyes are larger than her whole face.
“So, who’s your little tail there?”
“That’s my Hannah!” says her mother proudly, showing more teeth than a mouth should be able to hold. The dried stains in a concentric pattern on Anna’s chatta do not escape Big Ammachi’s notice. So it’s breast milk that keeps the little bug-eyed angel from starving.
“Aah, I’m thinking Hannah might want to eat something,” Big Ammachi says, dismissing Anna’s protests and stepping into the kitchen. While the two eat, Big Ammachi asks about the absent husband.
“Ammachi, bad luck followed my poor husband like cats behind the fishmonger. He fell asleep under a palm after drinking toddy and a coconut cracked his ribs. Such bad luck.” Big Ammachi ponders Anna’s charitable view of her husband. “Then he lost his job and couldn’t find work. He was frustrated. One morning he decided he was going to sneak onto a train going to Madras, Delhi, or Bombay, and find work. That was three months ago. There’s no paddy in the house,” says Anna still grinning, as if describing yet another comic turn in her marital adventure, even as her eyes get wet. “I want to find him, but how?” She dabs at her cheeks. “When Hannah grows up and asks me if I did everything to find her Appachen . . .”
Big Ammachi acts annoyed, but she squeezes Anna’s hand. “You can’t search the whole land!”