The Nuclear Murders

P. G. (Plum) Wodehouse, the eminent English historian and biographer recorded for posterity, among other things, the accidental wit and wisdom of Bertie Wooster. One immortal gem goes:  
One man's You-Know-What is another man's Whatchamacallit.

The nuclear disaster unfolding  dramatically in hapless Japan has shaken everyone but evoked very different responses from countries in the nuclear power club.

First off the block was Germany, which withdrew the "carry-on" permission it had given in the recent past to seven of its nuclear plants past their planned age. Work on new plants was stopped pending a rigorous review of safety issues.

France which has the largest installed nuclear power base in the world and is reputed to have the safest of designs has not shown any signs of slowing down, but also has nothing new coming up.

The United States does not have anything significant under construction or development. There is no possibility that they will be rushing into anything fresh under the circumstances.

Most OECD countries are expected to embark on major 'review and rectify' programmes for existing plants and slow down whatever new plans they have in the works; at least until significant progress is made in resolving previously known issues as also new ones now thrown up by Fukushima.

Outside the OECD we have China and India. Given its stated goal to get away from coal and oil, China has major nuclear facilities under planning and development. In absence of any pronouncements, not much is known about what China does and less about what China thinks.

India on the other hand has already come up trumps.

The Indian nuclear establishment has declared with one voice that 'our plants' are safe. Some have even used the word 'safer'.

The planning commission has declared that we need to increase the share of nuclear power in our energy plans.

The environment minister has done a typical flip-flop. One day he proclaimed that there is a need for a fresh look at all our plans. Specifically, he said, the Jaitapur facility, which will be the largest anywhere in the world, should be rescaled.

The very next day, he announced that there is no real need for any change. Our technology is superior. Our scientists will make sure that we are at no risk.

The Prime Minister has made some vague remarks about reviewing safety systems and gone on to sign a fresh deal with Ukraine to buy mega quantities of Uranium.

In Maharshtra, where there has been stiff resistance to the Jaitapur complex, we have started killing protesters.

Next Nuclear Business Opportunity

First The Nuclear Mess

Bypass: Postscript

When you write about something like bypass surgery most people expect a Readers’ Digest-ish paean to the human spirit.

Friend Vikram Rajaram was one of many readers surprised by the levity of tone and profusion of bawdy and naughty bits in my account. He also had a fair question.

“What gives one the strength?”

As with most questions there is a short answer and a long answer. The short answer involves a cow. But the long answer first.

You get your strength, my friend, from those around you. The family rally around. All families do. To what extent they comprehend what is happening, beyond a universal dread of major surgery, makes a difference. All families deal with adversity. Knowing how well equipped yours is, helps.

Being in a position to pick and choose the people, the place and the timing for the procedure, helps. Having the family participate in this process, helps.

The patient, eventually, has to do nothing. Everyone else deserves a great vote of thanks.

Kusum and Alok, first, for dealing skilfully, lovingly and patiently with a difficult person. An even more difficult patient.

Favourite cardiologist Dr. Sugandhi Gopal who determined that it was time to determine what was going on. Dr. Subhash Chandra who actually did the angiography. Friends in the medical profession who guided the decision process after the angiogram. Dr. M M Chengappa, Dr Anu Chengappa, Dr. Ramana Rao and Dr. Mysore Nagendran. Thank you, all.

Getting a surgical team who are as good as any in the world, and can talk to you all the way to and through the entire process, really helps. Hats off to Dr. Ganesh Iyer, and his colleagues, Dr. Gangadhar and Dr. Bhaskar, at the Manipal hospital. Many thanks for your skills, and more for your empathy.

Getting a service team at the hospital that constantly delivers beyond expectations and beyond the call of duty, is worth far more than one imagines. Most of them come from God’s own country, Kerala. And serve humanity, from Bangalore to Benghazi to Baltimore, like no other people do. One day some future Margaret Mead will research and explain this phenomenon. For now, unlimited and never-ending gratitude to the Florences and Angels, too numerous to list.

A salute to the physiotherapists who led the recovery effort. The comforting Prem, the persuasive Sakshi and the provocative Palak. They also laid down a lifelong exercise regime for me to follow. To be candid, I resent that last bit a bit.

Those who donated blood. Lawrence Tony, Vinoo Krishnan, Indu Das, and Abha Jhol. How do I thank you adequately, for this ultimate gift?

One person who packs a sturdy soul in a compact frame, daughter-in-law Priyanka, does not feature in this account as she was hijacked by an itinerant virus. She was with us all in spirit all through.

Some of those whom I have lost, came to visit me disguised as thoughts. Au revoir.

The most difficult time for the family is when the actual procedure is on. Those unending six hours are pure agony for those outside. Thank you Santosh Jhol, for bringing it home to me in stark terms, when the procedure was still being scheduled.

Those who came in that day and sat by with Kusum and Alok  helped more than anyone else. To bro-in-law Satish Khanna, aunty Gayatri Seth, uncle Rajinder Seth, and honorary family members, Abha Jhol and Vikram Rajaram, a heartfelt thank you. Nowhere near enough I know. Vikram, you’ve stood by us all through the very difficult year and half that we have just gone through.

That is the kind of support that one draws strength from.

And inner strength? 

That is where the cow comes in.

When I was five or so my parents decided that a daughter added to the two sons they had would complete the family. In due course a bonnie lass was born.

While the rest of us were fed regular milk that came from a cow, she, after being weaned, was fed some concoction that came in a “Made In England” tin, which bore the strange name “Cow & Gate”. The label depicted a pastoral landscape featuring a well endowed cow and a gate leading, presumably, to a farm.

At some stage a parent explained that the delicious, creamish and sweetish powder was made from vacuum dried cow’s milk and secret ingredient ‘x’, which made it better than the actual stuff you bought from the local guy with his harem of cows.

It took a while, but I finally understood that there was just no way to establish that the stuff could actually make your child stronger. It was just a matter of perception.

That is what inner strength is. A matter of perception. You are strong if you think you are. Not if not.

PS: There is a question raised by many readers who found my use of the diminutive and inclusive personal pronoun ‘we’ in place of the megalomaniacal and egoistic “I”. All I can say is that that is how it came to me as I sat down to write. No offence meant.

Bypass IV: Going Home

"How long before we can get back to the golf course?" is the question we had posed to all the surgeons and cardiologists we met in our pre-surgery rounds.

"Two months" was the answer. Standard deviation : nil. Considering their diverse backgrounds, it is obviously a figure approved by the IMC, the RCS and the FDA not to mention the International Golfer's union. Or mandated by God. It also turns out to be accurate.

No one told us how hard we would have to work to get there. We thought the two months will be like an extended recovery from a nasty flu. Lie back and get unending TLC. All needs, whims and fancies met. We know how to deal with that.

Reality Bites
Shortly after we are ferried back from the ICU, and before we have settled in, the young physio-therapist turns up with an equally young associate. Manuben One has a piercing gaze and holds our attention effortlessly as she describes in a soft voice the physical routines we have to follow. Manu Two has dancing eyes that dare us to look away as she demos an exercise or corrects what we are doing .

Walking Solves Everything
The first thing they teach is to Suck and Blow. The exercise tool for lungs is a plastic contraption with a teat and balls. Suck ten times. Blow ten times. Repeat till the balls are jumping around happily.

Next come exercises for the chest, arms and legs. Fatigue is not an excuse, it earns a very short respite. In no time they have us standing up and trying to take a step. Alok and Kusum told to encourage us to do the routines as often as possible. They take it very seriously. They hassle, cajole and help us.

In three days the Manus have us walking out of our rooms and around the corridors to cheering from nursing staff much like a one year old gets when he takes his first few steps. On the fourth day they take us up and down a flight of stairs.

Talking Helps
All three surgeons visit us every day at different times. They never miss. One day they come even after a sixteen hour overnight surgery. Hats off.

Surgeons Two and Three are primarily on check up rounds. Removing sundry detritus left behind by the procedure. Questions are asked and are answered. By them and by us. Medication for pain management as also for regulating liquid and solid input-output is constantly fine tuned. The dressings come off. As do the pacemaker wires inserted 'just in case'. Very businesslike.

Surgeon One comes in the evening. His visit is more like a social visit. He sits down with the family and we have a natter running to half an hour or so. This, more than anything else, helps us mentally along the path to recovery and gives everyone the confidence that things are turning out well.

He apologises, almost, for the hospital food. We discover his favourite sin food is Samosa. His wife has learnt not to expect him with certainty for any meal. Somewhere along the line he also takes a quick look at how we are coming along physically.

He takes us through what is happening and will happen inside our body. The refurbished heart he has fashioned for us should serve us well for 12 to 15 years if we take good care of it. The fractured rib cage he has given us will never heal. The veins he harvested will leave our lower legs numb for months to come with shooting pain from time to time.

The first evening he cautions: Be prepared for good days and bad.

A Horrible Day
The third day after surgery is the worst we will go through in this episode of our life. We don't sleep well, waking up again and again to answer the call of the diuretic we have been given. Kusum sits up all night by our side. Alok lies awake on a couch in the living room, jumping up every now and then as we stir noisily. A she-dracula turns up before dawn to draw blood. The bath service arrives at 7 a.m. and is followed shortly thereafter by house keeping and then by breakfast.

By 9 a.m. we are through for the day. Washed out. Manu One and Two arrive at the appointed time. For the first time in our life we turn away attractive young women. They make two more attempts during the day before giving up in pouty good grace.

When Surgeon Three arrives for the first medical call, we lay down the law. Henceforth, no one will disturb us before 8 a.m. He instructs the staff nurse. Thank you. Then onwards everything is tickety-boo.

Chalo Ghar 

On the fifth day out of the operation theatre, Surgeon One tells us that they are done with us. They will carry out a few tests the next day and if all is as expected we can go home the day after. That would be three days short of the plan.

The next day Florence One, after doing whatever tests can be done in the rooms, sends us off in a wheel chair with a pilot to the lab for an echo-cardiogram. Alok is our escort this time.

The Ultimate Test
As we wait, bored to distraction, in the Sunday-quiet corridor for the elevator to the lab floor, we hear a clickety-clack approaching from behind us. As it nears, we look south-south-east to find a pair of red stiletto heels leading to well turned ankles leading on to slim fit denim jeans leading further north to a rare sight, an end that justifies the jeans.

We look north-north-west to see if Alok shares our appreciation of perfection and find a wicked smile.

"Ready to go home, Dad!"
"Absolutely"

And so it comes to pass.

ps: For Alok's take on the ultimate test, click here.

pps: This is the last post on the Bypass per se, but Friend One called after the last post to say, "Levity is all very well but you need to put down stuff describing where you find the strength to go through something like this". Son One says we need to acknowledge everyone who helped us go into it smiling and to come out of it smiling. Fair enough. So here it is:

Bypass: Postscript