Ambulance, Please!

(Short story)

R. RAJ RAO

Yeshwant signed the muster and collected his keys as he walked out of the spacious building of the Lok-Kalyan Trust, into the porch, where the ambulance was parked. It was a well-­polished cream-coloured vehicle with a bright red cross, and the name of its organization painted in bold green letters.

By habit, he adjusted the rear-view mirror, turned on the ignition and started off with a jerk. He was heading for the Wadala Railway Colony in Bombay, where an old lady who was struck by a heart ailment had to be carried to the Universal Hospital at Sion, a little distance away.

Yeshwant accelerated, keeping an eye on the speedometer and honking as he drove past buses and cars.

He was confident of his ability to drive safely despite the growing traffic in the megalopolis, for he had been at it for the past 15 years. As he sped along, thoughts poured in and out of his mind as quickly as the road vanished beneath his engine. Children and adults, cripples and hypochondriacs, pregnant women and lunatics, he had carried them all. He did not get anything in return except a paltry salary and occasional tips. If the patient survived, all the credit went to the doctors and hospital staff. But who remembered him? He had a wife and two children. Prabha and he were married 13 years ago. She had asked for a silver bangle ever since. He had yet to buy her one. Prakash, his son, studied in the eighth standard, and Nanda, his daughter, in the sixth. Both were in the municipal school at Worli, where he resided in a chawl. He had very much wanted to put them in English medium schools run by Christian missionaries, but had to cut his coat according to the cloth. Things would have been different had he been a clerk in a reputed orianisation. He had tried to bag such a job, but had failed, as they wanted their candidate to be at least at eighth standard English medium pass, and he was only a sixth standard Marathi medium fail. He had thus to be content with the driver’s job.

Yeshwant jammed the brakes as he reached the location explained to him by Mr. Deshpande, his manager. He had become an expert at finding addresses. “I could as well be a postman and enjoy provident fund and gratuity after retirement” he often thought to himself.

Mrs. Manghyrmalani, the 65-year-old patient, was quickly placed on the stretcher and brought to the ambulance by her sons and grandson. Yeshwant also gave a helping hand – he always did so, although his action was redundant most of the time. Some ladies were weeping in hushed tones. Yeshwant fastened the belts and drew the curtains of the saloon, as he got out and made for the driver’s seat. The old lady’s eldest son sat by her side. The vehicle was smoothly driven to the hospital, its siren warning pedestrians and motorists of the urgency of its mission.

The patient was soon dislodged at the destination. Yeshwant hung around awkwardly for a while, and then decided to drive . He knew there would be urgent phone calls, and his services would be required for others.

Relaxing for a brief interlude on the well-mowed lawns of the Lok-Kalyan Trust, and attempting to read one of its sel-­righteous pamphlets, Yeshwant was about to light a cigarette when Mr. Deshpande frantically called for him:

“A 12-year-old boy is down with sun stroke at the College Road, Ghatkopar. The building is just opposite the Central Cafe. The patient has to be taken to the Community Nursing Home, Ghatkopar East. He is the son of one Mr. Pramod Desai. Please hurry.”

Yeshwant put away his unlit cigarette, returned to his vehicle and sped off. It was his fourth trip in the day. The noon heat was strong enough to give him a sun stroke, he thought. The glare and dust on the mirage-laden roads irritated his eyes, brought tears to them. Quickly he put on his goggles and continued the journey.

As usual his patient was transferred to the hospital without delay.

When Yeshwant returned, it was well-past two in the afternoon. He sat in a corner and opened the lunch packet that Prabha had so lovingly arranged. There was the “bhakra roti” add “baigan bhartha” both his favourites. There was also the coconut chutney that especially appealed to his palate. But somehow he had lost his appetite and couldn’t go beyond a few morsels. He shut the tiffin box apprehensive about the food turning bad, apprehensive of Prabha’s disappointment. He walked to the gate of the Trust and discharged the contents of the box into the bowl of Ramu kaka, the old mendicant, who hopefully waited there every after­noon. Then he drank water copiously from a bore-pipe on the lawns. Spreading his mat in a corner of the verandah, he fell asleep.

“Yeshwant........wake up, Yeshwant, it’s urgent.” At first he thought it was a dream. But the words almost penetrated through his consciousness and woke him with a start. He was used to it. It was Deshpande once again: “Hurry, Yeshwant. A newly ­married woman has tried to commit suicide by jumping from the second floor of her building, somewhere near the Lal Mahal restaurant at Koliwada. She is badly injured. The exact name and address are on a chit near the telephone. I have taken them down.”

“Jesus Christ” muttered Yeshwant to himself, still not com­pletely out of the daze of deep sleep. He went to the wash-basin, sprinkled a mug of water on his face, made for his keys and the chit, and staggered to the ambulance.

Mrs. Shewale had fractured a leg as a result of her impetuous action. Her husband had the look of a nervous school boy on his face as Yeshwant and the neighbours assisted him in bringing his wife to the ambulance. She was yelling in pain, and the people tried in vain to comfort her. Soon, however, they were at the hospital.

Yeshwant was highly surprised when Mr. Showale pushed a two-rupee note in his palm at the end of the entire operation. “People are not all that bad” thought Yeshwant to himself, as he got into the ambulance, and realized that it was the end of his working day at last, the time nearing 6 p. m. On his way he stopped at an Irani restaurant and spent a portion of his “bakshish” on a cream roll and cup of tea.

At the stroke of six, Yeshwant brought the ambulance to a screeching halt in the porch of the Lok-Kalyan Trust, and handed over the keys to Lakshman, his night-shift counterpart, who was already waiting for him.

Yeshwant alighted from the bus at Worli Chawls and walked towards his home. He suddenly realised that he was carrying with him a co-passenger’s evening newspaper, borrowed in the bus. “How bad of me to have forgotten to return his paper” he thought. And there was hardly any news of interest in it, except that all taxies in Bombay had gone on a day’s token strike to protest against the beating up of one of their drivers at Chembur.

As he approached his home, Yeshwant saw a commotion outside. He was surprised, and quickened his pace. He found many of the neighbours looking sympathetically at him as he entered. None of them, however, spoke. But soon Yeshwant went in and saw for himself.

Prakash was lying on a “charpoy” in a semi-conscious state, his head and body bleeding profusely. Panic-stricken, his mother and sister were trying to revive him with teaspoons of water, while some benign neighbours were draining off the blood with pieces of cotton. Prabha was in tears. Nanda was trying to console her. But she became hysterical no sooner than she saw her husband.

“He was knocked down by a speeding truck as he was playing near the bus stop,” cried Pinto, a neighbour and good friend of Yeshwant. “The number of the vehicle was MRX 333. I have sent my brother to get a taxi,” he continued, turning his gaze away from Yeshwant’s anguished eyes.

Yeshwant was horrified, but had not lost his presence of mind. He knew from experience that what was most urgently needed was proper medical attention at a good hospital. He sent Pinto and a few others to bring a taxi at once. It was only after they had gone some distance that he remembered that the taxies were on strike.

He ran out to Shetty’s restaurant opposite, and frantically dialed the number of his organization, requesting for their ambulance immediately. “I’m sorry, Yeshwant,” replied Kulkarni, the night-shift manager of the Lok-Kalyan Trust, “Lakshman has taken our ambulance to carry the son of the famous industria­list Jamnadas to hospital. The boy has been knocked down by a car. Jamnadas has done a lot for our organization.”

“But, sir, it’sa life and death question,” protested Yeshwant.

“I know, but tell me, what can I do? Why don’t you try another ambulance agency, or the government ambulance for that matter?”

Yeshwant alarmed the phone in disgust. He ran : home, and signalling to Pinto and others, requested that they should carry the boy on a stretcher and walk down to the hospital. There was an old stretcher lying under his bed.

“But, Yeshwant, the nearest hospital is the Lok Manga1 Hospital, three kilometres away”, cautioned Pinto. “Won’t it take a long time to walk down that distance?” Nevertheless, they knew there was no alternative.

As Pinto and his friends transferred the bleeding boy to the stretcher, and Mrs. Pinto and a few other ladies tried to comfort Prabha with a hot cup of tea. Yeshwant once again ran across to Shetty’s and telephoned a few more social welfare agencies (whose numbers he knew by heart). He also contacted the Lok Mangal Hospital itself and asked for their services. But he got the same reply from all of them “the ambulances were out to collect patients, and none of them were free.”

In the meantime, Prakash was lapsing into unconsciousness. The flow of blood continued, unabated. Over 50 minutes had elapsed since the accident. The party began walking as fast as possible, carrying the victim on their shoulders. Pinto tried to draw the attention of a few passing cars en route, but in vain. He laughed cynically, thinking of his profession: he was a mechanic.

Another 30 minutes, and they were at the hospital. Prakash was quickly ushered into the casualty ward. Yeshwant’s heart­beats increased rapidly. He was waiting for the doctors to come out.

“Why didn’t you bring him earlier?” the senior doctor annoyingly asked, as he walked out of the ward, wiping his hands.

Yeshwant remained silent. Pinto tried to explain.

“It’s an invalid excuse,” retorted the doctor. “You could have always got a car from somewhere. People are certainly willing to help in times of distress.”

Yeshwant could no longer control himself, and wanted to lash out. But Pinto held him in check.

Suddenly the junior doctor emerged out of the room, and timidly approaching his boss with a look of helplessness, nodded negatively.

Yeshwant, who was standing in a corner, understood. Dazed, he buried his face in his hands and blacked out the world. Pinto knew that he was crying. But he did not say a word. They stood there, motionless, for a long time. And then the bell of an ambulance that had just arrived at the gate disturbed the silence.