Doctor on Wheels
Jatinder Vir Yakhmi
He reached out to patients from the poor strata by providing them free medical help, even food to the under-nourished among them. A true-blue doctor, he also drew pleasure by driving me around Lutyen’s Delhi in his car, passing on tips on life, as we went places during our numerous jaunts in the city!
It was in 1979. I went to consult my doctor in Mumbai. As I knocked and entered his room, he asked me ‘You came with a gentleman I saw, who is now standing outside, who is he? Is he a doctor?’ I told him, ‘It is my brother-in-law who came from Delhi. Yes, he is a doctor, but how did you guess that?’. I got the reply, ‘His looks tell me that he must be a doctor’. I was impressed that my brother-in-law, Dr. Amar Jiwan Khanna (AJ) was not only a very good doctor, but also looked eminently like one, towards which his professional demeanor, mannerisms, dress sense and quiet composure contributed amply.
Born in 1931 in Patiala, AJ was the lone brother to six sisters, my wife being the youngest among them. He was a child specialist, having obtained a Diploma in Child Health after his MBBS degree in 1957. His initial appointment was as a doctor in the jail at Nabha. In 1958, he got married, and settled in Delhi, spending most of his career as doctor-in-charge of different CGHS dispensaries in Delhi, including the one at South Block. He spent the years, 1969–1973, as a doctor on deputation to Uganda, from which he took a short break in 1972 to attend my wedding in Patiala. He came for that with his wife, and three children, then between 6 and 11 years.
I had settled in Mumbai after my childhood and graduation in Punjab. From 1973 onwards, whenever I, my wife and children visited our home-towns in Punjab, which was often, we would break our journey at Delhi to spend a day or two with AJ family, and then move on. Those were the days of train travel, and he would drive his car to New Delhi Station (NDLS), to receive us or to see us off during our trips. Parking was not a problem then since not many people owned a car in 1970s or 1980s. AJ would park his car at his favorite nook, not far from the steps leading into the train station, and even instruct the security guard there to keep a watch on it, till he returns. AJ had the personality to demand compliance, more so when he told the guard that he was a doctor from Willingdon Hospital!
I discovered early on that AJ was a very popular doctor among his patients because he cared for them, and interacted with them in a helpful manner. While in service, he went to see patients on Sundays at the Arya Samaj charitable dispensary on Hanuman Road, a practice he continued even after he retired. Often times, patients would call him on phone to discuss, or to take his appointment. People who knew him had immense faith in his capabilities as a doctor. My daughter’s Type-1 diabetes was first discovered by him, when he was alerted by a fruity smell emanating from her skin when she was 17.
Once, he decided to drive to his departmental Accounts Office to check why he had not received his salary, though the first week of the month was over. I was with him and watched the bonhomie that he had with the staff there. Before they could offer him tea, etc. he questioned why his salary had been delayed. The dealing clerk said the matter has already been attended to and he will get it in his account next day. Relaxed, as AJ got up to go, the same clerk begged him to see his sick nephew visiting from Jaipur, who was not recovering despite taking medicines from another doctor. AJ being kind at heart, visited the clerk’s residence on our way back home to examine his nephew and prescribe medicines. Delaying his salary by 3–4 days was the clerk’s way to get free medical consultancy at home!
During my jaunts with him, we would often pass by the monuments like India Gate, Rashtrapati Bhavan, Red Fort, the Ridge, and Gole Market, etc., as he drove past. But my overall geographical knowledge of Delhi always remained poor because the only time I was out in that city was when AJ drove me in his car, and the only places I have ever stayed at in Delhi were the official residences allotted to him, in clusters like Rajendra Nagar, Clive Square, Havelock Square, Kaka Nagar, etc. After his retirement from Government service, he shifted in 1992 to his flat in Vasant Kunj, the DDA colony near Mehrauli, favored by Government retirees because of its location, with airport just 10 kms away.
Whether I and my family got off at NDLS, ISBT, or in later years at Palam (now T3), AJ would be there to receive us. One of those umpteen such occasions was when he waited for six long hours for our Rajdhani train to arrive on Nov 2, 1984, the day riots had broken out in Delhi after Indira Gandhi was assassinated on Oct 31, 1984. There were no mobile telephones then to inform him that I, my wife and our two children were still in that train after having seen very tense moments when our train was parked for four hours at Tughlaqabad railway station, on the outskirts of Delhi. AJ was himself a heart patient since 1971, but he didn’t budge from the station till our train arrived. As we walked towards his parked car to drive us to his Kaka Nagar residence, I saw scores of Sikh passengers huddled together at Platform №1, under the protection of security forces and police, to protect them from the gory violence in Delhi, which put our nation to shame, forever! As we came out of the train station, we saw the actor Dara Singh, who had arrived by our train, too, from Mumbai, and was being mobbed by his fans. AJ, true to his wit, shouted at him in Punjabi, ‘Oye Verka waaliyan ne kuchh ditta ke nahin?’ referring to the television advertisement that Dara Singh had done those days, stating just those two words ‘Bhayee Wah’ in appreciation of the taste of Verka Ghee. Dara Singh standing nearly a foot taller than the people surrounding him smiled and replied ‘haali te kuchh nahin miliya’.
AJ had a penchant for treating poor patients at minimal cost. Hence, after his retirement, he opened his own small clinic at Kishangarh village, located between Vasant Kunj and IIT, Delhi. I went there once with him and noticed that most patients who came there were from the lowest strata of the society, and could hardly pay any consultancy fees. Simultaneously, he converted one room of his ground floor residence at Vasant Kunj into another clinic, where any patient could come and ring a bell, hearing which AJ would attend to the patient, diagnose his condition and prescribe medicines or a follow-up, as the case may be. On a few occasions, when AJ found a patient to be quite malnourished, he will call out for his wife (Manju) to give the patient some food to eat, before he could prescribe any medicines, all for free.
AJ was 15 years elder to me, and being the husband of his youngest sister, I was the subject of his constant attention and affection. Just two days after my wedding, he took me to Qila Chowk bazaar in Patiala to treat me to his childhood-favorite gol-gappas (pani-puris). But the very first one in his mouth brought his disapproval, because the taste was nowhere he expected. I just smiled.
For decades together, when I landed at his residence, he would pull out a new necktie or a shirt that he had been keeping for me, and would give that to me stating ‘I think it would look very nice on you!’ For the night or two that I stayed, he would set up my bed by the side of his own in his bed-room, because he must spend all his time chatting with me, and his wife would accordingly shift to another bed-room. In day-time, of course, he would drive me around Delhi. His favorite places were in and around Connaught Place, viz. going for the ‘Gulabo’ ice cream at Nirula’s; try chappals at Baluja Shoes, etc. With great relish he would often narrate an incidence that happened to him in 1970s. A comb-seller kept hounding him in the large round corridors of Connaught Place in the hope that AJ would buy a comb from him. He tried to shake him off, but the comb-seller was a very determined guy. Finally, he shooed the comb-seller away stating ‘Arre banda to dekh liya karo, uske sir pe baal bhi hain ya nahin’ and pointed to his bald pate!
He would often park his car near Gole Market and insist on treating me with his favorite pani-puris (gol-gappas) being served from a side-window of the Bangla Sweet House, nearby. First time, when he made this offer, I cringed, reminded of the Qila Chowk incidence. But I found the ones from Bangla Sweet House to be truly classy, and never refused thenceforth. If for any reason, a guest with him wanted to decline to savor the spicy gol-gappas owing to a sore throat, AJ would suggest that the sweet and sour water, laced with tamarind, when loaded as cargo after puncturing the crisp puris would have medicinal effect on a sore throat! Well, who could argue with a doctor on such matters?
Another favorite place of AJ was Pahar Ganj. First time he took me there was fascinating, with some vegetable and fruit sellers, some of whom he knew well because he often bought fresh veggies and fruits from them. And there was a fresh paneer seller in that market, where AJ would first check the quality of fresh paneer (cottage cheese) and in the process give me a small piece to taste, after sprinkling some salt and pepper provided by the shopkeeper on it. He would not forget to ask if I liked the taste, to which I would say ‘yes’. I guess AJ had a liking for that paneer. But after going through that routine over three or four trips, I got saturated and declared that I had no appetite for that paneer!
An amusing thing that he did in 1980s-1990s was that he would keep a full set of 24 empty glass bottles of coke packed in a wooden crate in the boot (dicky) of his car, as he left home to drive to his dispensary to see patients, or for any other errands. I didn’t take note of this, until one day while riding with him, I found that he stopped his car alongside a Coca-Cola delivery truck, parked there on the kerb, to execute orders from a nearby restaurant. He came out of his car and spoke to the salesman, after which a coke delivery boy traveling with the salesman exchanged the empty bottles with the crateful of filled coke bottles, against cash payment. As he sat in his car to resume the driving, he explained to me, triumphantly, how he has saved himself the bother of getting the bottles exchanged from a grocery shop who would have charged him higher rates, too. In my mind, I was thinking of the coke bottles, having a free ride about the town like Mary’s lamb, “Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go!”
In 1997, AJ went to USA for a year to live in Kalamazoo with his daughter Sambhavita and her husband Rajiv, both of whom are doctors. He would drive around the small town to run errands or taking his grandchildren around. He would visit the Seniors’ Centre to interact with retirees and educate some older folk about their ailments. Soon, he integrated not only with the local Indian community, but also with the mainstream American folks who would take him along to the farmers’ market, etc.
He was always on the look-out to shape my tastes and thinking as per his best choices. Once we went to Lloyd Tailor at Sion in Mumbai, where I wanted to give measurements for stitching a trouser for myself. While going through the drill of taking several measurements with a tape, the ‘master tailor’ Mr. Lloyd asked me at which spot on my tummy should the belt of my trousers settle. Prompt came the reply from AJ, “It should settle at position of his navel”. At this Mr. Lloyd looked at AJ and quipped, “It his pair of trousers, let him choose where he wants it”. Because he knew I wanted it the belt to be at two inches below my navel. AJ accepted it politely.
The Hindi film Do Aur Do Panch starring Amitabh, Shashi, Hema and Praveen Babi, was released at Regal theatre at Connaught Place in 1980. AJ drove me and my wife Upasana to the theatre to show the movie to us. Up close to the cinema theatre, he sensed that it was House Full and a policeman was busy keeping the ‘without ticket’ crowd away. AJ stopped his Fiat right opposite the theatre entrance, beckoned to the policeman who came to ask if there was a problem. AJ told the policeman pointing to me sitting in the car “Ye aapke Jeeja ji Bombay se aaye huye hain aur inko ye film jaroor dekhni hai, kuchh karo”, and pushed a currency note in the hand of the policeman. We three kept sitting in the car as the policeman took it upon himself to procure two tickets and bring to us.
He visited us in Mumbai on a few occasions, including at the time of weddings of my son in 1999 and of my daughter in 2002. He would go hilarious at nearly every wedding, whether it was in his own family, or the families of his sisters, or the wedding of children among his own in-laws in Delhi. During the celebrations, he would sing loudly two lines of a funny Punjabi song, first line being ‘Saari raat tera takkdian rah, tariyan to puchh chann ve’, which he sang reasonably OK, but for the second line “Nee main tere pichhe hoyi aan tabaah, Taariyan to puchh chann ve’, there was no way he could raise the pitch, as required. Where he lacked in the pitch of his voice, he would compensate by doing the thing with gusto, amply encouraged and pampered by his six sisters and many other relatives. To add to the fun, he would be beating a drum (dholaki), too, as he sang aloud. What a scene, only he could do that! He preferred weddings to be held in style. He made sure that the President of India attended the wedding of his daughter, Sambahavita.
All along his life he observed familial hierarchy, and imparted family values, charity and also grandeur not only to his own three children, but also to many others in the larger segment of his relatives. His children followed the medical profession to a large content. Sambhavita’s son is now a doctor in USA. Sangam’s elder daughter, too, has become one.
Dr. Amar Jiwan died in 2013, at the age of 82. Some ailments, like heart problems, diabetes and kidney problems kept getting aggravated, in his case. His wife and the rest of family kept good care of him. In the last two years of his life, he had to get hand railings installed in his bed-room, lest he had a fall. The last few months of his life saw him going to the nearby Fortis Hospital for dialysis thrice a week, which saps the energies of any person. I once sat with him during the procedure of his dialysis, and he very keenly explained to me how his blood was going through the machine, and after cleaning returned to his veins. As I watched, he also described the post-dialysis precautions to be followed to an elderly fellow-patient, who had just undergone the dialysis a few minutes ago, even as his own was going on.
On Sept. 30, 2013, when he was being driven to Fortis for his dialysis, his wife, accompanying him noticed that while stating something in a low voice, he suddenly passed away, peacefully, even as the car was entering Fortis Hospital. My favorite ‘doctor on wheels’ died in his car! What kept him going on for several years was the devotion to his profession, and his desire to help and treat patients, particularly those who were poor. Barely 25 minutes before his death AJ had seen a patient at his residence, before boarding his car!
I and my wife flew from Mumbai to attend his funeral ceremony in Delhi. I am generally scared to touch a dead body, but in his case, I stepped down into the cremation pit, touched his cheeks as he lay on the pyre, with serenity writ large on his face. Later next day, among others, I too spoke at a large condolence meeting organized to pay tributes to him. The essence of what I said was: “For me Delhi meant Dr. Amar Jiwan!”
