THE PRICE WE PAY

Written on 4th March 2016:

Everyday in our lives, we have so many trivial incidents and encounters, which can be so forgettable. But there are also times, when you link these seemingly unrelated occurrences to stories and situations from your own life, and they suddenly become genuine food for thought!

Today I went for a routine check-up at the Tan Tock Seng Hospital. After registration, I was asked to sit at the waiting area as the Doctor had to go on an emergency call. When I inquired how long it might take, the friendly receptionist told me “maybe 15-20 mins”, so I decided to go and have a smoke before the doctor consultation.

Since it was a hospital, there was a board with clear instructions ‘No smoking allowed within the hospital premises!’, and I had to walk for a good sixty metres, before I could go beyond the premises to find an area with some smokers. As I lit up a stick, an Indian man in his early fifties, came up to me and started speaking to me in Tamil.

I face this pretty often in Singapore, and I can well understand that my dark skin tone makes many people, including Tamils themselves, assume that I am a Tamil too and they feel comfortable enough to start a conversation in Tamil. My customary response would be “Sorry, I don’t speak Tamil” to which, some give me this disdainful look that non verbally conveys ‘so now you deny your heritage?’
Those who can, switch the conversation to English. The others gradually walk away, looking for other options that don’t ‘deny their heritage’.

But this guy was different and before I could say my customary words, I noticed him holding a two dollar bill between his fingers, as he waved his hand at me. Despite not knowing more than three words of Tamil, I could make out that he was asking for a cigarette and offering me two dollars in exchange. Now, cigarettes are expensive in Singapore and we smokers do complain about it in private, but if I was to calculate the price of a cigarette stick, it would be around seventy cents each. But as a smoker myself, and despite being one who usually carries his own stock without fail, there have been some situations when I ran out and had to borrow a stick from someone else, usually from people known to me, but twice from a complete stranger as well. These two memorable occasions were in the town of Ooty in 1996 and in Brazzaville in 2005. So I do believe in the brotherhood of smokers.

I waved away his offer, but picked a stick from my Dunhill Ultimate packet and passed it over to him. The guy accepted it with a broad smile and somewhat weirdly, tried to stick the $2 bill into my hip pocket, which I dodged with a vocal objection. I also lit up his cigarette with my lighter, as I was sure he didn’t have one. As he took the first drag, I observed him quickly and noticed that his dress was somewhat worn out, if not exactly shabby, nothing unusual for an Indian man his age, in this part of the world. His lips were very dark, obvious signs of being a smoker for long.

I turned and kept smoking, realising we didn’t have much to converse about, but the guy said something again in Tamil, at which I politely informed him that I don’t speak the language. He then started to speak in English, which was not the most suave in terms of delivery, but it did fine to convey what he wanted to say.

– “You local?”
– “No, I am an Indian!”
– “Oh, I Malaysian. Singapore PR” (Permanent Resident)
– “I see”
I nodded and took another drag.
– “Thank you very much for cigarette”
– “No problem!”
– “I work here many years”
– “I see” – I replied with a very indifferent tone.
– “I also do treatment here three years”
– “Oh, I see” – My own voice sounded dismissive to me.
– “I have black spot here” he pointed at his own chest, “they treat me many years”
– “Black spot? I see” – I didn’t show much interest yet.
– “I call my wife now, so want cigarette before I call”
– “I see”

I was getting a bit bored at this point, and did not really understand this linkage between a smoke, black spot and his wife. In all honesty, I believe I was not too keen to try and understand either.

– “Thank you very much” – He was repetitive even in his gratitude.
– “Oh, its nothing” – I felt this would convey that I wasn’t so interested in this seemingly pointless conversation.

He paused a while, took a deep drag and then held up the hospital envelope in his hands and said:

– “Today Doctor tell me I have lung cancer, not many months left. I have to tell wife, don’t know what to say, so I smoke one cigarette. Stop smoking over three years already.”

As the meaning of what he just said sunk in, I found myself absolutely speechless!

A guy, who was getting treatment for the last three years for some black spot in his chest, has been told today that he had lung cancer and that he doesn’t have much time left, and the guy wants to call his wife to convey this terrible news. Not knowing how or what to say, he had decided to have a smoke to gather some courage.
And I, a dismissive and probably a disrespectful stranger, gave this guy diagnosed of lung cancer, a cigarette, and felt like I did him a favour worth remembering.

The last part of our conversation was largely irrelevant and barely registered in my mind, as I was still too shaken to respond in my usual way. I was really struggling to find the right words, apart from the instinctive ‘good luck’, ‘don’t worry’ and ‘please take care’, all of which sounded ridiculously impractical to me.

A few minutes later, the guy stubbed out his cigarette and walked away gingerly to make that dreaded call, leaving me almost immobile, my knees still feeling weak.

---

To recover my composure, I smoked another cigarette and halfway through it, I remembered my own doctor consultation. I stubbed out my cigarette and walked back slowly towards the waiting area, the memory of that Indian man still having its unsettling effect on me.

My number came up almost immediately, and I was guided into a consultation room where a young Filipina lady asked me to sit down. She explained that she was not the doctor but an assistant, who would ask me a few routine questions, before I see the doctor. These were for the purpose of keeping a record of all the hospital patients.

She started with generic questions about age, weight, height and any pre-conditions etc., which she started noting down accordingly, in a printed form. Then the conversation went to the point of ‘personal details’ for the hospital’s records.

– “So this is your handphone number. Do you have any other contact number?” She asked politely.
– “Yes, I have my home fixed telephone” – As I gave her the number.

– “So if we ring this number, who will answer it?”
– “If I am at home, I will, if I am not at home, it will keep on ringing.”

She seemed a bit puzzled, but continued her questions, trying not to make it too obvious.

– “Do you have a work telephone?”
– “Yes, I do” I gave her the number, uttering the digits individually, as she noted them down.

– “And who will answer this phone?”
– “If I am in, I will, if not, it will keep ringing”

I gave her a smile, impressed at my own wit.

– “Are you married, Sir?” – The question was somewhat abrupt.
– “No I am not”
– “Do you live alone or with someone?”
– “I live alone most of the time, my girl friend stays with me a few days during the week”

– “So you don’t stay together?”

I gave her a stare, and she decided not to probe any further.

– “What about your family?” – She tried a different approach.
– “Since I am not married, my family would be my parents and they are in India.”
– “So you don’t have any family here in Singapore?”
– “Errrr.. No I don’t”

There was a pause, as she pondered over her next question.
– “Do you have friends, Sir?”
– “Of course, I have friends”
– “Great! So if you have an emergency, who would you like us to contact?”

It was my turn to pause!

I thought for a while, then a while longer, and finally, it occured to me that it was not so easy for me, to name a person as an emergency contact. While growing up, it was usually my parents who were my emergency contacts by default. When I first left my hometown and started working overseas, I would probably put my employer’s HR Manager as my emergency contact.

But at this phase of my life, both seemed to be impractical. My girlfriend, who has been with me for close to two years now, was indeed a lovely woman and I thoroughly enjoyed her company, but I was hesitant to consider her name for my emergency contact.

I have a decent number of buddies in Singapore and many of them are exceptional friends; some have been friends for years and some even decades. But whichever name came to my mind, I heard a voice inside me asking, “Really?”

I was honestly struggling to find ONE name, that I could automatically choose as my ‘emergency contact’, without having follow up questions within myself.

The Filipina assistant doctor did not show any signs of impatience, but I was suddenly exposed to a harsh reality, that I believe I had been hiding from, for a significant part of my adult life. But today, this routine conversation about an innocuous medical form, had got me thinking.

From a very young age, I have been a fiercely independent person. I spent close to eighteen years of my academic life in residential schools and colleges, left my hometown almost twenty years back, and almost all the key decisions in my life, some good and many bad, were taken by myself.

There are a few things in life that I am immensely passionate about and I have had very few regrets, if I were to look back. The one thing that I have craved most in my life, the one thing that I have never been willing to compromise on, let alone sacrifice, is ‘freedom’.

All the other mention worthy things; from passion to pleasure, from relationships to success, have been important at different phases in life, but they have always trailed behind my irrepressible desire for freedom.

Six hours later, back home with a tall glass of gin and tonic, and spending a fair amount of time navigating through a mesh of mental roundabouts, I am none the wiser about that one automatic choice for my ‘emergency contact’!
Yes, I could pretend and come up with some name, any name for that matter, but people who believe they are ‘free’, are not gifted with the skill of pretension.

I have always considered myself a fortunate person in more ways than one, and my views haven’t changed one bit at this moment, but today, it has dawned upon me, that there is a price for everything, and that I have been paying the price for my relentless obsession with freedom, all my life, almost unknowingly.

The Indian man from Malaysia, diagnosed with lung cancer this morning, needed a smoke to gather the courage to speak to his wife and deliver this devastating news. If I were in his shoes, I would  probably need a drink to figure out who should be the person to hear this news first. But that is the price we pay for the choices we make, and I am pretty sure, I would not have traded mine for anything!!

========= THE END ==========