Dr. Baljit Singh Gill was having the worst day of his life. He woke up an hour later than usual, and that meant missing his morning walk. He checked his blood pressure and groaned in frustration. In spite of the weeks of disciplined living, it read 20 points higher than last week’s average. As he got out of the shower, his wife Meenu greeted him with the next bit of bad news. The cook had called in sick and breakfast was going to be eggs Meenu special. Which could mean anything, but usually was a started-out-as-omelette-ended-up-as-scorched-scrambled-eggs.
Meenu placed the soggy-looking mess in front of him and kissed his cheek. “It tastes better than it looks.” She said, smiling impishly. Dr. Gill couldn’t help smiling back, but his foul mood returned as soon as he started to eat. He knew he was lucky to have such a happy, carefree wife, but it would be nice if she had some standards too. Like his mother had had. Meenu’s relaxed attitude was the main reason why the entire domestic staff was undisciplined. What was the point in working so hard if you couldn’t get decent food to eat in your own home? He ate his breakfast feeling a deep sense of injury.
“Ballu, suno.” Meenu’s voice had uncharacteristic anxiety. He looked up and saw that Aman had come in. Dr. Gill knew his morning was about to get infinitely worse. He would take a hundred mornings of burnt breakfast if he could be spared the bad news that he knew his son was about to give him. For weeks he had been nagging, arguing, begging Aman to reconsider the irrational decisions that would ruin their lives. But his son’s face this morning told him he had lost the battle. The son who had been a source of pride for years had turned into a savage stranger. Tall, good-looking, fair — the 18-year old standing in front of him seemed the perfect reward for the three generations of hard work that his family had done to pull themselves out of poverty and misfortune. Instead of cherishing and appreciating everything that was given to him, all Aman wanted to do was to throw it away with both hands.
“Ballu, Aman wants to talk to you,” Meenu said.
“I can see that. Clearly, some momentous decisions have been taken. And I will now be kindly informed. Go ahead son, I’m all yours. Wait, what’s the time? Okay I’m all yours for the next 10 minutes and then I have to leave for the hospital. Will you be doing me the kindness of sitting down? Or would you rather stand and talk down to me?” Why did his son bring out the worst in him? They had had a great relationship throughout the terrible teens that parenting books warned about. Dr Gill wanted to cry and ask, where did I go wrong, when did we stop being friends? But anger was easier.
Aman sat down. He shook his head when Meenu asked him if he wanted breakfast. He probably knew who was cooking breakfast today.
“I would love some tea though” He said, and smiled reassuringly at his mother. Dr. Gill noticed he showed no anxiety, no shame, not even hesitation. Meenu seemed relieved to leave the two of them alone.
“Papa, I feel sad that I’m causing you pain. But I’m not sorry. I know I’m doing the right thing. And I’m hoping you’ll see my point of view one day.” Aman said.
“Of course you’re not sorry. You’ve never been sorry. Is it done? Have your sent in the paperwork for your new life under your new name?”
Aman nodded. Dr. Gill stood up, picked his car keys and walked out of the house, not trusting himself to speak. He was afraid he would hit his son, and he had never done that. Not even when his mother thought it was silly. “All children need to be slapped by their father once in a while. It keeps them sensible,” she used to say when Aman was a toddler. But she also said that this may be the one child in the universe who had never needed any disciplining. She had passed away 3 years ago, soon after Aman’s 15th birthday. Dr. Gill was grateful neither of his parents had lived to see this disaster.
Last month, Aman had announced his decision to change his last name. He said he “didn’t want to whitewash our past into invisibility”. What did that even mean? Did he want to show off that his grandparents made shoes?
Dr. Gill’s father was the first person in their community to leave the village. If it wasn’t for Papaji’s brave heart, Aman would have grown up in a mud hut, scorned and disrespected, with no ideas in his head except where the next meal was coming from. When Papaji came to Patiala to work in Kultar veerji’s restaurant, he had bigger ambitions than helping his family escape hunger. He was going to rewrite their lives and get them respectable positions in society. He obsessed about respect. Every step he took, he asked himself — “does this make me look respectable?” He enrolled in night school, not because he wanted to educate himself — he thought he was too old for books — but so that he could start building his documents of dignity. The night school agreed to register his name of choice, and that’s how they all became Gills. It was a bold move, to pick the caste name that Papaji was most terrified of. The Gills were landlords in their village, and Papaji was an indentured field-hand in return for a family loan. The day Papaji ran away from the village, tired of the daily insults and slaps, the interest still stood at 2 lakh rupees, and the principle hadn’t moved. They owe me the name, he said. He would tell these stories to his family, to remind them of what they had escaped, but for the rest of the world, he built a backstory of respectability, with stories of farms ‘back in the village’ that most people seemed to believe. By the time Papaji was forty, he owned three restaurants on MG road and the largest mansion in Model town. He was a leading figure in the city and his circle of friends was wide and powerful. Papaji believed he had left the shame and poverty behind, but Baljit had experienced some whiffs of it. Like that time he was 10 and overheard someone say “They aren’t real Gills, you know, they’ve just taken the name. They’re one of ‘those’. But chaloji, how does it matter? They’re very cultured and nice.” He had burned in shame. People did not say ‘scheduled caste’ or SC, preferring to say ‘those people’ instead. And there was his high school lab partner Simran, a newcomer from Amritsar, who had seemed to really like him, laughing at all his jokes as they walked to the bus stop each day, until one day, suddenly, she had turned cold. She was honest when he asked. “You should have told me you were an SC. I thought you were a Gill. How can we be friends, Baljit? Let’s be real. I’m not old fashioned, so I don’t feel bad about sharing food with you, but if my mother knew, she would die!”
These things did not happen often, and for that Baljit was deeply grateful to his father. By the time Aman, who was the third generation of “fake Gills”, started school, people knew the family for his grandfather’s restaurants and his father’s medical practice. And Aman, who should have been basking in the sunny present they had created for him, wanted to go back to the dark, dark past. He wanted to change his name from Gill to Chamar, which was their original caste name. Dr. Gill winced as he said the name in his head. Chamar. Shoemaker. That’s what his son wanted to be called, with some mistaken, irrational idea that he wanted to “create the space for conversations around oppression”. It was madness.
It had been a violent month since Aman’s announcement. Dr. Gill had tried logic and emotion, but Aman had stayed firm. He had written a play about Dalits in Punjab, and he was going to produce it under his new name. Meenu, in her misguided optimism, said that he would grow out of this activist phase, he was only 18.
The humiliation of the name-change was enough to break a father’s heart, but Aman wasn’t done. He had also decided he wasn’t going to sit for medical entrance exams. ‘It wasn’t his thing’, it seemed. He wanted to be a flight attendant. One of those tray pushing people in flights! If he wanted to travel, why not go to flying school and become a pilot? Why not go to Canada and study there? He had said something about wanting to become employable quickly and ‘to experience humility and adventure’. What ridiculous words to justify laziness! A contradictory voice in Dr. Gill’s head said that Aman wasn’t lazy, he worked hard at his theatre group, but he brushed the voice away. His son was ungrateful and unambitious. It was the lack of ambition that gave him the bigger heartache. His son, the flight attendant. How his friends would smile at that. Dr. Gill’s medical career was the stuff of legends. He had fought so many battles to become the city’s foremost orthopaedic surgeon. His own father had called him stupid for choosing to go to medical college instead of entering the restaurant business. “Wasting the next ten years studying when you could grow Gills Gallerias from 5 outlets to 15! I’ve made more money in 10 years than any doctor can in a lifetime!”. But Baljit had persisted, and eventually Papaji had come around, seeing that Baljit’s ambition for ‘respectability’ surpassed his own. “I made the family rich, but my son made us truly famous!” he would say in his later years.
And the grandson will take it all down, Baljit thought, his anger turning to despair as he pulled into the hospital. This was admissions season. All his colleagues would be talking about medical entrance exams, dreaming of the day their progeny would be walking these hospital corridors. For Dr. Gill, that dream had died a painful death.
He walked to his office, acknowledging greetings from staff and students, wondering if all this would go away when Aman and his theatre became known. The whiteboard in his office read — “Interview with Dr. Harleen Kaur at 4 PM, cafeteria”. He remembered the email that a journalist was writing a piece on medical equipment safety and would be interviewing a few senior doctors. He hadn’t known she was a doctor. Must be a PhD.
He was feeling more cheerful by time he finished his rounds and classes. He walked into the hospital cafeteria at five minutes to four and looked for someone who looked like a PhD journalist. A young girl — she could not have been older than Aman — was standing next to the coffee machine. She walked up to him and smiled brightly. “Dr. Gill? Hi, my name is Harleen Kaur. Shall we take that unoccupied table by the window?”
He was able to observe her closely as they walked. She wasn’t a teenager, but definitely no more than early-20s. Could this young woman have completed her PhD already? His doubts vanished as she took charge of the interview. She was articulate and well-informed and he found himself enjoying their conversation. He had strong opinions, and he enjoyed talking to people who had strong opinions too. He was filled with respect for her professionalism and enthusiasm. About an hour later, she said, “I’m mostly done with my questions. You’ve been so kind. I want to be respectful of your time — we have five minutes left out of the hour you promised me. Do you have any questions for me?”
Dr. Gill did not hesitate. His was very curious about her. He said — “Can I ask you a couple of questions about you?”
“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her energy seemed unflagging.
“So what kind of doctor are you?” He asked.
“Oh, the regular kind. I went to medical college, scraped through internship, got an MBBS degree. I’m even registered with Punjab medical council. I’ve never practised though. By the time I started third year, I knew this wasn’t my thing. But my father begged me to not drop out, so I stuck it out. During my internship, I enrolled for my second masters in literature and journalism. So now I write stories in health and medicine.”
Dr. Gill was surprised. He knew a few of these non-practising doctors, but until today he hadn’t approved of any of them. “Don’t you feel like you wasted a medical college seat? How does your family feel about you giving up medicine for writing articles? I’m sure it’s a great career, but it’s not in the same league as medicine, you can’t deny that!” He was being rude, but he had to ask.
Harleen did not seem offended. She said — “I get asked that question, about wasting seats, a lot! No, I don’t feel any guilt. Life is too short to do work you don’t love. My work gets people to think, which is important. I don’t get this thing about leagues. All careers have dignity, as long as they’re done honestly and professionally. I’d rather be a powerful journalist than an ineffective doctor. And my family? They believe that all humans deserve to decide the course of their lives. They’re just so grateful I respected their request to not drop out.”
“All careers have the same dignity? You really think that? Would you marry a flight attendant? Would you marry a waiter?” Dr Gill knew he was pushing it; she could complain, but this was too close to the bone.
She seemed surprised and amused, and said — “Well, I did go out with a flight attendant last week. It’s early, but I am very attracted to him, who knows, I might? If I wanted to marry him, his being a flight attendant wouldn’t hold me back. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me? Alright, this has been a real pleasure, Dr. Gill. I’ll send you a draft of my article before we publish. Thank you so much!”
They shook hands, and he walked her to the exit. She had given him so much to think about. She turned as they reached the door. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! I saw your son’s play last week. It was so amazing, you must be so proud, congratulations!”
“I haven’t seen my son’s play. I’ll be honest. I think it’s condescending that kids from well-off families pretend to understand caste issues, call themselves Dalits. The problem is so big. How can a comedy play do justice to it!”
She nodded. “I understand what you mean. But you should see the play. Comedy is a great way to get people to think. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about the play all week. I’m considering changing my name to my grandfather’s 'low caste' name too. The issue is overwhelming, but can we change anything if it stays invisible? What your son is doing is making it visible. Goodbye Dr. Gill, I feel sure we’ll meet again!”
Baljit’s head was aching. He felt too tired to take his afternoon tutorials. He wanted to go home. He would ask someone else to take his class. He knocked at Dr. Kuldip’s door and walked in.
“Dr. Kuldip, I need to ask you for a favour. Hey, what is that? You know you’re looking at a lab report like it has insulted you? What happened?”
Kuldip continued to frown at the paper in his hand. He said — “You met that girl today, right? I saw you were on her schedule too. Dr. Harleen Kaur. She came to me at noon. I was so irritated with all that unnecessary energy she had, all that euphoria. Didn’t you notice it? Everyone on the staff has been talking about it.”
“I did notice it. I feel so drained after that interview I want to go home. She was very sharp and impressive.”
“A bit too sharp, Balli, a bit too sharp. That kind of euphoria only comes from chemicals. Did she tell you her history? Barely scraped through medical college, went and became a medical journalist. What kind of nonsense is that? And she had zero guilt at wasting the medical college seat! I was so irritated with her air of joy, I cannot tell you. So I spun some story to her that Vitamin D deficiency is a huge issue these days so she should get her levels checked. I wanted the lab to test her blood for amphetamines.”
Dr Gil could not believe his ears. “Kuldip! Are you out of your mind? All this to satisfy some random curiosity? What did you say to the lab guys?”
Kuldip shrugged. “The lab guys are loyal; they won’t tell anyone. But here’s the annoying thing. They ran a full test panel, and her blood is clean. I don’t understand, she had to be on something! She was 30, and she looked like a teenager! Why was she so happy, Balli?”
Dr. Gill was thoughtful. He said — “I’m starting to wonder if there’s a whole world out there that you and I know nothing about, Kuldip. What if that future is already around the corner where SCs don’t have to change their names to be respected? Or where flight attendants have as much dignity and pride as doctors? Maybe these kids can see that future, and they’re working to bring it closer. I would be euphoric without drugs too if I could see that future.”
And maybe my son’s ambitions are bigger than anything that Papaji or I could even imagine, he said to himself as he walked to his car.
………………………………………………
Aman came in to his mother’s room. She sat quietly at the window seat, not reading the book she was holding. She jumped up when she saw him.
“Baby, did you remember to leave room in the garage for your father’s car to get out? He’s on call again today. He might have to leave at fairly short notice.”
“Yup, I parked very carefully! Not likely to make that mistake twice.” He laughed.
She searched his face for something and seemed relieved. She asked, “Amandeep Singh Gill ji, am I imagining it or are you looking happy?”
He made a face. “Ma, for my sake, can you try saying my new name? To show me that you’re okay with it?”
She hesitated, only for a second. “Okay my dear Amandeep Singh Chamar ji. Beta, it’s so difficult for me to say it! Goes to show that your own mother is one of the people you’re fighting. But I’ll try and grow, for your sake. So, Mr Chamar — hey, it’s getting easier on my tongue! Did you have a good game, is that why you’re happy?”
“I love you Ma. Yes, I’m happy, and no it wasn’t the game. I lost every single set. I’m so out of practice. I went to Papaji’s study to look for him just now as soon as I parked the car. I wanted to see what kind of mood he’s in.”
“He’s gone out for a walk. He missed his morning walk today na. And he’s so worried about his BP.”
“I know Ma, let me finish. I’m trying to tell you why I’m happy. So I went to his study, he wasn’t there, but his laptop screen was on. I couldn’t help looking at it, and I thought maybe he wants me to see it? You know what his browsing history was? He had googled “best flight attendant schools”. And he had visited my theatre’s booking page to see when the next performance of ‘I’m a dangerous Dalit’ is. He had made a booking. He’s coming for my play this Saturday.”
