I know you will think it funny that a place can be called “Down Down”, but that is what it is. Down Down is a sprawling suburb of Chennai (what was then known as Madras and there are still people calling the place Madras despite the official change in name). Various reasons are given for this peculiar name, but one that is most plausible and convincing is that one man got disenchanted with Chennai, its decaying roads, senseless and often maddening crowd, decided to set up his house as far away from Chennai as possible. Soon, one person became two and two became four and so on until it became a town by itself, which also had a duly elected Mayor with his list of false promises. When the question of naming the place came up in the early days, our leader suggested “Madras Down Down” which was also accepted by everyone present (that is by about six families). However, in the course of time, people left the “Madras” part of it and simply started calling it just “Down Down”.
Even though Down Down lacked many amenities, which in most of the countries would be considered as basic necessities, one thing it could really boast off. It was a multi-speciality hospital, aptly named “Down Down Hospital”. Its founder was a NRI who made his fortune by taking precious stones and hand-made gold ornaments from the tribals of wild African countries promising this and that but giving them nothing. By selling his collections he became very rich and his noble intention of serving his fellow-countrymen turned him to look towards Chennai. He selected Down Down and built his dream hospital. After appointing doctors, specialists, surgeons and other utility staff, he once again disappeared into the wilderness of Africa to continue his exploits (of course, I will be failing in my duty if I do not mention how he became rich. But that I will do so, in due course and not now).
Dr. Loo Ni, whose birth name was Ramesh, was so fascinated by the Chinese way of life, also changed his name to reflect his new love. In fact, his occidental leaning was really accidental, in the sense that one fine evening he was attracted by a Chinese girl (the fact that she spurned his advances did not bother him). However, his life changed irrevocably after that incident.
Dr. Loo Ni was a psychiatrist. Unfortunately, his chosen name only compounded his trouble. People, who once called him as Dr. Loony, changed it slowly and started referring him as loony doctor. Dr. Loo Ni, however, either did not bother about this, or perhaps this did not even register in his mind.
That particular morning did not begin well for Dr. Loo Ni. It started with a husband-wife team. The receptionist, while preparing the patient registration slip, messed it up. In her untidy handwriting (or is it the hallmark of all medical professional people!) and a wonderful sense of spelling, she made “RA CHANDLER” into “RACH HANDLER”.
Dr. Loo Ni, at the best of his time, would generally find it difficult to read his own notes. So when the registration slip found its way to Dr. Loo Ni, he was perturbed - to say the least. ‘In his life he had come across many queer persons, but nothing to beat Rash Handler’ he mused and thought of his strategies. ‘Okay’, he decided, ‘I must be very cordial and make him feel relaxed and at home.’
‘Come in, come in’ boomed Dr. Loo Ni and got up to shake hands with Ra Chandler. ‘How do you do, Mr Rash Handler’ he enquired politely. ‘What! Rash Handler? What do you mean?’ came the none too polite reply.
As is his wont, without noticing the response the doctor proceeded with his “treatment”. By then, the exasperated Chandler decided that there was no point in protesting on the name issue, and kept quiet.
‘Well, Mr Rash Handler, any problem with your appetite?’ ‘No, no, doctor. It is not me I have come for. It’s my wife.’
On the mention of wife, the doctor noticed for the first time, a middle-aged woman who reminded him of a wounded tigress. Averting his glance hurriedly, he asked Chandler ‘what about your wife?’
‘She is loony.’ ‘No! No! She can’t be Loo Ni. I am Loo Ni.’ ‘Oh, my God! You don’t understand doctor. She is really loony.’ ‘But how can it be? I am Loo Ni. She is your wife and not mine.’
This really stunned Chandler. Then in a rare moment of brightness, he understood the problem and went about solving it. ‘Yes, doctor. You are loony. But so is my wife.’ ‘Absolutely! She is your wife. So she should be called Mrs Rash Handler and not Mrs Loo Ni.’ ‘Doctor,’ cried Chandler leaving the loony part for the moment, ‘will you stop calling me rash-handler!’
This really shook up the doctor. He got up agitatedly and pointing his finger at Chandler he questioned ‘if you are not Rash Handler, then who the hell are you? You came here stating you are Rash Handler, but you are now refuting it. You claimed your wife as Mrs Loo Ni. If you continue like this, I am going to call the orderlies and have you chained.’ He then paused for breath and started counting one to ten slowly, as he often asked his patients to do. Having recovered his equilibrium he had a rare insight into the problem confronting him. Meanwhile, Chandler was too dumb-struck at the doctor’s sudden outburst and remained quiet. The doctor, then, calmly addressed him ‘my dear Rash Handler, I can see your problem clearly. It’s what we call “assumed identity syndrome”.’ Evidently, Chandler did not understand what the doctor was saying and he feebly asked him to explain. Dr. Loo Ni cleared his throat and feeling confident that he had caught the patient’s attention atlast, gave his diagnosis. ‘When you said your wife is Loo Ni, I was initially confused - quite naturally. Then it became clear that your wife might, at sometime of the other, heard about me - again, naturally, since I’m one of the most popular doctors in the country - and imagined her to be Loo Ni. This is what we call multiple personality syndrome. As the second and hidden personality started manifesting, her original self receded into background and her assumed identity became transparent. Hence, the term “assumed identity syndrome”, to put it in a layman’s language. I hope I have made it clear. Am I not, my dear Rash Handler?’ Chandler’s confusion was total. While Dr. Loo Ni delivered his monologue, he had a feeling that he had left the sane world and entered an area that was totally alien to him. To say that he was frightened and perhaps angry too on his wife for having made him like this, was too much for him. And then the final blow - “my dear rash-handler”. Sanity gave way to mindless rage.
‘I asked you to stop calling me rash handler, didn’t I … didn’t I?’ He went on repeating “didn’t I” even as his hands were reaching for Dr. Loo Ni’s neck. But all he could get his hands on was the doctor’s neck-tie. He dragged the doctor forward. The doctor, a little slow initially, recovered quick enough and in the wink of an eye, snatched a paper-weight and hurled it at Chandler. By then things became totally uncontrolled with both of them trading punches and hurling missiles all around. Thus both of them did not notice Mrs Chandler quickly slipping away.
While utter chaos prevailed in one corner of the otherwise tranquil hospital, Nast-y-Can, the chief engineer in-charge of maintenance, was in an ecstatic mood. He had just received a distinguished guest - the Down Down Mayor - and was eagerly telling him of his latest achievement. ‘You know, Mr. Mayor’ pointing at the telephone exchange, ‘this is my latest invention called FATSy’.
The Mayor, as most of the politicians are, is a man of dumb-wits. He wanted to visit the hospital only for publicity sake, but unfortunately for him he had to meet Nast-y-Can. When his attempt to escape proved futile, he resigned to his fate and put an appearance of attentive listener, again for the accompanying journalists. On seeing the guest a rapt listener, the chief engineer’s enthusiasm knew no bounds.
Nast-y-Can, particularly takes pride in his ability to coin acronym. Thus he explained to the mayor, ‘FATSy is not really FATSy, but should have been called FAMOTS. But since people would find it difficult to pronounce FAMOTS, I’ve named it FATSy, which is simple and easy to pronounce.'
The mayor, dumb even though he is, was till now presenting an intelligent look. But on hearing FATSy and FAMOTS, he lost all trace of pretension and his face went blank. Nast-y-Can was quick to spot the change and immediately tried to assuage the mayor’s doubts. ‘FATSy is,’ he explained ‘Fully Automated Tele System. However, it is really not fully automated, since it is FAMOTS, that is, Fully Automated Manually Operated Tele System”.’
‘Ha, I see!’ exclaimed the mayor, but his expressions suggested that he did not see. Not only the mayor, but by this time even the press persons who were busily taking notes, now looked idiots. But for Nast-y-Can, the words “Ha, I see” were magic.
‘FATSy or FAMOTS,’ he continued, ‘operates on FART - First Access Random Transmission.’
The mayor was a very patient man who can control his body and mind especially in public. He was a well-mannered man and always conscious of etiquette. However, in the morning just before he left for the hospital, he had a hearty breakfast which also included one bad egg. But one bad egg was sufficient to trouble his tummy. For nearly ten minutes he was containing the natural urge to “pass wind”. His desire to maintain etiquette, however, was dashed the moment he heard “FART”. A deep, long, muffled rumbling roar sounded followed by a low moan from the mayor. The press-persons were also trained in etiquette. On hearing the farty sound from the mayor, they all joined and emitted an ear-splitting sound in unison.
What added to the general chaos which followed the explosive sound was a simple factor. The hospital, like most of its kind, had speak-phone for paging and at the time of the unified fart, the pager was “on” because of which the sound got transmitted all over. Naturally, it evoked varied reaction from different people.
While Nast-y-Can’s immediate thoughts were some one had placed a bomb in his beloved FATSy, Mrs Chandler was just outside the room where FATSy was installed. When she came out of Dr. Loo Ni’s room, she thought she could easily escape. But that was not to be. As she continued, she crossed so many look-alike corridors, emergency wards, passages, identical-looking staircases seemingly leading to nowhere, various twists and turns.
In fact, when one visiting archaeologist, famous for his findings of the tombs of great pharaohs of Egypt, remarked ‘it’s amazing. Even the pharaohs’ tombs were easy to break once we studied the pattern. But this maze .. well, it’s ingenious!’ As a matter of fact, the hospital was designed by an architect who was an avid puzzle mania. During the initial days after doctors, nurses, other staff and of course the patients were busily circling the entire hospital premises trying to catch one another, it was decided that every staff would carry a blue-print of the layout. Thus, it became mandatory for everyone connected with the hospital to carry with him or her always the “here you are map”. A doctor might forget his steth or other essential item, but he would never leave without this life-saving map. As for the patients, once their registration formalities are complete, they would be escorted to their destination and back by the attendants who were hired in hundreds just for this work. Of course, Mrs Chandler was not aware of this.
After wandering for a long time in circles and squares and straight lines, Mrs Chandler decided enough was enough. She decided to rest and give her weary legs a break. And that happened to be outside FATSy.
While Mrs Chandler was exploring all parts of the hospital, her husband and Dr. Loo Ni finished their fighting with neither emerging victorious. Panting and gasping for breath, Dr. Loo Ni was the first to get up from the floor and to his utter dismay found Mrs Chandler gone. Not knowing where to look for her he paged ‘Mrs Rash Handler, please come back immediately. Your husband Dr. Loo Ni is waiting for you.’ Not yet fully recovered from his recent bout, he omitted to add “and” between the husband and Dr. Loo Ni. The continuous broadcast of this message had a diametrically opposite reaction from Mrs Chandler. She started running faster. She had just rested by FATSy, when she heard the explosion. She was now convinced that both Dr. Loo Ni and her husband had spotted her and were now aiming to shoot and kill her. Totally frightened now, she took refuge in the room where FATSy was housed.
Mr Chandler had a different idea. He was sure that the explosion was the handiwork of his loony wife. He yelled at Dr. Loo Ni, ‘I told you so many time doctor, that my wife was loony. Now you see what’s happened! We must immediately catch her before she destroys the whole hospital.’ ‘I really under-estimated Mrs Rash Handler,’ felt the doctor, ‘I never realised she would go to the extent of bombing before she can be accepted as Mrs Loo Ni.’ He then told ‘come Rash Handler, let’s go and look for your wife.’ However, not knowing where the bomb was placed, they started going round and round.
The hospital administrator had a different idea. He thought it was the handiwork of a terrorist gang. He immediately alerted the police who responded with alacrity. The Inspector General of Police called the Administrator personally to assure that a special unit comprising bomb squad and anti-terrorist commandos were already on the way.
Meanwhile, the hospital’s head of security asked his guards to surround the entire hospital and asked them to detain anyone trying to leave.
In a nutshell, it was sheer pandemonium all around.
The only ones who were unperturbed were the mayor and his entourage. They all knew nothing exploded except their insides. So they were slowly finding their way to the exit through a melee of patients and visitors running here and there without knowing which way to go. When they at last found the exit, they were stopped by the security guards.