The Wise Man

"So, what's the vaidyaji's name?" Uma asks, but without waiting for an answer, exclaims, 'Ooh, look at that!" She's pointing to a herd of buffaloes immersed in a muddy pond. As we move deeper into the village, Uma finds plenty more to coo about: half-naked children playing gilli-danda, old men drawing at laid-back hookahs, brightly dressed women carrying earthen pots on their heads with the swagger of Parisian models. Vignettes of a simple life in a simple place, where the term 'rat race' would elicit a wide-eyed, "Really? How do you get them to do that?"

It is when we reach the vaidyaji's house that Manoj replies to Uma's question. "The locals call him Chhota vaidya, though he is nearly 90. That's because he is the youngest in a long trail--his great-grandfather was physician to the erstwhile king of Ballabgarh. Quite a man, as you'll see.'

I agree. Chhota Vaidya is a man of few words, but leaves a lasting impression.

His charming ancestral house is wearing a fresh coat of white clay. In the spacious verandah someone has drawn a rangoli, resplendent with flowers. Outside, on a brick-and-mud platform in the benevolent shade of an old neem, about a dozen turbaned men and dupatta-covered women await their turn. 'Oh no,' Uma says, glancing at her watch, 'How long will this take?" Being head of Sales and all that, she's unaccustomed to waiting. 'Relax, if it gets late, be my guest for the night,' says Manoj cheerfully, and we settle down on the steps with the others. Uma spends most of the time fiddling with her 40,000-rupee cellphone. About an hour later, it is our turn. Manoj stays put, chatting with the villagers, while I accompany Uma inside.

There he is. As always, Chhota Vaidya conjures up sage Charaka, the founding father of Ayurveda, for me: radiant body, restful mind. Seated erect on a cotton mattress, he motions to Uma to sit. She does, not quite managing the lotus pose but crossing her legs halfway there. She begins, in eager convent-school-accented Hindi, "Sir, basically I've come to you because…" He quietens her with a look, reaches out and takes her hand. Three fingers press firmly down on her wrist, in the place where her pulse beats. His eyes close.

This is how the vaidya's fingers are now placed:

We can put a simple Illustration of Pulse Diagnosis here, showing index, middle and ring fingers placed on wrist.

Uma throws me an anxious glance; I raise a finger to my lips. She shifts her gaze back to the vaidya. I watch her watching his calm countenance. I feel her feel a strange connection, an instant healing. This is exactly how I felt, that first time Chhota Vaidya took my pulse. Back then, I was as puzzled as Uma. Today, I understand.

If the vaidya is like a detective trying to figure out the mysteries of your being, the pulse is his smartest informer. The moment he touches it, the pulse beat begins relaying all the vital information about you. Rate, rhythm, volume, amplitude, temperature, force--each is a significant clue. A slight increase in pressure, and deeper secrets start tumbling out: your tastes, habits, immunity, attitudes, hopes, fears and moods. Believe it or not, they are all there in the gentle throbbing of your pulse. Only a trained physician knows how to 'read' the code language. A code that has been passed on from Guru to shishya right down the centuries.

Thus, in about three minutes flat, the vaidya has collected a veritable dossier on Uma. She is, of course, stunned when he says, "Hmm, so you are deeply unhappy." She nods, and he goes on, "You are not feeling hungry, not sleeping properly, not getting along with those in your life. Yes?"

She stares at him, jaw wide open.

If Chhota vaidya has noticed her discomfiture, he does not show it. Instead, he lists out a few more Sherlock-Holmes style revelations, among them 'your temper shoots up like mercury', 'you cannot tolerate cold weather', 'you are highly possessive'…things I didn't know but are obviously spot-on because Uma nods vigorously each time.

By now, she is in sufficient awe of him to ask no questions. I know what she's thinking: all her life, she has seen doctors who wanted her to list her symptoms. Here, for the first time, is one reeling them off instead; that too as if he has known her all her life!

Chhota Vaidya says, " You are still young, child, and very strong within. You will overcome all of this, and be like new again. Take down your prescription, and follow it as faithfully as you can." This is said with a glance at me, so I quickly pull out a pen and paper from my bag. Uma stares as I jot down:

Vata-Pitta.
Needs tridoshic correction.
Sleep before 10 p.m.
Wake up before 7 a.m.
Have lunch at noon every day
Use dhania, zeera, saunf in cooking.
Cut down on chillies, garam masala, coffee
Drink lassi, lemon-honey water
Eat raisins soaked overnight
Practise abhyanga
Go regularly for walks or do yoga

"That's it," he says with a smile. "See me again in six months' time."

"Er, what about the medicines?" she inquires.

"No medicines," he replies, the indulgent smile still playing on his lips.

Uma and I walk out. Manoj asks, 'Done?" and we nod. On our way back to his house, Manoj and I wait for a volley of questions from Uma. They do not come. She is totally bemused. At last, she bursts out, 'How the heck did he guess? I mean, surely you didn't brief him about me? You couldn't have, anyway. And I certainly didn't get a chance to open my mouth. So how did he sum up my all problems, A to Z, so damn neatly?"

I decide to explain:

Vaidyas are trained to do just that, Uma. I was in the same daze as you, and before me, Manoj. Sharmaji isn't a magician or a mind-reader. It's just that he has studied a system of healing that is almost as old as civilisation: a time when there were no microscopes, scalpels or ready-reference medical texts, and healers had no choice but to learn from observation and instinct. So over the centuries, they have become masters of diagnosis: you walk in, and they start reading you like a book. Everything, from your height and weight to the thickness of your lips and the way you tilt your head to one side, tells them something about your personality. And pulse diagnosis: well, that's as intimate as an ultrasound, perhaps more!"

We have just entered the gate of Manoj's house once again. Walking towards the courtyard, Uma replies, "What can I say, it was..almost frightening, the way he took off. But what about this..prescription he made me write? It's rather like those lessons you learn in Class V, isn't it? Early to bed, drink water and all that? Does he really believe these simple things can cure you of your big troubles!" she said, releasing a sigh into the cool air.

Manoj takes up now.

"See Uma, I don't remember who said, it but someone did: 'Think simple; reduce the whole into the simplest terms, get back to the first principles.' Look at the simplicity of things in nature. Have you noticed how the sun sets and rises at the same time, day after day, year after year? How the birds leave their nest and fly back at the same time, rain or shine? And how winter always yields to Spring, and Autumn always follows Summer?

Uma is watching Manoj, her eyes filled with admiration for his poetic expression, the tenderness in his voice as he speaks. Unaware, he continues, "Even single-celled organisms obey this timeless rhythm. But we humans, we are not happy with simplicity. So we go ahead and break the laws of Nature. That's why, we are the only species that suffers all the deadliest of disease.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," says Uma. Her eyes are flitting here and there, a sign she's getting a bit restless with all this philosophical talk.

Manoj notices it too, and grabs her attention once again. 'You'll understand it better, Uma, if I present to you a slice of your own life. I haven't spent a single day with you, but I've been where you are today, so I can tell you exactly how you mock at Nature's rhythm, without even realising it:

Monday morning. You wake up at 6 a.m. and head straight for a shower. So far, so good. Now, in keeping with Nature's timepiece, you should be eating breakfast to fuel yourself up for the day ahead. But because your eye is fixed on the wall clock in your dining room, you gulp down a cup of coffee and rush off to work. The result? Your starving body is forced to run on the morning's momentum. Being young and resilient, it does so, but burns up critical energy reserves in the process. And finally, when it should be resting after a hard day’s toil, you throw buckets of coal into its dying fire--that is, a heavy dinner. The embers flare up, but the body engine isn’t going anywhere. Uselessly overheated, it creaks and groans all night, and in the morning, when it should be fresh and rested, it is reeling from last night’s assault.
And this is the consequence of just one among the many aberrations you commit, day after day, month after month, year after year. Is it any wonder that you are, if I may say so, on the brink of a complete breakdown today?

Uma gives a little shiver. The words have hit home.