Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Summery Delights
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A Virtual Feast
Come April and rising temperatures and the palate jaded by modern convenience food suddenly yearns for a traditional multi-course Bengali meal cooked by the mater in the lazy summer days of my childhood. Bengalis have perfected the consumption of food into an art form and much thought, effort, and discussion goes into planning a meal that vanishes at the blink of an eyelid! The preparation of lunch begins with shopping for the freshest of fish and vegetables and the sight of a Bengali babu with his plastic bag doing the rounds of his favourite market is one that is indelibly associated with the Calcutta of yore. The bargaining and bantering done, the prized catch is handed over to the expert hands of the lady of the house,to be made into a repast fit for a connoisseur. The cutting of vegetables and fish is an important aspect of Bengali cooking, each dish requires a specific shape, cubed, quartered and halved. A harmonious blend of the best ingredients, pure golden mustard oil and freshly ground spices ensures culinary perfection.
A Bengali meal encompasses all the six primary tastes, beginning from bitter, moving on to savory, spicy, sour and ending in glorious sweetness. On some special occasions I remember,meals were served on gleaming bell-metal or silver plates with innumerable small bowls arranged around it and the diner would sit cross-legged before the platter.The niceties and rituals associated with a formal Bengali meal sometimes remind me of a Japanese tea-ceremony. The aromatic, fine grained Gobindobhog rice found only in Bengal is integral to the whole experience and the first few morsels of rice is consumed with the delightful shukto, a bitter vegetable curry made with mustard paste. As I wax eloquent about the cooling properties of shukto to my reluctant offspring, I forget to mention that it took a lot of persuasion on my mother's part to get me to finish my share of it as a child. It is only now that I have acquired a taste for this unique dish made with mixed vegetables, boris and bitter gourd, redolent with the aroma of pure ghee. Boris are dried blobs of seasoned lentil and were made by the ladies of the house. Now of course, they fly off the super-market shelves. Shukto is followed by saag bhaaja, edible leaves that are seasoned and fried, had in combination with the pungent kasundi, a variety of mustard sauce that makes the eyes water.
Next comes lentils or dal and bhaaja and the mind conjures up infinite varieties and combinations. It could be musurer dal with julienned golden fried potato or a sliver of aromatic Gandharaaj lebu. A summer favourite is the sour dal made with green mangos. Or moong dal made with fried fish head and a hint of sweetness. The thrifty Bengali housewife prides herself on using all edible portions of fish and vegetables and peels from potato and gourd are stir fried into the most delicious khosha bhajas. Begun bhaja, potol bhaja, kumro bhaja, I could go on and on. But it is time to move on to the charcharis, ghontos and labras, each an unique combination of vegetables cooked in their own juices without addition of water. Sometimes shrimps and bones of rui or bhetki are added to jazz up the ghonto and charchari while a labra is a mix of six vegetables. Bengali cooking appears to be simple but calls for a variety of methods, boiling, deep-frying, steaming, braising and roasting. The trick is to retain the uniqueness of each ingredient without overpowering with spices.
Fish and Bengali cuisine go hand-in-hand, with more than forty varieties found in the rivers of the Ganges delta and almost all parts of the fish are consumed in different preparations. Indeed macher jhol epitomizes the Bengali Babu and he has fish in sickness or in health in the form of jhol, jhaal, kalia and many more. On special occasions, it has to be the venerable hilsa from the river Padma, lightly cooked with a burnt green chilli tempering, or mustard paste or with brinjals or simply steamed in banana leaves. Many of my culinary memories are dominated by the ilish maach, superbly cooked by my mother. Finding a good hilsa was an occasion of rejoicing in the whole family and entire meals were centred around this fish which is sometimes offered to the Goddess Saraswati. Rui or rohu fish is of course an ubiquitous presence in every Bengali household and lends itself to myriad preparations, from the paatla maacher jhol to the occasional Doi maach cooked in curd with raisins. A particular family favourite was the Chital maach muitha which owes its origin to the land of my forefathers, East Bengal. A very complicated method of preparation which unfortunately I have not been able to master makes this a very sought after dish on my Calcutta visits. And how can I forget Paabda maach, the slightly salty fish which goes so well with a garnish of dhone-paata or coriander leaves! And of course, galda chingri, bagda chingri, chingri maacher malaikari, all varieties of prawns which instantly induces a watering-mouth syndrome. There are so many more typical Bengali fish varieties and preparations that one could go on ad infinitum. But kosha mangsho or Bengali style mutton curry now beckons with its tantalising aroma. Cooked with yogurt and liberally spiced, it is a slightly dry preparation that goes well with fulko luchi or mishti polao and just for everybody's information I make a mean kosha mangsho!
By no means is the meal over at this point though the stomach may be groaning from over-indulgence. Now appears bowls of either chatni or ambal, a sweet sour preparation made with aamra, jalpai, chalta, green mango,tomato or any other sharp tasting fruit. Green mangos are said to prevent sun-strokes and are renowned for their cooling properties. Tomato chutni is a richer variation, sometimes made with tamarind extracts,raisins and dates and go well with fried papads.
A fitting finale to this many-layered meal can only be provided by the famed Bengali mishti doi, rosogolla, sandesh and numerous other sweets.Served in an earthenware pot usually, the mildly sweetened mishti doi is Bengal's contribution to the Indian gastronomic scene. Rasagollas need no introduction, Bengalis often being referred to by this moniker.Made by boiling balls of chenna in sugar syrup, it is sheer perfection and I challenge anyone to stop at one!! A slightly less known cousin of the rosogolla is the Bengali sandesh, chenna cooked with either gud or sugar and given a variety of shapes, like conch shells, mangoes and roses. Most Bengali sweets are light and in fact recommended for convalescents.On birthdays, payesh or rice cooked in milk and sweetened with gud is a compulsoryitem on the menu. The sheer variety of Bengali sweets either steamed, fried or baked is such that it is the topic for another post!
And finally as we end our meal, last but not the least comes the Bangla paan which acts as a mouth freshener and digestive aid. The betel leaf is stuffed with nuts, sugar, candied fruit and fennel seeds and offered to guests as a sign of hospitality.
One of the problems of Bengali cuisine is that it cannot really be commercialized. Rare is the restaurant that will serve a Bengali meal as it is devoured in a Bengali household.Consequently non-Bengalis have a shadowy idea of what constitutes a proper Bengali Bhojon. Recently a beginning has been made by Oh Calcutta And Bhajahari Manna to present to the world an honest Bengali meal. May their ilk proliferate and Long Live Bangaliana!
Next comes lentils or dal and bhaaja and the mind conjures up infinite varieties and combinations. It could be musurer dal with julienned golden fried potato or a sliver of aromatic Gandharaaj lebu. A summer favourite is the sour dal made with green mangos. Or moong dal made with fried fish head and a hint of sweetness. The thrifty Bengali housewife prides herself on using all edible portions of fish and vegetables and peels from potato and gourd are stir fried into the most delicious khosha bhajas. Begun bhaja, potol bhaja, kumro bhaja, I could go on and on. But it is time to move on to the charcharis, ghontos and labras, each an unique combination of vegetables cooked in their own juices without addition of water. Sometimes shrimps and bones of rui or bhetki are added to jazz up the ghonto and charchari while a labra is a mix of six vegetables. Bengali cooking appears to be simple but calls for a variety of methods, boiling, deep-frying, steaming, braising and roasting. The trick is to retain the uniqueness of each ingredient without overpowering with spices.
By no means is the meal over at this point though the stomach may be groaning from over-indulgence. Now appears bowls of either chatni or ambal, a sweet sour preparation made with aamra, jalpai, chalta, green mango,tomato or any other sharp tasting fruit. Green mangos are said to prevent sun-strokes and are renowned for their cooling properties. Tomato chutni is a richer variation, sometimes made with tamarind extracts,raisins and dates and go well with fried papads.
A fitting finale to this many-layered meal can only be provided by the famed Bengali mishti doi, rosogolla, sandesh and numerous other sweets.Served in an earthenware pot usually, the mildly sweetened mishti doi is Bengal's contribution to the Indian gastronomic scene. Rasagollas need no introduction, Bengalis often being referred to by this moniker.Made by boiling balls of chenna in sugar syrup, it is sheer perfection and I challenge anyone to stop at one!! A slightly less known cousin of the rosogolla is the Bengali sandesh, chenna cooked with either gud or sugar and given a variety of shapes, like conch shells, mangoes and roses. Most Bengali sweets are light and in fact recommended for convalescents.On birthdays, payesh or rice cooked in milk and sweetened with gud is a compulsoryitem on the menu. The sheer variety of Bengali sweets either steamed, fried or baked is such that it is the topic for another post!
And finally as we end our meal, last but not the least comes the Bangla paan which acts as a mouth freshener and digestive aid. The betel leaf is stuffed with nuts, sugar, candied fruit and fennel seeds and offered to guests as a sign of hospitality.
One of the problems of Bengali cuisine is that it cannot really be commercialized. Rare is the restaurant that will serve a Bengali meal as it is devoured in a Bengali household.Consequently non-Bengalis have a shadowy idea of what constitutes a proper Bengali Bhojon. Recently a beginning has been made by Oh Calcutta And Bhajahari Manna to present to the world an honest Bengali meal. May their ilk proliferate and Long Live Bangaliana!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Thoughts,Articulated
Just a few blogs old, and already struggling with a vicious writer's block. A staring match ensues with the pristine white page and I decide to jot down the random thoughts of my restless mind. Something I am looking forward to, my parents finally coming to visit us. Mingled with some worries; will the journey be too much in their fragile state of health? Some positive thinking called for here, and loads of it needed when I think of exams around the corner, with the offspring almost surgically attached to his gizmos. Much nicer to think ahead, when the holidays begin, and the next destination to be added to our itinerary. Endless possibilities, with Israel and Jordan on my bucket list. Maybe also a solo trip to Goa, which I have been pondering over for the last few days. Or perhaps with a friend going through a rough patch. A silent prayer when I think of how easily things can go wrong for people. And for all those friends in need or simply to have a good time with. Funny friends, friends to do lunch with, concerned friends who will hold my hand and some on whose shoulders I can cry at any time of the day or night. And also some weird ones, like everybody is blessed with. And of course my canine friend, who is regarding me with somewhat pleading eyes as dinner time approaches. Come to think of it, a rumbling tummy reminds me the spouse is late again. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have the roles reversed, me the corporate high-flier with a house-husband. Probably home-coming to some very suspect meals and a messed up kitchen. And whither would be my plants, my books and my music? Withering away without me, no doubt, There is something to be said about being in the very place the divine powers meant me to be in. Amen.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Voices
He had led a charmed life. Immensely successful in his career, and lucky in love too as he reminded himself, married to his childhood sweetheart and blessed with the most adorable child ever. A perfect family, some said. Yet for some time the sun had not been shining quite so brightly. Making his way through each day was becoming more of an effort, the smiles forced, the pauses in conversation awkward. She had noticed it too, the puzzlement slowly turning into hurt. Lately a few bitter words had been exchanged, as the boy looked on in bewilderment. His thoughts veered in another direction, as he remembered the chance encounter a few months back. On a business trip, as he waited in the near deserted airport lounge for a late night flight, he had looked up and into the most compelling pair of eyes ever. A quick introduction and some moments spent in conversation had been followed by an exchange of phone numbers. They had met again soon after and had continued to do so. Each meeting had been exquisite torture, a grappling with unfamiliar sensations, fighting against a primeval urge. The attraction between them was undeniable. Had he never known before? Or had he simply suppressed his true self? He believed he loved his wife and his family was his world. The pangs of guilt were overwhelming. Yet as the phone rang and the familiar number flashed on the screen, he could not get himself to disconnect his call. His voice was the only lifeline in a world where the dynamics were slowly changing.
She had thought she was one of the lucky ones, who led a happily ever after life. Married to the one she loved, a beautiful boy, a wonderful job. She had often touched wood, a childhood superstition, as she thought of her blessings. But recently the tendrils of worry had begun to weave themselves around her. It was not anything she could put her finger on, just a vague feeling that all was not right. A silence had crept over them, a drawing apart where there had been closeness. Some misunderstandings, some ugly scenes had happened. She could not forget that day in the coffee shop when she had spotted him talking to a man and was about to call out. But something had held her back, the intensity between them precluding anyone else. She had turned back and left. Yet the most horrible suspicions had been plaguing her since then. And the phone calls which he left the room to attend. He,who had never had any secrets from her. In her sanguine moments she thought that there would be a simple explanation and she would be able to laugh away her apprehensions. Yet what if it were true?The very foundation of her life seemed to be wavering.
He counted the days till his sixth birthday again, the third time today. He remembered his last birthday party, presents, cake, friends, balloons and above all, his parents laughing and singing aloud. They hardly seemed to laugh anymore, an eerie silence between them enveloping the house in gloom. And sometimes they fought, the angry words reaching his room where he sat with fingers clapped across his ears. He missed their Sunday outings, the visits to the zoo, the long drives and the gifts his parents sometimes surprised him with. Now they snapped at each other for the smallest reasons and at him too. He pulled the covers over his head to shut out all thoughts. Yet a lone tear crept down his cheek. Would there even be a party for him?
She had thought she was one of the lucky ones, who led a happily ever after life. Married to the one she loved, a beautiful boy, a wonderful job. She had often touched wood, a childhood superstition, as she thought of her blessings. But recently the tendrils of worry had begun to weave themselves around her. It was not anything she could put her finger on, just a vague feeling that all was not right. A silence had crept over them, a drawing apart where there had been closeness. Some misunderstandings, some ugly scenes had happened. She could not forget that day in the coffee shop when she had spotted him talking to a man and was about to call out. But something had held her back, the intensity between them precluding anyone else. She had turned back and left. Yet the most horrible suspicions had been plaguing her since then. And the phone calls which he left the room to attend. He,who had never had any secrets from her. In her sanguine moments she thought that there would be a simple explanation and she would be able to laugh away her apprehensions. Yet what if it were true?The very foundation of her life seemed to be wavering.
He counted the days till his sixth birthday again, the third time today. He remembered his last birthday party, presents, cake, friends, balloons and above all, his parents laughing and singing aloud. They hardly seemed to laugh anymore, an eerie silence between them enveloping the house in gloom. And sometimes they fought, the angry words reaching his room where he sat with fingers clapped across his ears. He missed their Sunday outings, the visits to the zoo, the long drives and the gifts his parents sometimes surprised him with. Now they snapped at each other for the smallest reasons and at him too. He pulled the covers over his head to shut out all thoughts. Yet a lone tear crept down his cheek. Would there even be a party for him?
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Untitled
She still remembers the day they first met. A sultry October afternoon, curtains drawn against the blazing sun, the streets empty of people but for the occasional hawker and a few stray dogs. The morning chores over, a languor spread over her as she relaxed over the customary afternoon cup of tea. He seemed vaguely familiar from the first moment, the chiseled features, the piercing eyes, the faintly amused expression. A common background of growing up in adjacent small towns, a shared love for books and music, a way with words, soon the initial ice was broken and conversation flowed effortlessly. 'Serendipity', he said as they parted the first time, 'to have found you so'. 'A word smith', she breathed, as she reveled in a world of new pleasures. The day passed in a haze, as did the weeks thereafter. The only memories of long interchanges of thoughts, of getting to know each other's secrets, joys and sorrows, likes and dislikes. He loved long hair, thunderstorms, the smell of wet earth, she loved to hear him talk. He made her laugh as no one could, their private jokes making her smile at odd moments of the day. A stab of jealousy as he talked of old loves, a keen delight as he wooed her relentlessly. She drowned in his eyes, he played with her long hair, they held hands as they walked through the old forts and palaces of Rajasthan. Their eyes locked into each other's on moonlit beaches, they came closer on winding paths of secluded hill stations. He was her world, his words a bridge across the chasm between them. And the stray doubts that darkened her mind, the inconsistencies he refused to talk about, easily swept under the carpet. Till the terrible day he failed to come. A million explanations she offered to herself, none of which provided any comfort. The tears flowed unhindered, the next day and the next. The world ceased to matter as she went through the motions of life. Reliving each moment, going over the minute details in the vain hope of making sense. Darkness descended over the world, igniting a streak of insanity in her. A million messages sent, angry, entreating, each more desperate than the other, to no avail. The days turned to months, the tears stopped but the world lost all light. Years have passed, but her eyes still seek him, she longs to hear his voice. Though she knows he is lost to her forever, she spends hours thinking of what may have happened. Did he never feel what she felt? Was she one of many for him? Or was he no longer of this world? Questions, each more haunting than the other, with no answers. Blissful ignorance, she tells herself is better than damning knowledge. Still she waits, yearning for the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Accidental Facebooker
A couple of years back I was cruising along the highways of busy domesticity, a soul content in my cosy cocoon of gardening, cooking, reading, and socializing in the real world. The online community and it's denizens were an alien species I knew little about and cared even less for, so much so that I did not have an email address of my own! However a sudden urge to contact an acquaintance I had lost touch with necessitated a Google search, only to be informed that so and so was on Facebook.Thus began my initiation into the world of social networking as I signed up for Facebook within a matter of days. Since then there has been no looking back.
However the early months were a lonely existence when I would log in and regard myself in solitary splendour on my page. Desperate searches ensued but none of my real life friends seemed to be on Facebook. I was growing resigned to a friendless existence when one fine day a miracle occured and I received an actual friend request! Oh, what bliss! It did not matter that I did not know the person concerned from Adam. Of course I accepted but the bubble burst soon after. My first online friend turned out to be somewhat shady and I learned the first of my lessons, do not trust strangers just because they seem friendly.
Soon however I struck paydirt as I found one of my school friends who had retained her maiden name. One followed another and before long I was connected to the old school network, most of whom seemed to have moved to the States. Many exclamations followed, how this one had changed and the other had doubled in size. Facebook was happy meeting ground and many a pleasant moment was spent reminiscing and oohing and aahing over spouses and children and wonderful careers achieved. Old school photographs were uploaded and nostalgia reigned supreme. One fine day, a long forgotten friend from college sent me a message and as we connected, voila, more friends seemed to crawl out of the woodworks. Gradually, I reconnected with cousins settled abroad and made the acquaintance of the newer generation I had never met before and bonded over books, music and similar likes and dislikes.
As I waxed eloquent about the wonders of Facebook, some friends were enticed to sign up and the ranks of my online friends swelled. Virtual flowers, confectionaries and even medication was exchanged on Facebook. Thinking of creative and original status updates and receiving the most number of comments and Likes became one of the joys of my life. I made friends with fellow Scrabble players from all over the world on Facebook and have been fortunate enough to convert some virtual friendships into real life ones. Birthdays, anniversaries and festive occasions became even more so as they were shared by friends real and virtual,old and new. People I had not been close to in real life became soul mates on Facebook and I felt bereft if I can not communicate with my online buddies. I was totally hooked on to Facebook and experienced my first withdrawal symptoms when I lost my net connection for a while. I would rush to switch on my computer the moment I woke up, even before the first cuppa and the more the notifications, pokes and messages, the better my day began. My plants were looking forlorn, books were piling up unread and it seemed takeaway menus were proliferating dramatically. Friends not connected online complained that I did not answer phone calls or reply to messages. But I was so busy milking cows and building barns on Farmville and becoming a hardy pioneer in Frontierville that real life had taken a backseat. It has taken quite a few nudges from an increasingly neglected husband and offspring, parents and friends to regulate the time I spend Facebooking. Indeed, on quite a few occasions I have de-activated my account, only to get back to it the very next day! And while I may no longer hit the PC the first thing in the morning, it is my Blackberry I reach out for with just one eye just opened.
It is incredible how a social networking site that was meant for students in Harvard has become a household phenomenon. Facebook now has an astounding five hundred million members, including me! As one of my friend's status update said, I was ordinary, till Facebook happened. Now I am awesome, beautiful, wow, outstanding and on one occasion even a flower in a forest! But seriously, Facebook gives me new reasons to smile everyday and even shed a few tears like I did today, talking to a childhood friend after twenty years. It has been instrumental in making me pick up my pen and take some baby steps towards my long forgotten ambition of writing. For me, Facebook is a love story that shows no sign of waning. But in a broader perspective, Facebook is an effective social media that has the power to revolutionize lives, empower businesses, mobilize opinion, organize blood donation drives and fundraising, raise environmental issues, and make political statements. Is it a wonder then that The Accidental Millionaire, Mark Zuckerberg, the creator of Facebook has been named the Person of the Year by Time magazine!
However the early months were a lonely existence when I would log in and regard myself in solitary splendour on my page. Desperate searches ensued but none of my real life friends seemed to be on Facebook. I was growing resigned to a friendless existence when one fine day a miracle occured and I received an actual friend request! Oh, what bliss! It did not matter that I did not know the person concerned from Adam. Of course I accepted but the bubble burst soon after. My first online friend turned out to be somewhat shady and I learned the first of my lessons, do not trust strangers just because they seem friendly.
Soon however I struck paydirt as I found one of my school friends who had retained her maiden name. One followed another and before long I was connected to the old school network, most of whom seemed to have moved to the States. Many exclamations followed, how this one had changed and the other had doubled in size. Facebook was happy meeting ground and many a pleasant moment was spent reminiscing and oohing and aahing over spouses and children and wonderful careers achieved. Old school photographs were uploaded and nostalgia reigned supreme. One fine day, a long forgotten friend from college sent me a message and as we connected, voila, more friends seemed to crawl out of the woodworks. Gradually, I reconnected with cousins settled abroad and made the acquaintance of the newer generation I had never met before and bonded over books, music and similar likes and dislikes.
As I waxed eloquent about the wonders of Facebook, some friends were enticed to sign up and the ranks of my online friends swelled. Virtual flowers, confectionaries and even medication was exchanged on Facebook. Thinking of creative and original status updates and receiving the most number of comments and Likes became one of the joys of my life. I made friends with fellow Scrabble players from all over the world on Facebook and have been fortunate enough to convert some virtual friendships into real life ones. Birthdays, anniversaries and festive occasions became even more so as they were shared by friends real and virtual,old and new. People I had not been close to in real life became soul mates on Facebook and I felt bereft if I can not communicate with my online buddies. I was totally hooked on to Facebook and experienced my first withdrawal symptoms when I lost my net connection for a while. I would rush to switch on my computer the moment I woke up, even before the first cuppa and the more the notifications, pokes and messages, the better my day began. My plants were looking forlorn, books were piling up unread and it seemed takeaway menus were proliferating dramatically. Friends not connected online complained that I did not answer phone calls or reply to messages. But I was so busy milking cows and building barns on Farmville and becoming a hardy pioneer in Frontierville that real life had taken a backseat. It has taken quite a few nudges from an increasingly neglected husband and offspring, parents and friends to regulate the time I spend Facebooking. Indeed, on quite a few occasions I have de-activated my account, only to get back to it the very next day! And while I may no longer hit the PC the first thing in the morning, it is my Blackberry I reach out for with just one eye just opened.
It is incredible how a social networking site that was meant for students in Harvard has become a household phenomenon. Facebook now has an astounding five hundred million members, including me! As one of my friend's status update said, I was ordinary, till Facebook happened. Now I am awesome, beautiful, wow, outstanding and on one occasion even a flower in a forest! But seriously, Facebook gives me new reasons to smile everyday and even shed a few tears like I did today, talking to a childhood friend after twenty years. It has been instrumental in making me pick up my pen and take some baby steps towards my long forgotten ambition of writing. For me, Facebook is a love story that shows no sign of waning. But in a broader perspective, Facebook is an effective social media that has the power to revolutionize lives, empower businesses, mobilize opinion, organize blood donation drives and fundraising, raise environmental issues, and make political statements. Is it a wonder then that The Accidental Millionaire, Mark Zuckerberg, the creator of Facebook has been named the Person of the Year by Time magazine!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Ethics of Euthanasia
The word "euthanasia" translates from Greek as a "good death" ,a pleasant way to depart well from life. The recent Bollywood movie Guzarish deals with this sensitive topic,albeit through rose-tinted glasses. Euthanasia is a matter of continuing debate, with opinions ranging from vociferous advocacy, careful approval to outright rejection. Indeed, some would go so far as to call euthanasia murder. But who decides when the quality of a person's life is too poor to continue living? Physicians? Relatives? Or the law? Is it only the terminally ill who can be administered merciful death or even the mentally ill who merit euthanasia?
The arguments for mercy-killing are indeed pertinent and valid. It is the only relief available to people suffering from incurable, painful and end-stage diseases like cancer. A once proud individual reduced to a vegetable-like existence is justified in demanding alleviation from pain. In a free world, each and everyone of us should have the freedom of choice. And purely from a practical point of view, it frees up medical resources and funds to help other patients who will benefit from it.
On the other hand, euthanasia is a form of killing, both from the legal as well as moral point of view. In a country like India, it may well be used as a license for criminal and intentional murder. It is possible mercy killing may cause a decline in medical standards as well.For a physician who has taken the Hippocratic Oath, killing patients is the primary taboo. With the advancement of medical science, palliative care is a better way to help terminal patients live a pain free and dignified existence. Euthanasia would nip in the bud so many miraculous death bed recoveries one hears of. Depressed individuals might take recourse to it as the easy way out.
One wonders what opinion Aruna Shanbagh would hold on this issue,if she were capable of rational thought. Raped in 1973 and in a vegetative state since then, with no relatives to look after her, Aruna has been cared for by nurses at the KEM hospital for 36 years. A petition to allow Aruna to die has sparked a heated debate across India. The Supreme Court does not give permission to die and Indian scriptures have for centuries upheld the values of life and its preservation.But these words are cold comfort to Aruna and others like her who lead an existence that can at best be called sub-human. In the US,the case of Terry Schiavo was another distressing example of a conflict between family members which led her to be sustained through artificial feeding for 15 years though she had been left in a vegetative state after a cardiac arrest. Ms Shiavo's feeding tube was removed in 2005 after protracted legal battle and she died some days later. She died in a natural,humane process,and dozens of other patients in her similar physical state deserve the same consideration. Or so would believe Dr Kevorkian, dubbed Dr Death for his passionate defense of choice for terminal patients. In 1998, he assisted a terminally ill patient with a lethal injection that was broadcast on television. Arrested soon after, Dr Kevorkian has been instrumental in winning terminally ill patients the right to decide on the time and method of their own death. Dr Death or Angel of Mercy, the debate rages on.
Popular opinion holds that the Final Departure should be a dignified one. A person with an incurable disease,or in terrible pain with no hope of recovery should be given the right to decide if he wants to die in peace. The central issue should not be what family members desire for themselves or for their loved one. The point to consider is what the patient would want. If there is no clear indication of what he would have preferred, and in the absence of public policy or clear family consensus,medical aid should be continued. But enforcing life-prolonging treatment against the patient's desire is unethical. At the same time, there should be stringent laws in place that ensure that no false play is possible. Every patient admitted to a hospital should fill out a "living will" indicating their wishes in the event that they lose their competence in future. Each human being is an individual and there can be no single rule that applies to each and everyone. It is up to the family,medical professionals and the law to decide which path to take. But every person has the right to a Death of Dignity and one hopes the law guarantees that for each of us.
The arguments for mercy-killing are indeed pertinent and valid. It is the only relief available to people suffering from incurable, painful and end-stage diseases like cancer. A once proud individual reduced to a vegetable-like existence is justified in demanding alleviation from pain. In a free world, each and everyone of us should have the freedom of choice. And purely from a practical point of view, it frees up medical resources and funds to help other patients who will benefit from it.
On the other hand, euthanasia is a form of killing, both from the legal as well as moral point of view. In a country like India, it may well be used as a license for criminal and intentional murder. It is possible mercy killing may cause a decline in medical standards as well.For a physician who has taken the Hippocratic Oath, killing patients is the primary taboo. With the advancement of medical science, palliative care is a better way to help terminal patients live a pain free and dignified existence. Euthanasia would nip in the bud so many miraculous death bed recoveries one hears of. Depressed individuals might take recourse to it as the easy way out.
One wonders what opinion Aruna Shanbagh would hold on this issue,if she were capable of rational thought. Raped in 1973 and in a vegetative state since then, with no relatives to look after her, Aruna has been cared for by nurses at the KEM hospital for 36 years. A petition to allow Aruna to die has sparked a heated debate across India. The Supreme Court does not give permission to die and Indian scriptures have for centuries upheld the values of life and its preservation.But these words are cold comfort to Aruna and others like her who lead an existence that can at best be called sub-human. In the US,the case of Terry Schiavo was another distressing example of a conflict between family members which led her to be sustained through artificial feeding for 15 years though she had been left in a vegetative state after a cardiac arrest. Ms Shiavo's feeding tube was removed in 2005 after protracted legal battle and she died some days later. She died in a natural,humane process,and dozens of other patients in her similar physical state deserve the same consideration. Or so would believe Dr Kevorkian, dubbed Dr Death for his passionate defense of choice for terminal patients. In 1998, he assisted a terminally ill patient with a lethal injection that was broadcast on television. Arrested soon after, Dr Kevorkian has been instrumental in winning terminally ill patients the right to decide on the time and method of their own death. Dr Death or Angel of Mercy, the debate rages on.
Popular opinion holds that the Final Departure should be a dignified one. A person with an incurable disease,or in terrible pain with no hope of recovery should be given the right to decide if he wants to die in peace. The central issue should not be what family members desire for themselves or for their loved one. The point to consider is what the patient would want. If there is no clear indication of what he would have preferred, and in the absence of public policy or clear family consensus,medical aid should be continued. But enforcing life-prolonging treatment against the patient's desire is unethical. At the same time, there should be stringent laws in place that ensure that no false play is possible. Every patient admitted to a hospital should fill out a "living will" indicating their wishes in the event that they lose their competence in future. Each human being is an individual and there can be no single rule that applies to each and everyone. It is up to the family,medical professionals and the law to decide which path to take. But every person has the right to a Death of Dignity and one hopes the law guarantees that for each of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)