Mahapatra was an angel. We revered him because he had a cure for every disease.
Our family knew him as Compounderbabu, so did the whole of Royda, the little Orissa village where I grew up. He operated out of a plain tin-roof white-washed structure that for some unexplained reason was built on an elevated foundation.
You’d have to climb steps to reach Compounderbabu’s cramped room with green curtains strung up on springs atop the windows. The healer sat at a stark wooden table that showed signs of ageing surrounded by wooden cabinets and almirahs. Behind his chair, covered in green towel, multi-coloured bottles lined the racks.
Some of these containers had powders. Others strange colourless disinfectants, liquids and spirits. Crooked scissors, surgical knives, gauze, cotton wool and forceps were thrown on a white tray kept on an aluminum-top stool beside his table — most unlikely that these were ever sterilised. This was Compounderbabu’s arsenal — all he was equipped with to fight the assault of killer diseases.
The stone-age, rusty equipment and rudimentary medicines notwithstanding, Mahapatra was a wizard with a cure. If you went to him with an aching stomach, he would smile and say: No worries. I have a mixture for you. Two spoons and you’d be ready for a marathon.
This curious pungent and sweet concoction healed half the world’s ailments. We believed it had magical qualities. Stomach ache, malaria, ulcers — what wouldn’t it cure? Down with a stubborn fever that refuses to leave you? Try Compounderbabu’s mysterious white tablet without a name. On the seventh day, you always broke into a sweat and the fever melted away with it.
He was super at detecting malaria and never needed a blood test (there was no such facility in 100 km anyway) to diagnose it. So, if you went to him rattling and shivering, he immediately administered quinine. No questions asked.
But most importantly, in the evenings Mahapatra religiously made a round of all his patients—visiting villagers, miners and managers. As a medicine man, he was extremely physical, stroking your hair, holding your hand and comforting you. His kind, bright eyes looked at patients through a pair of heavy lenses. Always cheerful, his one-liner even for the man on the deathbed was: “Seven days. You’ll be fit.”
More than any drug, the most potent medicine in Compounderbabu’s square leather box was hope. And his infectious smile. He was particularly fond of a story. Of a man who had been attacked by a bear. The lumbering animal, high on mahua (an intoxicating fruit that grew in abundance in the forests) had scooped up this chap’s scalp exposing his gooey brain and the skull barely clung on to the head by a slender piece of skin.
The doughty man dodged the bear and ran several km to reach Mahapatra at his clinic. “I made this guy sit, gave him a glass of water, delicately put the scalp back in place and stitched it up. Then I patted him on the back and he walked home,” he’d recall with pride.
I always found this story fascinating. Man, this guy had guts and a drive to survive! Given Royda’s inhospitable terrain, Compounderbabu’s story seemed to have a grain of truth.
Mahapatra cured me of a pretty severe bout of chickenpox, meticulously nursing the angry, itchy rashes on my skin for hours. With soft hands, he bathed me in one of his mixtures, fed me and sat by my bedside telling me stories I don’t remember and calmed my revolt at being denied the right to step out of my room.
Then, one day, Compounderbabu was gone. The company had appointed a full doctor to man the health centre and had no need of a paramedic. The story went like this. One morning Mahapatra walked into his clinic and saw this strapping young doctor sitting at his desk.
Compounderbabu wished him a very good morning and handed him the keys to the cabinets, excused himself, packed his bags and left. To this day, he remains the best healer I have ever known – friendly, kind and encouraging life.
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