Punjabi bonding at Atrium

Dev, can you please go to the emergency at Atrium Hospital in Middletown and interpret for a lady? Her name is Begum and she speaks Punjabi.” From the tone of the speaker I could sense the urgency as she seemed desperate to get an interpreter so late on that weekend evening. In spite of being tired and having a prior engagement, I agreed to her request thinking this might help someone needing medical help so urgently. 

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I reached the hospital as fast as I could go on that busy highway. On reaching the hospital I was guided to the emergency where I found a fragile-looking lady in her eighties on the bed. There was another lady and a middle-aged man standing next to the bed. The lady introduced herself as a pastoress at the hospital. Many of the hospitals in the USA have pastoral services and have a church or a designated place to pray. The pastor is called in to console those who need moral support, usually the terminally ill patients. I was told by the pastoress that the lady had undergone a couple of surgeries and was scheduled for another surgery the next day. The patient was very agitated and spoke in Punjabi that no one in the room could understand. I interpreted all that was said but that was of little help. Stepping aside my professional ethics where an interpreter is not supposed to add any words on his own, I told her very politely in Punjabi. “Maanji tassali rakkho, sabh theek ho jayega” (Mother, have patience, everything will be fine). This had a dramatic calming effect on the lady, much to the surprise of the pastoress and the man standing next to her. 

During the rest of interpretation session I came to know that the man in the room was in fact Dr. Akram and he was one of the two sons of the patient. Begum and her husband moved from New Delhi to Pakistan where her husband was in civil service. The family then migrated to the USA 40 years ago and the husband died some years later. The lady raised her two sons who grew to become successful doctors.  “But why can't you interpret for your mom, especially when you are a doctor”, I asked Akram. “Actually my Punjabi is not so good. I can hardly communicate with my mom”, he replied.  He also told me that his brother Sohail was also a doctor in Memphis. But he is very busy and has never come to see mother for years.

It was time for me to leave. The patient held my hand. “Halle na javo beta” (Don't go yet, son). I told her that I would come again tomorrow. “Changa betaji tusin jana hovega. Kal zarror auna” (Ok, Maybe you have to leave son, do come again tomorrow). Akram also told me to come again the next day. “Your Punjabi words like ‘Maanji’ (mom) and ‘tassali’ (patience) sound familiar and are having a magical effect on her. I have never seen her so calm, he told me.

While driving out of the parking lot I looked back. The sun was setting over Atrium.  I thought in my mind that I have never met this lady in my life and will perhaps not see her again. But I was happy that with my knowledge of Punjabi I could give her some comfort. This also cleared some myths from my mind that common people on the other side of the border have any ill feelings against Indians and that being in a developed country or having two doctor sons will ensure any peaceful end to life.