REMEMBERING SUSHRUTA AGNELO GOMES MARTIN (1961-2010) A tribute is to a popular homeopath who passed away in Goa last week.
By Dr Meenacshi Martins [email protected] Amidst the bombs exploding and the Indian Army running around in our home, Sushruta decided to arrive prematurely, as if he could not wait to partake in the excitement of the times. A few days after the Liberation of Goa, he was born at the Asilo Hospital, extremely premature, a tiny blue fragile baby. Barely able to walk, I furiously guarded the door, protecting my little brother. A role I had to continue to play for many a decade. With our parents actively involved in the freedom movement, at the time at its feverish peak, Sushruta became my responsibility and I remained his parent-surrogate. Caring for a not-so-easy to comprehend personality was harrowing, but interesting as well. He kept me enthralled with all his tricks and trials all through our childhood. We remained entwined together by destiny. With absent parents, bonding unusually, more than most siblings do. Growing up in a village with fields, rivers and a jungle behind the house, gave an expansive dimension to our brother-sister team that ruled the local children and converted the entire village into a play ground. Hide and seek games used up all houses, barns and wells. Swimming, a routine evening past-time, was from one village to another, Bathmodo to Britona and back. Often chasing leaves, fish or just each other through the back waters of Paitona village in Bardez. Our group was large, may be 20 odd kids, and we all ran a riot during summer vacations. We had a Youth Congress movement going on back then, with full support of the then MP Purushottam Kakodkar, who had given me a seal of the YCC. Sushruta and I would organize meetings in our parents' garage, gather the kids to go around the village, cleaning drains and helping school drop outs. I was six and he was four. I secretly believe that all the children just came for the gram and groundnuts that my mother distributed to them later in the evenings, or even the occasional batat kappas or shrikhand and puri that she would bring home from Mapusa. There were many a quieter moment that we spent somewhere in the wilderness of our backyard. We would take a tiffin of canji and raw mango pickle, packed by our most bewildered grandmother, and spend an entire day somewhere up in the caves, perched on tree tops, in rain water storm drains or by the river side. What we talked about the whole day, just the two of us, beats me. But we talked and talked. As he grew older, my responsibility just kept mounting. That I was required to sit with a young child who played around with a soldering iron, building radios from a kit I had to order by post, was taxing, to say in the least. But I would buy him his kits for repairs of various things he thought he should do. Radios, watches, recorders, cycles, scooter, just about anything, with me as his assistant. When the village got electrified, he at the age of twelve decided to wire our home with a three phase supply with the help of an old uncle and me, on tall ladders. I would sort out the wires and pass them around, while he did he connections. It was remarkable for a 12-year-old child to embark with great confidence in things that are rarely a domain of children. Yet the watch repair shop in Mapusa would keep the most expensive and rare watches for Sushruta to repair after school hours. Never mind the fact that at the time he had difficulty saying the seven-times table. He was hardly coping with school studies but preferred to sit at Baba's photo studio rather than be in class. Around that time, we also managed to save Rs 25 to buy our first camera. It was a 120 mm box thing with an external flash, the one with acid and bulbs. And we embarked on our passion for photography. Converting one bathroom into a dark room, we developed all our prints at home. I had a pact with him. For every film exposed, he had to take a few of my photographs. The result is known to many. Some of my most exclusive pictures were taken by my brother at home. Then he bought a Zeiss enlarger, and a new world opened up. He knew the camera so well and easily out-smarted me in technology and the sensitivity required of photography. His sensitivity came through even as a child. He was ultra caring and kind and generous to the point of irrationality. He would liberally give our home items to people and to whosoever came to my mother's clinic at home. If people returned the things he would cry. His tearful explanations were so simplistic. The fisherwomen needed the sandals more than my father did. Or the labourer, a rain coat which my father could always buy again. When our cat Joaquim fell in the well, he got the whole village together to help. He was all of four years old. Later he would not think twice about getting his hands into matters where others would hesitate. So many times he has stopped to help traffic accident victims, rushing them to hospitals. Caring and healing came so naturally to him. Having a long-term ailing mother in the house and a bedridden grandmother only perhaps enhanced our healing abilities. Childhood adversities can either make or break a child. It could be that his healing extended to others due to his exposure to so much pain in our early days. My mother was a patient of a heart ailment; it was Sushruta who cared for her during her last few years, while I studied medicine in the Goa Medical College. He was my mother's pet and they shared a bond that I just could not touch. His vision for development and patriotism was, I guess, a natural part of having grown up amongst the illustrious personalities of the freedom struggle. Love for the nation was deeply instilled within our beings by our father, who put us to school in the village amongst the children of field workers and those whose parents worked in other rural trades. "You should know what real India is all about," our father said, when we occasionally complained because we felt left out. Both of us indeed learnt a great lesson in humanity. I am proud of my early education and I am sure so was he. Our mother finally died after nine long years of confounding illness. Few days later, one early morning, Sushruta tuned up at my room in the Goa Medical College hostel, with a large set of papers. Secretly, our mother had been studying via some postal course. Even in death she had left us a treasure of knowledge. Sushruta had found the huge pile of papers for a homeopathy course. Handing over the papers to me Sushruta said, "let us study these". And we did. Sitting at times till 4 am at home, we finished studying the portion for the first two years. He answered the first year exams. I was exempted as I had already cleared First MBBS. Thereafter, we frantically scoured book stalls and exhibitions for all related material. I have kept the very first 'Materia Medica' that we possessed. Later, I would email him all the things I continued to study. He read and studied with technical precision and used his natural gift of healing for the betterment of many. While I acted in the several Goa and Maharashtra award-winning drams, and won the coveted awards for best acting for Goa and Maharashtra, he wrote plays. I acted in the play 'Modi and modi' adapted and directed by him at our village in Paitona with all our childhood gang participating. 'Jallmat', a play he wrote, was a superb piece of work. And the story 'Raktalle mallab' based on the murder of our village girl was truly intriguing. There after he was elected as the president of Konkani Bhasha Mandal and was its youngest president. For several years, we spent our summers at the Salmona fountain at Saligao, participating in the Goa Bharat Scouts and Guides camps. Both of us received the precious President's award alongwith some of our dear friends. I could not really do much without him. Then, somewhere along the way, when Umesh Mahambre joined us, we became a team of three. While I prepared for the inaugural function of the Goa Unit of Doordarshan, in July 1990, it was the three of us that sat up the entire night writing the words that I spoke at the function. It was an event that many Goans still remember. And I recall the night we spent writing the narration for the three hour long live telecast. My first time on television. Sushruta's daughter Esmina, speaking at the church on the day he was buried, said that Sushruta had many aspirations. Idealistic and utopian. The blood of two freedom fighters ran through our system. We don't cow down easily. Sushruta was made to kneel on stones in the sun at the village primary government school because he was seen campaigning for our MLA. He fainted in the heat and pain but did not apologize to the teacher, who obviously was from another political party. His later endeavors are in public domain. The need to change and set things right seems to be ingrained in our DNA. My father was an AICC member and we occasionally visited Delhi for meetings alongwith our parents. Once in Delhi, then Member of Parliament Mr Kakodkar took us to see a film. During the film we all stood up for the National Anthem. There were others that did not. Some were heard whispering. All of a sudden Sushruta started crying loudly. He forced the manager to replay the anthem and to announce that all should stand up and pay respect. This was done by a four year old brother of mine As children, we fought and vowed never to speak again on several occasions. The next morning we would forget the whole fight and merrily chatter along. Sushrut had devised a way to remember the vow of 'never speaking again' and insisted we write it on the wall. So many mornings we scuttled to the wall to see if we were speaking that day or not. And many a days we forgot to even clarify that point. Wish we could think of this life as a game and say I forgot we can't speak now, ever gain. Even if no wall says so. I choose to remember him the way he was when I knew him as my little brother. Loving, caring, tons of mischievous fun, and incredibly talented in ways one cannot fathom. He remained loved, deeply, through all the ups and mostly through all the downs of our life. ------------------------------------------------------------ FOOTNOTE: Dr. Meenacshi Martins is a popular psychiatrist, actress and personality of many roles. She lives with her family at 1017, Shriwada, Paitona, PO Alto Porvorim, Bardez, Goa. Pin 403521 and can be contacted via phone +919225901098 or +91-8326512706.REMEMBERING SUSHRUTA AGNELO GOMES MARTIN (1961-2010) A tribute is to a popular homeopath who passed away in Goa last week. By Dr Meenacshi Martins [email protected] Amidst the bombs exploding and the Indian Army running around in our home, Sushruta decided to arrive prematurely, as if he could not wait to partake in the excitement of the times. A few days after the Liberation of Goa, he was born at the Asilo Hospital, extremely premature, a tiny blue fragile baby. Barely able to walk, I furiously guarded the door, protecting my little brother. A role I had to continue to play for many a decade. With our parents actively involved in the freedom movement, at the time at its feverish peak, Sushruta became my responsibility and I remained his parent-surrogate. Caring for a not-so-easy to comprehend personality was harrowing, but interesting as well. He kept me enthralled with all his tricks and trials all through our childhood. We remained entwined together by destiny. With absent parents, bonding unusually, more than most siblings do. Growing up in a village with fields, rivers and a jungle behind the house, gave an expansive dimension to our brother-sister team that ruled the local children and converted the entire village into a play ground. Hide and seek games used up all houses, barns and wells. Swimming, a routine evening past-time, was from one village to another, Bathmodo to Britona and back. Often chasing leaves, fish or just each other through the back waters of Paitona village in Bardez. Our group was large, may be 20 odd kids, and we all ran a riot during summer vacations. We had a Youth Congress movement going on back then, with full support of the then MP Purushottam Kakodkar, who had given me a seal of the YCC. Sushruta and I would organize meetings in our parents' garage, gather the kids to go around the village, cleaning drains and helping school drop outs. I was six and he was four. I secretly believe that all the children just came for the gram and groundnuts that my mother distributed to them later in the evenings, or even the occasional batat kappas or shrikhand and puri that she would bring home from Mapusa. There were many a quieter moment that we spent somewhere in the wilderness of our backyard. We would take a tiffin of canji and raw mango pickle, packed by our most bewildered grandmother, and spend an entire day somewhere up in the caves, perched on tree tops, in rain water storm drains or by the river side. What we talked about the whole day, just the two of us, beats me. But we talked and talked. As he grew older, my responsibility just kept mounting. That I was required to sit with a young child who played around with a soldering iron, building radios from a kit I had to order by post, was taxing, to say in the least. But I would buy him his kits for repairs of various things he thought he should do. Radios, watches, recorders, cycles, scooter, just about anything, with me as his assistant. When the village got electrified, he at the age of twelve decided to wire our home with a three phase supply with the help of an old uncle and me, on tall ladders. I would sort out the wires and pass them around, while he did he connections. It was remarkable for a 12-year-old child to embark with great confidence in things that are rarely a domain of children. Yet the watch repair shop in Mapusa would keep the most expensive and rare watches for Sushruta to repair after school hours. Never mind the fact that at the time he had difficulty saying the seven-times table. He was hardly coping with school studies but preferred to sit at Baba's photo studio rather than be in class. Around that time, we also managed to save Rs 25 to buy our first camera. It was a 120 mm box thing with an external flash, the one with acid and bulbs. And we embarked on our passion for photography. Converting one bathroom into a dark room, we developed all our prints at home. I had a pact with him. For every film exposed, he had to take a few of my photographs. The result is known to many. Some of my most exclusive pictures were taken by my brother at home. Then he bought a Zeiss enlarger, and a new world opened up. He knew the camera so well and easily out-smarted me in technology and the sensitivity required of photography. His sensitivity came through even as a child. He was ultra caring and kind and generous to the point of irrationality. He would liberally give our home items to people and to whosoever came to my mother's clinic at home. If people returned the things he would cry. His tearful explanations were so simplistic. The fisherwomen needed the sandals more than my father did. Or the labourer, a rain coat which my father could always buy again. When our cat Joaquim fell in the well, he got the whole village together to help. He was all of four years old. Later he would not think twice about getting his hands into matters where others would hesitate. So many times he has stopped to help traffic accident victims, rushing them to hospitals. Caring and healing came so naturally to him. Having a long-term ailing mother in the house and a bedridden grandmother only perhaps enhanced our healing abilities. Childhood adversities can either make or break a child. It could be that his healing extended to others due to his exposure to so much pain in our early days. My mother was a patient of a heart ailment; it was Sushruta who cared for her during her last few years, while I studied medicine in the Goa Medical College. He was my mother's pet and they shared a bond that I just could not touch. His vision for development and patriotism was, I guess, a natural part of having grown up amongst the illustrious personalities of the freedom struggle. Love for the nation was deeply instilled within our beings by our father, who put us to school in the village amongst the children of field workers and those whose parents worked in other rural trades. "You should know what real India is all about," our father said, when we occasionally complained because we felt left out. Both of us indeed learnt a great lesson in humanity. I am proud of my early education and I am sure so was he. Our mother finally died after nine long years of confounding illness. Few days later, one early morning, Sushruta tuned up at my room in the Goa Medical College hostel, with a large set of papers. Secretly, our mother had been studying via some postal course. Even in death she had left us a treasure of knowledge. Sushruta had found the huge pile of papers for a homeopathy course. Handing over the papers to me Sushruta said, "let us study these". And we did. Sitting at times till 4 am at home, we finished studying the portion for the first two years. He answered the first year exams. I was exempted as I had already cleared First MBBS. Thereafter, we frantically scoured book stalls and exhibitions for all related material. I have kept the very first 'Materia Medica' that we possessed. Later, I would email him all the things I continued to study. He read and studied with technical precision and used his natural gift of healing for the betterment of many. While I acted in the several Goa and Maharashtra award-winning drams, and won the coveted awards for best acting for Goa and Maharashtra, he wrote plays. I acted in the play 'Modi and modi' adapted and directed by him at our village in Paitona with all our childhood gang participating. 'Jallmat', a play he wrote, was a superb piece of work. And the story 'Raktalle mallab' based on the murder of our village girl was truly intriguing. There after he was elected as the president of Konkani Bhasha Mandal and was its youngest president. For several years, we spent our summers at the Salmona fountain at Saligao, participating in the Goa Bharat Scouts and Guides camps. Both of us received the precious President's award alongwith some of our dear friends. I could not really do much without him. Then, somewhere along the way, when Umesh Mahambre joined us, we became a team of three. While I prepared for the inaugural function of the Goa Unit of Doordarshan, in July 1990, it was the three of us that sat up the entire night writing the words that I spoke at the function. It was an event that many Goans still remember. And I recall the night we spent writing the narration for the three hour long live telecast. My first time on television. Sushruta's daughter Esmina, speaking at the church on the day he was buried, said that Sushruta had many aspirations. Idealistic and utopian. The blood of two freedom fighters ran through our system. We don't cow down easily. Sushruta was made to kneel on stones in the sun at the village primary government school because he was seen campaigning for our MLA. He fainted in the heat and pain but did not apologize to the teacher, who obviously was from another political party. His later endeavors are in public domain. The need to change and set things right seems to be ingrained in our DNA. My father was an AICC member and we occasionally visited Delhi for meetings alongwith our parents. Once in Delhi, then Member of Parliament Mr Kakodkar took us to see a film. During the film we all stood up for the National Anthem. There were others that did not. Some were heard whispering. All of a sudden Sushruta started crying loudly. He forced the manager to replay the anthem and to announce that all should stand up and pay respect. This was done by a four year old brother of mine As children, we fought and vowed never to speak again on several occasions. The next morning we would forget the whole fight and merrily chatter along. Sushrut had devised a way to remember the vow of 'never speaking again' and insisted we write it on the wall. So many mornings we scuttled to the wall to see if we were speaking that day or not. And many a days we forgot to even clarify that point. Wish we could think of this life as a game and say I forgot we can't speak now, ever gain. Even if no wall says so. I choose to remember him the way he was when I knew him as my little brother. Loving, caring, tons of mischievous fun, and incredibly talented in ways one cannot fathom. He remained loved, deeply, through all the ups and mostly through all the downs of our life. ------------------------------------------------------------ FOOTNOTE: Dr. Meenacshi Martins qualified from medical school as a psychiatrist, and earned awards as an actress. She runs the Institute for Emotional and Social Wellness, Education and Research. Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ieswer She lives with her family at 1017, Shriwada, Paitona, PO Alto Porvorim, Bardez, Goa. Pin 403521 and can be contacted via phone +919225901098 or +91-8326512706.
