Medical practitioners, divide up into two clearly defined and mutually exclusive categories. Those who write prescriptions and those who write encryptions (or cryptographs, to use old fashioned terminology). Depending on how critical the nature of the illness is, one has to decide which category of doctor needs to be visited. Under normal circumstances, one visits the prescription writer, the one who scribbles down the names of a variety of medicines to be purchased from local pharmacies. Any run of the mill pharmacist can read the handwriting, even when it is not particularly legible. When these medicines fail to provide the desired results, however, people converge to the encryption writers, the ones who prescribe medicines in coded language that can be deciphered only by specially trained workers employed in their privately run workshops.

I was suffering from the recurrence of painful ulcers in my mouth. Initially, they used to come and go and the suffering was not long lasting. With time though, they developed a tendency of arriving and setting up permanent residence inside my oral cavity. When the pain became unbearable, I visited a prescription writer. He tried various medicines for a number of weeks and, when everything else failed, declared that it was an allergic manifestation and began to administer anti-histaminic tablets. Avil 25 to be precise, one tablet b.i.d. If they helped me, I remained hopelessly unaware of the good news. The Avil tablets ensured that I was half asleep most of the day and dead asleep at night. In this somnambulant state, I had no idea if the ulcers had vanished or not, for I was hardly conscious if I myself existed anymore. This was not particularly helpful, since I had a professor’s job to perform and a teacher who slept while lecturing was not popular either with the students or with the authorities. I was desperate though to retain my job, if for nothing else, at least to be able to pay for the Avil 25’s I was consuming to lose my job, and finally, in a rare moment of consciousness, took a right about turn and landed in the chamber of an encryption specialist at the opposite end of the town in North Kolkata.

The latter held my wrist and read my pulse with a frown on his face and finally produced an encryptions filled page, to be decrypted by his assistants in the adjoining pharmacy, which bore a distinct resemblance to an alchemist’s laboratory from the middle ages. Decryption was a time consuming process, however, and I was told by shadowy characters there to show up next day to collect the medicines.

I did as I was asked and after procuring the package of medicines, came out into the open and began to walk towards Central Avenue to catch a bus back home. It was a longish walk through a lane that connected to the avenue. The lane was deserted and it was around 2 PM in the afternoon. Suddenly I noticed that I had company, two beetle leaf chewing men, one on my left and the other on my right, were pressing me from both sides with increasing force. Their beetle juice smeared crimson lips didn’t inspire confidence at all and when they began to speak to me, I felt immensely uncomfortable. They cackled obscenities down my ears accompanied by vulgar gestures. I was confused for a while but soon figured out that I was walking through Calcutta’s oldest and much renowned red light district, Sonagachhi. It had never occurred to me that the encryption specialist’s chamber was located so nearby. I was vaguely aware at best of the Sonagachhi area and visiting the doctor landed me right in the middle of it.

Two pimps without a doubt. Alarmed, I used the medicine package, the only weapon I possessed at that moment, to push one of them away. The fellow was taken by surprise, for the package burst open on his shirt front and its blackish, semi-liquid contents began to trickle down his clothes. He screamed out and tried to catch hold of me with help from his mate. I began to run as well and I ran so fast that I could have set an Olympic record of sorts. They were somewhat tipsy I imagine and couldn’t keep up with me. Soon, I had reached Central Avenue, where I knew I was safe. It was a busy thoroughfare, unlike the empty lane, and traffic policemen were patrolling around. I ran for a while more nevertheless and finally stood by a bus stop, keeping a wary watch over the lane I had emerged from. The pair had evaporated fortunately, but my heart was still thumping when I finally boarded a bus.

Back home, I headed straight for the shower, where I slipped quickly out of the clothes I was wearing, deciding to throw them away. They were far too dirty I felt. Then I stood under the shower for a long duration and kept on rinsing my mouth with water for a reason I cannot explain. I did it again and again and again. Then I dried myself up, changed into fresh garments and emerged from the bathroom.

I felt cleaner. I felt at peace with myself. And, interestingly enough, I definitely felt that the pain inside my mouth was bothering me less. I re-entered the bathroom and rinsed my mouth a few more times. The pain subsided even more.

The relief was so great that rinsing my mouth every hour or so turned into an addiction for the next few days. The ulcers began to disappear and after a week or ten days, I was completely cured. Since then, ulcers in my mouth have rarely developed. And when they do, I simply rinse my mouth several times a day and the treatment never fails.

In hindsight, I must admit that I owe my eternal gratitude to the pair of pimps that made me run for my life through a narrow Sonagachhi lane. And I do not underestimate the medical branches of prescriptions and encryptions either. But for these, the pimps, and hence the treatment, may never have shown up in my life at all.