PARADISE LOST!

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

Former three-time national TT champion and international player, V. Chandrasekhar, 36, went into Apollo Hospital for a simple knee surgery. He returned from the hospital blind and paralysed. Thus began a life of struggle and despair; a fierce fight to regain the use of his faculties through physiotherapy and an 8 1⁄2-year lawsuit with Apollo Hospital for compensation. An update on all that has happened so far…

By Shevlin Sebastian, Madras

The first sight of Chandrasekhar’s drawing room through the semi-open door was astonishing. There were clothes strewn all over the floor – full-sleeved shirts, trousers, and T-shirts. Another bunch of clothes was placed across the back of a chair. Some books and papers lay on the floor. And near the entrance, on a stool, was the Arjuna Award, placed in a glass casing. There was a patina of dust on it.

I rang the bell.

V. Chandrasekhar (Chandra) suddenly poked his head from a nearby sofa, whose back was towards the door. His face looked truly stunning. It was a face of enormous sadness, bitterness, despair, and longing. It was a face that had seen a lot of suffering. The straggly growth of beard seemed to heighten the sadness.

Chandra got up slowly and came to the door. He shook my hand and immediately said, “I’m sorry for the mess that the house is in. My mother had a heart attack and is recovering in the hospital. My father is there with her. We have no servants. And so, everything is in a mess.”

We sat down in the drawing room. He was on a chair and I on a small stool. His voice was husky and thick. It seemed like the voice of a man who had smoked hundreds of cigarettes over several years.

“I have a severe cold,” he said. “I hope you can understand what I am saying.” I assured him that I could understand him clearly as I pressed the record button of the dictaphone.

He smiled suddenly, a soft, sweet, child-like smile. It took years away from his face. For a brief moment, he looked young and vivacious. Then his face once again assumed that deep, melancholy gravity. And I guessed you could begin to understand why he had such a sad face when you listened to the story of his life. So here he went:

ON WHAT HAPPENED IN APOLLO HOSPITAL

“On September 14, 1984, I went into the hospital for a minor knee surgery. Dr. H. Ranganathan, who was doing the operation said that I would be able to play much better after this. He said that I would be discharged within a week. But what happened was that I went into a 36-day coma.

After that, I spent another three weeks in a half-comatose state. When I came back to my senses, I realised that I had become blind. I couldn't see at all. I couldn’t move. I didn’t have any sense of balance.

At that time, I didn’t know the seriousness of it. The doctors kept assuring me that everything would become all right. But after six months of secondary physiotherapy, there was no improvement at all.

I finally realised that they were taking me for a long ride. I knew that nothing was going to happen. Ultimately, the MD of Apollo Hospital, Dr. Pratap Reddy, and the other doctors said, “It’s just bad luck. There’s nothing else that we can do now.”

Think of the situation. I had gone into the hospital a fit, young man and I came out with 90 percent blindness and an inability to move my limbs at all. It was the most horrific time of my life.

I sank into a deep depression because I felt so hopeless. I wanted to commit suicide because I felt that there was no point in living any more.

I thought to myself: now I am 27. If I live to a normal age of 70, then I would have to live another 43 years in this vegetable-like state. This possibility was difficult to digest. But, by the grace of God, the thought of suicide was never really translated into action.

In those months of despair, there also arose within me the first signs of a determination to fight back. I felt that I had to come back, so to speak, from the grave.

In this, I was urged on by a large group of friends, relatives, players, other doctors, and my parents.

They all suggested therapy of some sort or the other. They said that come what may, I must make an attempt at recovery.”

Chandra took the first step when he applied to get the case history from Apollo Hospital. And immediately, he hit a snag. The hospital was reluctant to part with it. It was only after some top-level pressure was applied that the case history was given to Chandra.

After that, he went for treatment to the Institute of Naturopathy and Yogic Sciences, near Bangalore. And it was here that he met one associate of Dr. Paul Cutler, who was one of the leading doctors of Toronto. The associate told Chandra that Dr. Cutler would be of help.

So Chandra started corresponding with Dr. Cutler, and the latter agreed to take up the case. But the total cost of the treatment was calculated at a whopping Rs. 10 lakhs. This included the airfare for a nurse and Chandra. Since he was still partially blind, it was not possible for him to travel alone. Now, the quest for the money began.

Chandra approached newspapers and they published his appeal free of cost. It had the desired effect. Within days, the money started to come in.

“I was very lucky,” Chandra said. “I got the money fairly easily.”

From whom did the money actually come from?

If I give certain names, then I will be leaving out other names. That will be unfair. But I can generalise by saying: many Hindi and Tamil film stars; sportsmen; industrialists and well-wishers. Within three months, I collected a sum of Rs. 10 lakhs. I left for Toronto in February 1986.

How was the treatment in Toronto?

Initially, I improved a lot. They gave me medicines that were not available in India. The process of regaining my faculties was quicker. My eyesight improved a lot. The doctor explained to me that it was not my eyesight which had been damaged, but my brain. So once the brain began to improve, then all the other faculties would come back automatically.

Of course, you can never fully recover since the central nervous system has been damaged. But you can get some faculties back, depending on luck, your physical condition, and hard work. For this specific type of treatment, after the course is over, there has to be a break.

After that, the treatment has to start all over again. In all, I must have gone back about four times, with gaps of six months or a year between trips. The last trip was made in September 1988.

What therapy do you do nowadays?

I do physiotherapy, yoga and speech therapy. (It was difficult to listen to Chandra later on the tape. His voice slurred time and time again. The voice seemed to suggest enormous tiredness and fatigue.)

What was wrong?

The breathing space between speaking is not all right. I still have to learn to control my tone – the loudness, the softness. There are also other disabilities. I still cannot board a moving train. It’s embarrassing but I can’t ride a scooter. My night vision is bad. I still do not have peripheral vision.

If I look at the opposite wall, it’s difficult for me to see the floor at the same time. I doubt whether I will regain my peripheral vision.
—-
It was while we were talking intently that the doorbell rang. Chandra got up and went to the door. I switched off the dictaphone. Chandra returned with a packet. He opened it and saw that it contained a video cassette of Newstrack. And there was a letter in it for him.

It was written by correspondent Minnie Vaid, who had done an extensive interview with him for the Eyewitness programme. She had written to apologise: she said that for ‘technical reasons’, they could not air the interview.

Minnie wrote by hand, and you could sense that beneath her sentences was her disappointment at what had happened. She said that the matter was in the hands ‘of my bosses.’

Chandra looked disappointed. “They took me all over the place. Shooting here and there. You know, TV has maximum impact. It could have helped my case if they had aired it.”

“What could be the reason for them not airing it?” I asked.

“Pressure,” he replied succinctly. “Or alleged pressure by interested parties. I can’t say anything more because I can be sued. Or it could be a genuine technical reason.”

He looked to the floor, his entwined fingers placed on his lap, and was lost in thought. After a while, he looked up and said with a grin, “I hope Sportsworld does not have any technical problems.”

He had a sense of humour. When I asked him casually during the interview whether it was risky for him to cross the road on his own, he replied, “Well, I can tell you, it’s not as risky as going to Apollo Hospital.”

ON WHEN HE DECIDED TO LAUNCH HIS FIGHT AGAINST APOLLO HOSPITAL

I don’t want to term it as a fight.

Okay, the idea that justice has to be done?

Yeah. Once the damage had been done and I could not function as a normal human being, I felt that I had to be compensated. After all, my life had been shattered. I was convinced that all this had happened due to the doctor’s negligence. Although I knew that they had not done it deliberately, a wrong-doer has to pay a price. And the price? To enable me to live a decent life. That’s what I think Apollo Hospital should have done a long time back.

When did you file the suit?

Around 1985, when I left to go abroad. The court fees were very high, about Rs. 50,000. Because of this, I had to limit the amount of damages to be claimed, since I had a limited amount of money. My initial idea was to seek a compensation of Rs. 75 lakhs. I had to bring down the amount to about Rs. 20 lakhs. We filed the suit in September 1985. The judgement came out on May 25, 1993.

Facts: it took about 8½ years of constant fighting, relentless adjournments, the coming and going of six judges in the Madras High Court, before Justice S. Pratap Singh awarded a hefty compensation of Rs. 17 lakhs (Rs. 10 lakhs as compensation and Rs. 7 lakhs for reimbursement of treatment expenses incurred both in India and abroad).

Justice Pratap Singh stated that the doctor, H. Ranganathan, and the anaesthetist, Monica De, were responsible for the acute disability suffered by Chandra. Apollo Hospital was also held responsible since the doctors were employed there.

The judge said that the evidence showed that there had not been a proper supply of oxygen to the patient during surgery. All this demonstrated negligence on the part of the doctor and the anaesthetist. They had failed in the discharge of their duties, which resulted in severe complications.

He said that it was the duty of the doctor who performed the surgery to explain what had happened. But he had not given any convincing explanation so far. Justice Singh concluded: “I hold that the defendants were negligent in the treatment given to the plaintiff.”

If I remember right, a Division Bench of the Madras High Court stayed the payment of Rs. 17 lakhs.

Yes. But a two-member Division Bench of the Supreme Court announced that I should be given relief of Rs. 7 lakhs.

So what next? Hasn’t Apollo Hospital gone on appeal against the judgement?

Yes. The appeal will be heard by a Division Bench of the Madras High Court. Because an appeal to the Supreme Court is not a fundamental right. You have to get permission from the Madras High Court in the form of a special leave.

So, if the Bench says no, then the case should be over?

Yes. Then legally, the case is finished. And I hope it is, since my parents and I have already spent Rs. 2 lakh from our personal savings on the legal expenses.

What do you feel now, after this landmark judgment?

I feel a great sense of pride. Justice and fair play have prevailed in the end. It’s a boost for the system and the society we have here in India where the poor and the downtrodden have no chance against powerful institutions.

Think what would have happened if such a thing had occurred to an average clerk in a bank or an office. He will simply lie down and blame destiny and fate. Then somebody will read out some verses from the Bhagwad Gita, and he will be very happy.

I was lucky simply because I was famous and the media highlighted my case.

What else had you learnt during the course of this case?

The essential goodness of the people of India. They had come forward to help me. Not only during the medical crisis, but even later, the kind of support that I received, the kind of phone calls that came, made me feel good.

I was happy that for a less popular game like table tennis, there had been such a response. Of course, had this happened to a cricketer, the situation would have been completely different. Parliament itself would have been in uproar.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as he got up from his chair and went to a table at one corner of the drawing room. He sat down on a chair and emptied a brown packet. Then he called me over and said, “It’s time to take my medicines. Could you just identify the tablets?” He had a doctor’s prescription in front of him and he called out, “Crocin.” I took out the tablet and gave it to him.

“I am sorry to bother you, but I have difficulty in reading small print,” he said softly.

Eight different tablets of different sizes and colours were collected. Then he got up, with the tablets held in his enclosed palm, and went to the dining room to get some water.

As I stood near the table, I saw Chandra’s horoscopes and, along with them, the bio-data meant to be sent in response to marriage proposals. Some were already, tragically, yellowing with age.

Chandra came back and sat down on the chair, and the interview began once again.

ON THE EFFECT OF ALL THIS ON HIS PARENTS

For them, it had been a very big blow. As an only son, I had been their only hope. Having risen to a position of eminence as a player… I had also been a brilliant student.

I was a gold medallist in law from Madras University, and then such a tragedy occurred to me. They had hoped that in their old age, I would look after them. But now, it was a complete reversal, although my parents were not keeping in good health at all. There had been too much stress. And all this controversy had been too much for the conservative South Indian society in which we lived.

You had not been able to marry because of that?

Physically, there was no problem. But when the parents of a girl came, it was difficult to convince them. How could we convince them? Should I have gone to a doctor and got a certificate stating that I was fit for marriage? Somehow, it was difficult for me.

ON HIS NORMAL DAY-TO-DAY LIFE

I get up very early. Then I go to the terrace and do exercises for developing my co-ordination. For example: picking up small objects from the floor, with my left leg forward, right leg backwards. Bend over and pick it up. Then bend sideways and pick the object up.

After I finish my exercises, I come back, have my bath and breakfast, and then I go by autorickshaw to the bank. I am an Administrative Officer in the Staff Training College of the State Bank of India in Mylapore.

In the evening, I go to the YMCA in Royapettah. I do coaching there for about three hours. I return home at 8.30 P.M.

What do you do in your spare time?

I like to watch horse racing. I don’t gamble, but I like to see horses run at high speed. I like to watch cricket on TV. I listen to Hindi classical music. Singers like Mohammad Rafi, Manna Dey, Hemant Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar.

What about Alka Yagnik?

Alka Yagnik? Who’s that?

She’s the latest singing sensation.

No, I have not heard of her at all. See, I don’t follow modern music at all.

At six o’clock in the evening, I went to the YMCA, Royapettah branch. Chandra had invited me there to see him coach his students.

The YMCA TT centre is in a shed-like building. Inside, there were two tables. A boy and a girl were playing. The boy was in shorts; the girl wore a blue t-shirt and trackpants.

It was hot inside the hall. There was no ventilation at all. The thought arose: how did they play in summer, especially in May when the heat was at its peak?

Chandra said, “Come on, let’s go outside. It’s so hot here.” So we went out and sat on chairs brought out of the hall by a young girl student.

Chandra was gasping a little now. This coaching can be a little tiring. But he said, “This is the off-season. The Nationals in Calcutta last month signified the end of the season. Now I am training boys and girls who aspire to reach the State level.”

Soon, photographer George Francis came on his black Kinetic Honda. He took his camera out and started taking pictures. The sun was beginning to set. We were silent now, and the only sound was the clicking of the shutter.

A white Tata Sierra came up and out popped one of Chandra’s students, Nikhil Nath. He was about 12, bespectacled, chubby, clad in a white T-shirt and shorts.

In sotto voce, George said, “Chandra’s student comes in a Tata Sierra, while poor Chandra does not have a vehicle at all. He has to be picked up by a student on a bike and dropped back home.”

Chandra smiled enigmatically and his head drooped on to his chest. He said, “I don’t feel good today. I’m having a severe cold.” Students came up and said something in Tamil. He replied; then they went away. George finished taking the photographs. There was really nothing more to talk about.

I got up and said, “Thanks very much for your co-operation.”

Chandra gave me a limp hand to shake. Then I walked away.

It was the last stages of twilight. And at a far distance, I turned around and looked back.

Chandra was still sitting in front of the YMCA building, as the darkness continued to grow around him. A solitary figure lost in melancholy thought.

But this tragedy-marred individual has waged a ceaseless battle against his own inner despair at what had happened and against the powerful and influential Apollo Hospital.

And in this battle, he seemed to have won on both fronts: the inner and the outer. Quite simply, in our world of puny individuals,

Chandra is a hero of our times.

(Published in Sportsworld, March 23, 1994)

More details

In 1995, the Apollo Hospital made a payment of Rs 17 lakh to Chandra.

Chandra’s autobiography was titled, ‘My Fightback from Death's Door’ (2006).

He died on 12 May 2021, at the age of 63, in Chennai, due to complications from COVID-19.

Chandra did get married to a bank employee named Mala. They had a son, Sanjay, who was about 20 years old and a final-year engineering student at the time of his father's death.