IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 71- NARK AUR SWARG Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 

As the dental doctor applied a little more pressure on my jaw, I silently cursed Richard Kiel. Yes, the same guy who played the villain with metallic teeth in James Bond's “The Spy Who Loved Me”. Back in my foolish, impressionable youth, I thought it was “cool” to mimic him. Why use bottle openers on Campa Cola bottles when you have perfectly good teeth?

Years later, here I was—half a man and half a dental project—sitting in a chair that felt more like an interrogation device than a dental recliner.

Last time, I’d gone to a lady dentist. She shuffled from side to side of the chair. With a lot of huffing, puffing, and twisting, she’d finally yanked the tooth out, victorious but visibly exhausted. That day, I promised myself: next time, a male dentist. I figured he’d have the muscle power for my "special case."

Well, today was the day I learned how wrong I was.

This tooth was as stubborn. After 10 minutes of wrestling, the male dentist started sweating. His frustration showed. “Sir, it’ll be uncomfortable a little. I’m just going to give it a tap.”

He pulled out what looked suspiciously like a miniature hammer. Yes, a hammer. My turban, which had been loyally holding for all this time, couldn’t take it anymore. It slipped off gently, as if saying, "this is beyond me.”

“Sir, keep your head steady,” he said with an air of casual command.

My mind was racing. Steady? I felt like that poor chicken at the butcher’s block being told to “keep its neck straight.”

By now, the doctor was exhausted. He asked his assistant to switch on the fan. Mind you this is December. The doctor gave me a “two-minute break.” I would’ve appreciated the respite, except for one small detail: through the glass, I saw the assistant casually plucking out his nasal hairs. I felt like running away from the place. Here I was, half-dead in a dental chair, my jaw locked open like a broken gate, and there he was, turning the waiting room into a personal grooming salon. I could only think, “If I survive this, it’ll be a miracle.”

The doctor returned with renewed energy and an assortment of tools that would’ve made any mechanic jealous. “Sir, I’ll just need a little more time,” he said and started dismantling my mouth bit by bit.

At this point, I was convinced this would be my end. After all, I had dodged bullets in the past, but a dental chair? This would be the most ironic way to go. I imagined my obituary: “Brave Fauji meets his match—not on the battlefield but in a dentist’s chair.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor leaned back, sweat dripping off his brow like he’d just run a marathon. “Sir, due to the RCT, the tooth has diffused with the bone. I’ve managed to get most of it, but there’s a small part left. We’ll check it next week.”

I looked at him with all the calm of a man who had seen too much. I wanted to say, “there’s no way I’m coming back next week. You’ve lost that battle already.”

I stood up, and began tying my turban, slowly regaining what little dignity I had left. One glance in the mirror, though, and I nearly shouted out loud. My lips were bruised like I’d just been in a novice boxing bout.

I shook my head at myself. “Your teeth are not bottle openers,” I muttered under my breath. A lesson learned—decades too late, but learned nonetheless.

As I was walking out the doctor said, “Sir, the cap of the next tooth has come off. I will fix it when you come next week, bring it along” And he handed me over the metallic cap.

A week later, the mental trauma of returning to the clinic consumed me. But the soldier in me said, "Face it, man." After four days of delaying tactics, I finally gathered the courage to walk into the polyclinic—only to find out the male dentist was on leave. I was in the chair of a lady dentist.

She took one look at my X-ray and called over another dentist for a hushed consultation. I overheard snippets: "He should not have left those remnants. We’ll have to take it out immediately; the dental world will laugh at our polyclinic if we don’t."

Gulp.

She turned to me with a professional smile that sent shivers down my spine. “Sir, you’ve had breakfast? I need to remove the remaining roots.”

“Uh… a little,” I replied, already petrified about what I thought lay ahead. Trying my luck, I said, “Can I come tomorrow after a proper breakfast?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “Sir, you can grab something at the canteen and come back in ten minutes. Don’t forget to leave your X-ray and the metallic cap here. We’ll be ready for you.”

Sitting in the canteen with a soggy veg patty and a lukewarm cup of tea, I muttered a silent Ardas: “Waheguru, aaj bachalo.” The lady dentist was relentless. My half-hearted attempts to dissuade her—“The other doctor struggled for hours; he even used a hammer!”—were met with a firm, “Don’t worry, sir. This will be quick.”

A couple of injections later, she left me waiting as she attended to other patients. Just as she was about to pick up her tools, her phone rang. My heart leaped with hope. Maybe it’s something urgent. Maybe I can escape this ordeal.

Picking up the phone she blurted, “I am in the middle of something. I will call you later.”

From her stern, no-nonsense tone I could guess it was her husband on the other side. I have experienced that tone so many times, when my wife is in the office.  

She picked up her tools and got to work. Two minutes in, she triumphantly declared, “One root is out.” I responded with a skeptical “Unh,” the only sound I could manage. She guessed my disbelief and held it up for me to see. Another two minutes, and the second root was out as well.

When I looked in the mirror, I was shocked. No bruises, no swollen lips. At that moment, a thought crossed my mind: Swarg aur Nark is dharti par hi hain (Heaven and hell exist on this Earth only)

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