As the time of my appointment faded ever further into the past,
I happily sat and watched three women as they worked. Western medicine
had seemed wanting in my bout with flu, so I looked with hope to the
ancient nostrums of Chinese Medicine. I admire perfection, kindness,
and heartfelt service, wherever they grow, and all three certainly
blossomed in this tiny practice.
I loved the way they wrote everything so neatly and so small
in neat folders in a neat pile on a corner of a glass cabinet. In the
cabinet was a neat arrangement of colourful boxes, mostly covered in
pictures of roots, or Chinese characters, but bearing the occasional
legible word such as "extractum." Every activity ended with every
surface clear and every item returned exactly to its proper place.
I would not have wanted to get on the wrong side of the formidable
doctor: thickset as a bullock, with severe oblong spectacles, pudgy
fingers, and a frightening handshake. The more I watched her patient
and kindly interchange with other clients, as they appeared at random
from other rooms or from the street, the more I realised she probably
doesn’t have a wrong side.
Her two assistants worked in silence and in beautifully
choreographed unison. Everything was done with focus, but a happy
serenity. Referring to a table of bizarre hieroglyphs matching a
mysterious expanse of jars, they selected herbs and portioned them onto
plates, then into bags, with utmost dexterity. The paper crease in each
bag was as neat and even as a suit tailor’s hem, sealing an appropriate
quantity of shrivelled berries, twists of bark, sere husks, grains,
shaved twigs, clumps of blossom, cubed... well that’s anyone’s guess
(but some of it’s in a saucepan on the stove right now).
At the end of my visit, the assistant instructed me in the
preparation of the herbs. I realised I had taken on her frown, and
nodded gravely whenever it seemed appropriate. Carefully circling the
word "bitter" on a leaflet, she asked if I had taken this kind of
preparation before. I nodded once and assured her that the experience
was quite unforgettable. She returned a look of concern, but I conjured
up my most stoical expression, saying "Don’t worry; I am very brave."
Two sprightly faces suddenly emerged from that sobriety, and we both
laughed like children.
Now that I’m faced with the odorous reality in my teacup, that
bravery seems rather elusive. Maybe prolonged flu is preferable to its
potential cure. Now let’s see...
Sumangali Morhall
January 2005
