I remember it like if it were yesterday. The ghastly imagery, a reflection of what our country was reduced to. No one was safe. Absolutely no one. Not even the sitting Minister Satyadeow Sawh, Minister of Agriculture. For his death was gruesome. Macabre. Repugnant. Predictable. Predictable for grotesque had become the norm. Nineteen years and still unsolved this homicide. Forensics nonexistent then as now. Neighbourly witnesses scared stiff into selective mutism. But there are theories. Bucketloads of theories. But only one prevailed. A drug lord, not short on cash, was after interior land to construct runways. Runways for his airplanes bursting at the seams with narcotics.
As Minister of Agriculture, Satyadeow Sawh had to provide his seal of approval. Declined bravely, he did. A massive NO to the powerful drug lord with FARC connections. A first for the kingpin with an army of deadly phantom squads. Unwittingly, his own death warrant he signed with his blood. And payback was swift. Deadly. A slug from an AK47 took fragments of his skull along with blood stained brain matter; both delivered to the living room wall. For death took over his body before he could have blinked. Brutal death delivered by assassins in balaclava. For four were in the Minister’s house. And four given appointments with the undertakers. All witnesses exterminated as the police conveniently slept. Sister, brother and security guard. Lead took up permanent residence in their rigor mortis bodies. Dead men tell no tales. Neither do dead women.
Blood on the dance floor
The People’s Progressive Party (PPP) hated both Mark the person and the persona. And all too aware of the consequences was I. Life and limbs were in mortal danger, I knew. For their record speaks for itself. A criminal cabal they are, capable of unleashing on my person, deadly violence. But despite this troubling outlook, hesitant I was to get outside their sphere of political influence. For inexplicably, I remained until this harrowing and nightmarish experience. And this execrable experience of 2002 unequivocally forced my procrastinating hand.
For then I was a baby doctor manning an uninhabited ER. And with the rarity of an untenanted trauma room, I unburdened onto my consultation chair. Pensive I became, aimlessly gazing in the distant with eyes focused but mind vertiginously wandering. But even in this nonthreatening and tranquil environ, my senses steadfastly were on high circumspection. A perdurable state of qui vive, for that was inescapable under PPP.
Then unexpectedly my halcyon was unceremoniously punctuated. Punctuated by four PPP bigwigs who permeate my cogitative space. Dr Madan Rambarran, former Medical Director. Mr Michael Khan, former CEO. Dr Bheri Ramsaran, former Minister of Health. Ronald Gajraj, former Minister of Home Affairs and Phantom Squad Associate counted fourth. For their presence was unsolicited. Very unusual an apt description. Very very unusual does reflect the rarity. For highly unusual it was. And their gratuitous poltergeist did trigger my cerebral cognitive dashboard. Flashing red of danger forewarned that something was amiss. For their picture fitted that cliche of a thousand words.
Nervous their demeanor. Very nervous. Wringing of hands nervous. Nail biting nervous. Tachycardia nervous. And then without anticipatory augury a dramatic transformation overcame the overpowering ambience. For it phenotypically bore the hallmarks of a Freedom House inspired compulsion. And it was this Marxian compulsion that triggered the magical defrosting of their ice freezing silence. Deadly shooting in Kitty was painfully muttered. Natoo’s Bar whispered to provide clarity.
Then a nervous smile. A robotic smile overtook their faces. For these clownish smiles were directed at me. A friend I now counted. For the time I assisted their friends’ resuscitations. And not a second longer. But professionalism flow through my veins. I saw those on their way as patients. Not political adversaries. Can’t say the same of my newly imposed friends. For celebrated they heartlessly did when innocent black men, murdered by their phantom squad, were unceremoniously dumped on the bloodied ER beds.
Then there was a hustle and great bustle at the ER entrance as multiple SUVs brakes screeched. The main double door burst opened. Hollywood style. The dead accompanied the living. Both transported like bags of potatoes. Dignity clearly foreign to this lot. With this level of chaos an all nighter was all but certain. But two hands I have. True for most doctors. Only one can be assessed at any given time. Triage the tool exploited. ATLS our holy grail.
A glance the assessment of the lifeless. The dead is dead. Injuries evidently too severe to have survived. Or revived. Absolutely no return ticket. Time not squandered trying to reverse the inevitable at the expense of those with a chance. Then my medical eyes systematically, gracefully and thoughtfully surveyed those with life threatening injuries. Vital signs at ready as they were taken through primary survey while simultaneously receiving intravenous life saving treatment. For prognosis was good in this cohort.
Very good but will likely go under the knife followed by a few days of rescue breaths on the iron lung. And the third cohort. The walking wounded. Maybe a few surgical sutures. Maybe a few scans. Maybe a few blood test. Maybe a drip and they are good to go. Good to go narrate their stories to either of the two daily sensationalist tabloids. But that night, in the walking wounded cohort, was a racing car driver. Was earlier looked over by more seasoned eyes as he coherently orated. Classed he was as walking wounded. So a secondary eye was I. But now his vocal cords were lazily immobile.
No breathing. No pulse. No pupil reactions. No response to painful stimuli. White as a sheet the visual. Ice cold the tactile. A deceased I just examined. Gavin Narine his name. And on that dark windy night, a total of four took bullets to their graves. All four were accepted with the same equanimity. Saw too many so desensitised was I.
This article was first published in November 29, 2020 as “The Invisible Hand”
