The making of thespians

There's something about me that makes me stand out, a marked woman, so to speak. I can only postulate that my style of walking makes me put more weight on the right foot. As a result people who see me think that the handbag which usually hangs on my right shoulder is weighing me down, which in turn means I'm probably loaded.
Another reason could be that the zip of my purse is rarely, if ever closed. Obviously indicating that I'm used to pulling out wads of notes.
The third probability is that I have sucker written in big bold letters across my forehead. I myself have glanced time and again into the mirror but have failed to see it. My guess is, it is written in invisible ink and gets activated by sunlight falling on it.

This afternoon I was accosted by a motorcyclist who out of the blue called out to me in a faint Malayali accent, telling me his wife was in the hospital as she had met with an accident. Thinking he wanted directions, I started stammering out the route, when he interjected to say that he knew the route but that he had run out of fuel and needed a small sum to tide him over. I knew I was being robbed in broad daylight but the 0.00001% doubt of its being true led to my altruistic nature beating my cynical self into submission.

Many years earlier in my final year exams, one of the short notes to be answered included a question on bismuth line. Most people in my class didn't know it, but being the crazy person that I was - I would read random things - I had a fair idea of the answer. I was ecstatic that I was probably the only one who knew this and quickly jotted down that it was a black line on the gingiva which was indicative of lead poisoning.

On an aside I must mention that my better half once told me that the sentence "let me fibrillate your gingiva" said with a lascivious wink was sure to hook any girl. When I explained to him that gingiva meant gums and saying that would probably indicate that he was going to set red ants on the gums; he complained that I didn't have a single romantic bone in my body.

So coming back to the topic of bismuth line, some years later when my tender innocence had yielded way to hard nosed professionalism, I had set up my own practice. So what if my only patients were mosquitoes who had injuries on their proboscis from sucking too much blood, One evening after an extremely busy day counselling the little critters to take it easy and not grow too fat, exhausted I decided to shut early and visit a dear friend who loved me despite my poverty stricken status.
Just as I had downed the shutter, a casually dressed gentleman who towered over my five feet two climbed up to the first floor landing where I was renting my premises. Thrilled to have a patient, I quickly raised the shutter and welcomed him.
He quickly clarified with an American drawl that he wasn't here for a dental examination. He was in fact a professor of epidemiology (in laymen's terms- community medicine) in Stanford and he had noticed my board while passing by. He explained that he and his team were trying to do a world wide study on pollution and its effects on oral health. In this respect he talked extensively on various topics including the bismuth line. While speaking to him, I got a faintly fruity odour and asked him if he was diabetic to which he nodded. Feeling very proud of my diagnostic skills I told him that the fruity odour of his breath was what led me to the conclusion.

He told me I would get paid 8000 US$ if I collaborated with them and conducted examinations to determine the extent of pollution in my area. I was more than happy to be part of such an effort which required barely any exertion on my part. The addition to my bank account which was hovering close to zero made the prospect even more appealing.

Just as we were wrapping up the discussion a good one hour later, he hesitantly asked me to lend him some money, saying he had left his wallet in the car and he had parked it very far away. He said he would prefer to take an auto rickshaw rather than walk so far. That is when the coin dropped, this was not a Stanford professor, that wasn't even fruity odour. It might have been odour that might have been caused by consumption of fermented barley or wheat or maybe potatoes or even some fruits, but it sure as hell wasn't diabetes. I remembered that fruity odour in diabetics is found when they are ready to go into coma from Ketoacidosis. So much for my diagnosis!

His performance  undeniably was par excellence, he had entertained me and had more knowledge than many of my peers. The man deserved a salute at the very least. I felt petty handing him the paltry seventy bucks that I did. Such a performance was deserving of much more.

About two years later another dear friend of mine met this same guy or his doppelganger and was so entertained by him that she thought he was deserving of at least double what I gave him.

We happened to meet and she was relating this incident not knowing I had made prior acquaintanceship with him and therefore had first rights to trumpet him as my find.

We both agreed that we had met a true thespian.
He had missed his calling. I wish him all the best and keep hoping that one day he will get the laurels he is so deserving of.

Meanwhile, I will keep ignoring the jibes of the man of the house who worries after every such mishap that after emptying my bank account, I will borrow from him and deplete his as well. I see these artists as diamonds in the rough and if I am the victim that polishes their skills, I can only see it as a service to humanity.