Page 69 - Musings 2022

Descending Legends of that Hill

Pranjal Vashishtha

Probatio diabolica – I heard this term for the first time from my father, who was a lawyer. Or
he used to be before going crazy. It is a legal jargon which many may not be familiar with.
However, a more general equivalent exists too: Devil’s Proof – there can be evidence that
proves a devil’s existence, but no evidence is enough to deny its existence.
On the 18th of March this year, I was involved in an accident. The cab driver lost control and
crashed into an electric pole. But that is absolute nonsense! The road near the hill where this
happened was wide open with nothing in sight. All he had to do was drive with bare
competence.
But still, it happened. I was furious, and would have given that driver a piece of my mind.
Unfortunately, I had to be rushed to the hospital while that driver got off with a few scratches.
What a cruel joke!
Or at least, that’s what I initially thought. Now, I have realised the reason behind that bizarre
incident.
This is just the tip of the iceberg. I had health insurance good enough to afford a private
hospital, but what’s the point of it when the doctors are outright quacks! They can have all their
fancy machines and tests, but they have no right to call me a liar.
‘Why? What happened?’ Kunal asked. He was talking on the phone outside, but rushed inside
after hearing my minor outburst.
‘My leg is what happened!’
We both looked at my right leg. It appeared to be fine, but it sure didn’t feel fine to me. My
body, so I would know what I am feeling.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
He had only arrived an hour ago, so they had only told him about the accident and apparent
injuries.
‘It’s not right. I’m saying it, but why’d no one listen.’
‘I am not even seeing a scratch there, let alone any bandages.’ He didn’t look concerned at all.
And this behaviour was insulting.
‘Not you too.’ I was disgusted, and didn’t bother hiding it. I was a nice guy to most, but Kunal
was a close enough friend for me to drop that act and be myself – an irritable, cranky man who
is always being difficult. I have known Kunal and Seema, my wife, since our college days. And
they are probably only people who can stand the real me.
Seema had also returned to the room at this point.
‘Like her!’ I pointed at her animatedly. ‘You are being exactly like her, not to mention all those
quacks here.’
She looked at me in disappointment! As if I was being nonsensical.
‘Your clownery aside, what’s wrong with your leg?’ Kunal asked. Seema didn’t seem worried
a bit, and it made him slip into the assumption that I was fine and just throwing a tantrum.
Seema was about to explain what those quacks had been saying, but I spoke before her.

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