The Seat of All Problems

BY SATISH PENDHARKAR

There is one thing I horribly hate
namely, having to wait. Whether
for a flight at a luxurious airport or
for a meal in a fancy restaurant or
for a tiresome office meeting to end.
There’s one exception though:
I can wait for hours and hours
for my turn to come
in the Waiting Room of a dentist.

Now, please don’t get me wrong.
It’s not that I enjoy browsing
through the gossip magazines
stacked there, to get to know who is
sleeping with whom, or who has
acquired what new pet or pet peeve;
or that I’m in awe of pics of people
the tartar buildup of whose teeth, resemble
the rock formations of Cappadocia;
or indeed that I can stare for ages at
posters showing the stages of tooth decay,
as I would water lilies painted by Monet.
It’s just that stepping into a dentist’s room is
more intimidating, than entering
a Witness Box in a Sessions Court
or setting foot into a famished lion’s den
or even straying into an alligator swamp.

I sometimes still wake up sweating
at night, clutching my jaw; recalling
a dental experience of some years ago.
I showed a dentist a badly-decayed
tooth. He took one look and said:
“The dental pulp is diseased and must be
cleaned up. Root canal is the better option.”
Through quivering lips I asked, “What is
the other option?” “Extraction,” he uttered.
Attempting to mend fences with one’s spouse
is preferable to divorce, I consoled myself.
Notwithstanding, that the root canal treatment
conjured up images of sewage and effluents
being removed from the Ganga and canals of
Venice; leaving an obnoxious taste in my mouth.

The Dental Chair is the seat of all problems.
And more sadistic than the Electric Chair
used to dispose of murderers. For, the
condemned man is strapped onto the
Electric Chair with leather belts and
cannot move. He is blindfolded and
cannot see. But a dental patient can wave
a ‘Hi’ to the dentist who nevertheless will
not relent. The dental patient is invited
to witness his own torture. And while the
condemned man gets a final release, the
dental patient’s discharge is only temporary.
For, the dentist like an automobile mechanic,
repairs the damage but while doing so,
sows the seeds of a future mishap.
This is the reason why dentists have their
faces covered with masks: To prevent us from
seeing them grinning all the way to the bank.

The Dental Drill is doubtless more deadly
than a guillotine. When I’m subjected
to it, I feel as though a dozen heavy metal
bands, playing in unison are drilling
holes through my skull. The noise made
by a thousand vuvuzelas in a football match
in Cape Town would feel like a Beethoven
symphony or Mozart sonata in comparison.
While encountering the onslaught of the
Dental Drill, one regrets having eaten all those
Peanut chikkis and Lollipops and Anjeer barfis
and crunchy, syrupy balushahis
without bothering to brush one’s teeth;
which mouth bacteria clearly relish,
chocolate-chipping away at one’s enamel.

Over the years I’ve realized that the only place
I’ve visited more frequently than a Dentist’s
Clinic is the ubiquitous washroom.
I’ve sat on a Dental Chair for a longer period
of time than have frequent flyers on airplanes.
I realize, that I’m now an incurable case of
Odontophobia. I was jumping up and down
on the couch during the Covid pandemic
since Dentists had shut shop. I did grin and
bear all toothaches. Now, I shall not visit
any dentist unless he or she vows to
administer laughing gas before any procedure.
Deep breathing or Meditation or indeed
Medication do not ease the stress.
The Dentist’s Clinic causes Claustrophobia.
The sight of the Dentist’s Stool induces
Aphenphosmphobia. The delivery unit of the
Dental Chair gives rise to Mysophobia.
The Cuspidor produces in me Hemophobia.
The Dental Drill generates Ligyrophobia.
As I speak, my teeth are falling off more
rapidly than do chinar leaves in autumn.
But my numerous visits to dentists
have so aggravated my Phobophobia,
that I’d rather undergo a heart transplant
than subject myself to a dental implant.