He looked hurt. Yes, definitely got punched. His jaw was distorted, cheeks swollen and a thin red streak ran between his lips, slowly draining towards the corner of his mouth. I motioned him to the dental chair reserved for emergency trauma. He shuffled towards it, looked around and headed for the sink. “Hey, where are you going?” No answer. He opened the tap, leaned over, and the contents of his mouth splashed into the sink, exploding in violent crimson. Bits of green and brown floated around I rushed to his help, only to be met with a disarming smile of red, paan-stained teeth: “Sir, I have come only for teeth cleaning.” He is a typical, garden-variety example of what I, as a long-suffering dentist, call a ‘mouth marauder’: A member of the gutkha-munching, cigarette-smoking, paan-chewing, pik-spitting breed whose sole mission in life is to paint the town red, literally! He is everywhere, the…
