An-dè, bha mi a’ meòrachadh air tinneas Hansen, no an luibhre.

Tha e coltach gun do thòisich an luibhre ann an Àsia fada ro linn Chrìosd. ’S e tinneas craicinn a tha ann, ach tha e a’ dèanamh cron air structuran dlùth ris a’ chraiceann, gu h-araid air nearbhaichean nan casan agus nan gàirdeanan, agus air cnàmhan na sròine. 

In 1976, I was a medical student in a hospital in Nepal, studying with an Australian physician.

She examined a patient then turned round to me.

‘Hansen’s disease’, she said quietly.

Hansen’s disease. Another name for leprosy. A diagnosis so fearful that she didn’t want to name it in the hearing of the patient and his family.

Ann an naoi ceud deug trì fichead ’s a sia-deug, bha mi nam oileanach meidigeach ann an Nepal, ag ionnsachadh bho lighiche Astràilianach.

Rinn i sgrùdadh air euslainteach agus an uair sin thionndaidh i rium.

‘Tinneas Hansen’, thuirt i, gu socair.

The King of the Cuckoos had done a wicked thing. If he was aware of the crime to begin with, it wasn’t long before he had forgotten it.

Bha Rìgh nan Cuthagan air gnìomh olc a dhèanamh. Ma bha e mothachail air an eucoir an toiseach, cha b’ fhada mus robh i air dol às a chuimhne.

Almost a hundred people – rulers, leaders and officers of the church – were gathered together in the small hall. The convener of the assembly rose to his feet – a grey-headed man of almost seventy years. Everyone fell silent.

Bha faisg air ceud duine – ceannardan, uachdaranan agus pearsachan-eaglais – cruinn còmhla anns an talla bheag. Dh’èirich neach-gairm na h-àrd-chomhairle air a chasan – b’ e duine liath a bha ann, a’ sreap ri trì fichead ’s a deich bliadhna a dh’aois. Chaidh a h-uile duine nan tost.

The patient took hold of the glass. He tried to take a sip of the water, but it was clear that he was very frightened. His hands shook. The doctor, a female physician from Australia, said to me quietly, ‘Hydrophobia. Mad dog disease. He has rabies’.

Ghabh an t-euslainteach grèim air a’ ghlainne. Dh’fheuch e ri balgam den uisge a ghabhail ach bha e follaiseach gun robh eagal mòr air. Thàinig crith air a làmhan. Thuirt an dotair, ban-lighiche à Astràilia, rium gu socair, ‘Hydrophobia. Caothach nan con. Tha rabies air.’

In the spring of 1988, I went to do voluntary work in Nepal – at that time, the third poorest country in the world outside Africa.

As t-earrach 1988, chaidh mi a dh’obair gu saor-thoileach ann an Nepal – aig an àm ud, an treas dùthaich a bu bhochda anns an t-saoghal taobh a-muigh Afraga.

‘I am sorry that you lost your mother,’ said the surgeon. ‘Please accept my sincere condolences.’ There was an uncomfortable silence before he continued. ‘I’m not entirely convinced, Cain and Abel, that you understand this operation.’

‘Tha mi duilich gun do chaill sibh ur màthair,’ ars an lannsair. ‘Gabhaibh ri mo cho-fhaireachdainn dhùrachdaich, mas e ur toil e.’ Bha sàmhchair mhì-chofurtail ann mus do lean e air adhart, ‘Chan eil mi buileach cinnteach, a Chain agus Abel, gu bheil sibh a’ tuigsinn an opairèisein seo.’

There was loud cheering and applause in the circus tent. The lion tamer closed the steel door of the cage behind her and turned to speak to the audience.

‘Thank you! Thank you!’ she shouted.

Bha caithream agus bualadh bhasan ann am pùball an t-siorcais.

Dhùin an smachdair-leòmhainn doras na cèidse stàilinn air a cùlaibh agus thionndaidh i ris an luchd-èisteachd. ‘Mòran, mòran taing!’ dh’èigh i.

I meet Robert at sunrise as he emerges from the bus at Montgarrie. He is wearing his usual brown suit, shirt, and tie. He has a hat but there is no sign of a coat, despite the morning chill. He has often said to me, ‘I don’t like coats. I prefer warm underwear. Don’t worry about me!’

Tha mi a’ coinneachadh ri Raibeart aig èirigh na grèine an dèidh dha tighinn far a’ bhus aig Mon Gairbheach. Mar as àbhaist, tha deise dhonn, lèine agus taidh air. Tha ad air ach chan eil sgeul air còta a dh’aindeoin fuachd na maidne. Bu tric a thuirt e rium, ‘Cha toigh leam còtaichean. ’S fheàrr leam fo-aodach blàth. Na bi fo chùram mu mo dheidhinn!’

The newspaper headlines saddened him. ‘Why can’t human beings learn from their mistakes?’ he asked himself. As if the answer to his question had risen from the depths, a boyhood memory came back to him …

Dh’fhàg an ceann-naidheachd fo bhròn e. ‘Carson nach ionnsaich an cinne-daonna le a mhearachdan?’ dh’fhaighnich e dheth fhèin. Mar gun robh freagairt air èirigh bho aigeann inntinn, thàinig cuimhne air ais thuige bho làithean òige ...

‘Till the next time,’ I said to myself. I was echoing the words my father used to say to me forty years ago standing on this same railway platform.