The Bear Wore A Swimsuit

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The title of Dr Susie Samuel's memoir, The Bear wore a Swimsuit, prepares the reader for a humour-infused journey through her life and experiences as a doctor and much more. There are elements of everything that make for a thoroughly enjoyable read.

There is history, mystery, and suspense with a happy ending to the love story of her parents. There are lively accounts of her own childhood in Singapore and then travels across the globe with her wonderful husband, Sam and children, Rekha and Anish. And, there are many, both serious and funny, stories of a large community of relatives, friends, pets, and patients whom she gathered around her, including my parents.

Stitching all the strands of the narration of a remarkable life together is a strong skein of empathy and a style of writing which captivates with its simple and direct style.

This book very nearly did not reach the printer because exactly like Life, it kept being pummelled either by the writer or by the publisher.

The elegant team that worked on it a yuga ago gave up worrying about it the way a midwife goes home after the baby is in the arms of its mother, but this baby refused to stay in its swaddling clothes and kept trying to return to the womb for this or that beautification.

This endlessly entertaining book is valuable for two reasons. One, it is an honest account and assessment of a remarkable life lived with humour and compassion. Two, Susie Samuel should have been a full-time writer. Somehow the stars over her cradle aligned in such a fashion that she ended up studying medicine. It is a mirror to the personality who gives away her professional gifts gratis and throws a protective net over everyone who comes her way. Before there were books, there were stories. At first the stories were not written down. Sometimes they were sung. Before they could speak, children listened to their parents singing to them or telling stories about an egg that fell off a wall or a girl who fell down a rabbit hole.

A story that almost never happened. My Dad was presumed dead during the Japanese occupation of Singapore during WW-II. When he returned unannounced to India many weary and incommunicado years later, no one recognised him. Not even my Mum, who had assumed that she was a war widow. Only his faithful K9, a German shepherd named Sundar, did.