Mango Candy

My prized mango tree adorns the fence on my backyard. When they broadened the road, they wanted to raze it, but I had fought them hard to save it. I fought everyone for all the years when it bore just flowers but no fruit. Not a single nail has ever gone through it. Though I did not plant it with a plan, now that it is big, it is all mine. And so are all the delicious mangoes which grow on it every year.

It is a matter of great responsibility to own a mango tree. More so if you vouch for all the juicy mangoes as well. Bastards of unknown origin are on the prowl, and they have an unusual preference for the hot afternoons. I have to sit beside my tree, in the sultry heat, to protect my right – my mangoes. This year has been a windfall – the tree is stooping down with  mangoes. I am so excited! They will ripen fully on the tree before the harvest. Organic mangoes are in vogue nowadays.

No, I am not planning to sell a single one. I shall distribute the fruits among my neighbours – as many as I know, as far as I can go. That will not exhaust even half of the mangoes. The rest will go into the making of the mango candy with my secret recipe. I will not sell that either. They will be distributed among my relations far and wide. All this so that everyone praises me, overlook my ills and odds.

—

The mango distribution ceremony is over and the candy phase has started. The tree is almost empty.

Something bad just happened. It is likely that the bitch which barks all night has licked my prized candy. Candies are drying on the backyard, in the sun. I have not spared it either and hurled whatever I could lay my hands on. I did not miss – it whined, and then limped away. Give her leftovers, from fishbones to chicken heads, and this is what you get in return – barking all night, and licking candy stealthily! Ungrateful bitch!

—

That foul smell had to be a carcass. And so it was: the same limping bitch, rotten, glossy and all bulged up. It looks like a murder committed with vengeance – its head has been crushed with a brick. The body was lying just outside my fence, in the shade of my tree. I have got it thrown into the canal. Good riddance nonetheless.

—

Somewhere in my big heart I am feeling empty. Only a lovely costly chubby pug can fill back my heart. This is also my chance to show off how to love a dog. I will give it costly packed food from the supermarket. Leftovers or, for that matter, cheap mango candy will not be apt for it.

 

Appendicitis first hand – 3

( … continued from here )

I am grateful to my dear friend Suvomoy who helped out my wife when I was being operated.  When summoned to witness the surgeon’s testimony of his job, he was the one to go.

(My daughter, being already barred from visiting anyone in the hospital – was automatically barred from the hi-profile OT area too. And she will not leave her mom as well. She had already been very concerned that dad did not sleep beside her the night before. )

The grinning surgeon had shown him my “bad appendix” – a pink tubular object about the size of my little finger. My controversially religious friend even saw a faint solemn glow behind his bald head. Well, at least the doctor wanted to show it, how his last minute operation had saved the hero’s life.

My friend  reported the pan-masala smell as well. See? I told you!

An hour after my wife left, the surgeon visited me. He smiled, and said (literally), “it was a bad-bad appendix”. He suggested that I should start with what most doctors ask you to have – light kichdi. He went out in about one minute, but came back again in a minute.
“You want a single room ? I’ll see to it.”

The room which had a rent of two and a half thousand was relatively clean, with the two beds divided by curtains which could virtually encircle each bed. A sofa for the attendant accompanied each bed. There was a panic panel with a wired remote (yep! you still call that a remote), oxygen supply and more unknown controls.Strangely the package does not include even a toothbrush, or a soap bar – let alone a personal thermometer. (I would like to reiterate that this was one of the  well known brand of hospitals)


I was sharing the room with an old woman with considerable wealth (of money) in her family. Even men of her family used to wear at least half a kilo of gold while visiting her. I guessed that her family must have some political background as well, since most of the people visiting sounded  lacking in the wealth of literacy, let alone knowledge. Rich illiterates are best bet for politicians in this part of India. She had been suffering from Dengue and had moved in about a week back. Quite obviously she was unaware of  any technique (Relativity or otherwise) to curtail her pain  during intramuscular injections. She used throw a slaughter-like S-C-R-E-A-M every time she was injected. It used to be followed by a barrage of obscene words to which the Mallu nurse always giggled. The old lady was accompanied by a chubby, young, fair looking unmarried female attendant, a daughter, who always used to be a little made up, on her lips and eyes.

My roommates always found the stuffy room’s A/C to be freezing. I had to shout at the nurse at least thrice during the night to get it cooler. My roommate’s attendant used to undo that at the A/C controls in our room when I was asleep.

“In case I feel cold I can use a blanket, but what if I feel stuffy even with my clothes on?” – was my last complaint in Hindi to the confused nurse. The night was uneventful after that.

After getting admitted on Wednesday night, and operated on Thursday morning, I started eating on Friday morning. I was awaken by the boy who delivered breakfast……. I was again woken up by the same guy when he was cleaning up … I got some help to get up and finished my B/F soon. I was eating after 36 hours. IV fluids had kept me going till now. Strangely my mouth felt quite  clean despite not brushing 2 mornings.

I tried to be on my feet when my wife and daughter visited me. It was easier than I thought. Things had started to get a lot better. My daughter, in the meanwhile, had already exaggerated her mom’s story about her dad’s illness to one in which  the doctor had extracted a worm from my belly because I was being naughty. It was already on the lips of the teachers and ayahs in her school. And of late this same story had helped her mom to feed her real fast.

But my checkered uniform was smelling badly – I’d not bathed in 2 days. But doctor asked me not to wetten my wounds. When asked whether they provide a wipe, the hospital staff were non committal. It seemed that it was part of the package but usually not administered as they ask the patient to take a bath. Pulling down all the curtains around my bed, I got a good wet wipe by one housekeeping staff. The Sati-Savitri nurses kept out of the show. I got a new clean uniform as well.

A disconnection of my intravenous diet for all these activities was not without a cost. Reconnection was extremely painful. A clot usually forms inside the vein when the incision is not in use. And the merciless nurse used to perform a sudden magical wobble  with the tube which used to break the clot so painfully.

The TV in our room was  a private property of Miss (.. lets call her …) Plumpy and her mom. Low on sedatives, I was getting woken up very often by the high volumes of the soap I hated the most. Complaining about the high volume met a solid answer from Plumpy: “I will have to mute it if the volumes were lower!”
Well, I presume my sleeping is more important than your God-damned soap, Plumpy. But I did not want to get into another confrontation as the gold laden goondaas were soon to arrive.

My recovery was impressive. By Friday afternoon, barely a day after being operated, I was walking around. My wife being without any support, I’d planned to request the doc to let me free. The surgeon used to make a compulsory trip to the insurance desk before coming to visit me, in lieu of studying the progress of the bill towards its target. I learnt from my wife that they were still about ten thousand away. As expected, he wasn’t happy with my progress when I told him I was ready to go. He pressed my surgical wounds extra hard, till I winced.
“See? You are not yet ready to go!”, he smiled.
Given a chance I would have punched his face and could have pinched somewhere in his belly to say the same words to make him wince.

Meanwhile, I was taking in food, but all of it was mysteriously disappearing. I secretly feared that there has been some mistake in tying the intestinal puncture. Perhaps food (or whatever was left out!) was slipping out of a hole into the abdominal cavity. At last, on Friday night my secret fears got flushed out.

I was pre-determined not to wince this time. On Saturday, the doctor relented. He promised a release in the evening.

There were no more surprises. Except one. The final bill was a little above Fifty six thousand. How they managed to achieve it is still not clear – the list provided to us was too long to be hand verified. The only discrepancy I could notice in the quick sweep were a set of visit fees for the doctor who had seen me in the OPD and referred me to the surgeon. I had actually not seen him after I got admitted. There’s ought to be more – but we were already fed up.

The customary maddening delays from the health insurance company followed. We called them at least ten times to confirm faxes getting sent and received. In the end I would have to pay about two thousand for expenses of items not covered by insurance.

Plumpy’s mother too got released on the same day. Quite obviously, they did not need any insurance cover, and were paying all of it themselves – bundles of cash came out of a briefcase.

I met the surgeon again at the insurance desk. He had dropped in to set the target for a new patient. He caught sight of me and asked me to see him in a week’s time. Like always, he was visibly happy.

I am happy to be home. In the maze of fast track health, obstinate illiteracy, raw money, pachas tola–s, unhealthy nexus, insurance targets, pan masala, and Sati Savitri-s, I felt foolish. Sometimes I even doubt if it was an appendicitis at all!

Appendicitis first hand – 2

(… Continued from here )

The next  morning I was woken by a fellow who seemed like a barber. He wore gloves as well as a mask and sounded repeated promises of safety while he discharged his duties. Yes, he just shaves around, from bed-to-bed and his work might alter your gait in a week. Not exactly a dream job!

The pre-operative room was better equipped. The surgeon visited with the same beaming face. I felt a mild paan-masala smell arrive with him. And soon the anesthetist followed.  I walked into  the OT after 15 minutes. It seemed like my wife was showing hers thumbs from behind a glass door down the corridor. It was chilling cold there. Once on the bed – they handed over a pipe gushing warm air into my blanket to comfort me from the chill. They injected something, and I do not remember even 30 more seconds.

… Slight pats to my cheek awakened me. The anesthetist. My eyelids were heavy, and my body heavier. “Oh its done!”. I tried vomiting twice, in vain. The jerk pained my lower abdomen. There was nothing inside my stomach to chuck out. In my jagged train of consciousness I could remember: a series of vain vomiting attempts, a series of consolations from the nurse (… another one – but Mallu and incorrect Hindi being common … ) , some cool fluid injected down my IV incision in my hand, a beeping sound that seemed to track my heart beat – (or was it someone else’s?), a couple of men dragging my roller bed, a sudden change of ambient temperature, stretcher being dragged to a lift , two more vain vomiting attempts, a puzzled and shocked old woman in the lift,  a transfer to a bed holding me inside the bed sheet from both ends, a man reading jokes about “Ziddi” Jaats, one of those painful Hindi soaps playing its signature tune loud on TV, and me shouting at a nurse – I needed a cooler, quieter room – a single room ….

….. My wife and daughter visited me shortly by my bed side. My wife recounted how in the guard at the gate described a strange rule according to which my 2  year old could not be taken in to the hospital to visit anyone. Mohar being alone, that meant she had to leave my daughter waiting outside for her. A mild chide had helped – I hear ….

 

…. I hate the word intramuscular. They  riddled my butts with painful painkillers, and made sure I had problem sleeping on any side, or my back. And I already had 3 punctures on my tummy. To make me sleep they added  a topping of a sleep inducing one. I discovered that Relativity helps, I used to hard pinch some part of my arm, to balance off the pain of puncture.With continuous fluids and injected to sleep, pressing a remote at midnight would bring the nurse in, but to take me to the bathroom to relieve myself will need the Sati-Savitri to call housekeeping – another 5 min of wait.

The night was long but I could feel myself lighter every time.

( … continued  here … )

Appendicitis first hand – 1

This supposedly vestigial worm-like organ sometimes goes crazy. And even kills if not snapped in time.

It started like a pain from an air pocket just below my liver. My fat bad liver – spoilt by my compulsive culinary excesses. It has a long illustrious history, which has even forced me to implement periodic corrective incremental alterations of my metabolic output. Only to go back again to relative peace and let it fatten. And so I ignored it – for two days, till it pricked hard.

On visiting a doctor at a branded Hospital, he smelt the rat. He was obviously quite excited – a referral will get him a minor bonus at the least. He stooped down on the examination bed, pricked and pinched my belly, and questioned me like a convict – on when the pain started – since, it was very important to the diagnosis. On finding that it was just a couple of days old, and had the “rebound” tenderness, his eyes shone.

We had a hasty ultrasonography, where the professional commented on the a certain dimension of the organ being within the upper limits of allowance, but was quite convinced that it had gone bad. And when I revealed that I was covered by a corporate health insurance policy from my multinational employer, my doctor had hit his jackpot.
“Acute Appendicitis and that means immediate surgery! We’ll get it operated today.”

It was already late evening – that means tonight! I called home immediately. We had come back from Calcutta that very morning. I had fortunately recruited a new driver that same day, but a maid was not there yet. My wife without any help, I wanted to gather my things and come back. I really wanted to come back – to the same hospital, and get admitted.

But will you ever spare a blank cheque as a bookmark to your child’s comic book, even for a few hours?

They almost pounced on me – got me admitted with almost no paperwork, without an advance and by the time my wife had arrived, I was already dressed in their patient uniform. They did not have a bed for me yet – and even their emergency ward was filled with in-patients. My place was a waiting bench at the emergency ward – where they got my temperature, pressure and even the intravenous incision done on my hand. (Of course, lying down.) It would take me an hour more waiting on that bench till I got my bed in the Emergency ward.

While being health insured with a corporate policy is nice, you still feel like knowing the money being swindled in your name. And so I sent my wife to have a peek at the insurance desk. She came back with a delightful story.

The guys at the insurance desk revealed their target: 50K. They were bickering over the how to reach there. One of them was clueless on what more to add to the expected expenses since he was wayward away from it. Others hinted on additional consultation fees, OT consumables, costlier beds, longer retention and even an HIV test. I fear they would have had a staged cardiac arrest on the cards, in case the bar had been even higher.

The gleaming surgeon soon visited me. Seeing that the reins are secure he quickly deferred his colleague’s decision to operate me during the night. “Let’s wait for all the reports to come in as well – no need to hurry”.
“Good – but I could have got admitted tomorrow – I swear I would have come back here!”, I thought. That would have saved a day of room rent.

It was a bad portion of my large intestine, and the doctor wanted it empty as well, without giving it a chance to be refilled. No food – just intravenous glucose. And I would repeatedly beckon one of the Mallu (colloquial for Keral-ite) nurses (who always spoke inconspicuous Hindi) to disconnect my IV so that I could relieve myself of excess fluids.

(continued to here …)