Two Nights

Looking about for comfort, I peeked into the bathroom of what was to be my boudoir for the next two nights—and was greeted by what at first seemed to be a komodo dragon. It was a lizard, all right, as my more settled eyes assured my mind, and my heart; it was goggling as well as, what seemed like, ogling at me. The sight of the slithering, slimy, and disquietingly alert creature on top of the pot evinced in me an unusual sort of discomfort—discomfort I decidedly did not require at the time.

I was admitted for an appendicitis surgery at a hospital in Varanasi. Thoughtful is not the adjective that would have characterized my disposition at the commencement of the two days. The only thoughts that were likely to cross my mind over the time were whether or not I would survive what was supposed to be a stint; and why did I, an entirely harmless and peace-loving organism, have to come down with an appendix problem. But as the hours sauntered, and one uninspiring occurrence—such as the komodo-spotting—followed another, I was forced into thoughtfulness.

My visit to the hospital was one of constant epiphanies. Epiphanies, these were, of not the sort involving flying angels and bow-wielding Cupids; instead these concerned the various miseries of human life. More specifically, they involved the horrors of being admitted to a hospital in small-town India.

As I was welcomed into the Operation Theater (OT), I was visited by sights and sounds entirely out of place of a theater of such a sort. An OT, one imagines, would be a realm of serious-minded MDs, sparse sound, instruments, machines, examination lights, and general scientific bravura. Instead, I felt I had entered the theater for a third-rate porn movie. Govinda, with his characteristically shiny, teethy and sheepish smile, was dancing suggestively in the Tele to some unspeakable horror. Amusement, you would think, is generally good at unexpected moments. It is the sort of thing that calms the mind--that relaxes. My anxiety, instead, was only accentuated when I realized that every single assistant/doctor in the room was gripped by the goings on in the TV. One, even as I was laying my body and soul onto the examination bed, asked me to join him and the others in enjoying the film. The surgery was to start in five minutes.

On a lighter note, the immediate thought that visited my mind, in a quivering manner much like one of Shakespeare’s ghosts, was that I hadn’t the slightest clue as to who would actually perform the operation. It was to be conducted, officially, by a reputed Dr. So-and-So. But what was to stop a third-rate, amused, Govinda-admiring Luddite from conducting the laparoscopy? Who was to know whether it was actually -So who did the cutting and the ejecting and the stitching? The anesthesia had done me in within moments of my entry into the theater; and so I, certainly, was not going to be a credible witness to the proceedings.

There were other troubles as well. For instance, even though I wasn’t in China, I became very concerned for my organs. They are not the sorts of things one typically worries about. But I suddenly found myself possessive towards everything from my pancreas to my kidney. So I confirmed, somewhat assertively, with the closest assistant/doctor: “Bhaiya appendicitis ka operation he karna hai na.” Sir, the operation has to be for appendicitis only, right? I don’t know what I expected from him, but what I got was “Haan haan, ghabrao mat aap”--Yes, yes, don’t worry--following which the source of these words gleefully restored his attention to the Tele.

The rest was an unremembered dream or, more accurately, an unremembered nightmare, and I woke by my family, back at the boudoir.

Hospitals in India, I found, are like classes at good universities such as the one in New Haven. You are exposed to visions and ideas and events you could not have imagined. Which is usually a good thing. Over my two nights at the hospital, however, I learned of ideas that were truly unusual: for instance, that there could be a connection between a building’s electricity and its water supply. The moment the hospital’s electricity would go, the water would follow. The moment it would return, so would its follower. As to the correlation between water and electricity—I haven’t the foggiest idea. But that was how it was. And as if I wasn’t already frightened enough of venturing into the loo, and being goggled and ogled at, I now had to worry about whether or not the electrons might decide to give up on me at a critical moment.

I also learned over the two nights that it is not easy to fool people, or to be fooled. The bed sheet of my room, for instance, had various stains—of multifarious colors and of all sorts of designs. My family asked an attendant to replace the sheet. We were told, in turn, that the sheet had recently been washed and bleached, and that whatever stains might have held on were surely minor and could, safely, be ignored. But these were not unobtrusive stains. One particular stain caught my attention. It wasn’t so much a stain as a mark. Without doubt, I quietly told myself, this was the remnant of male ejaculation. How do I know? Well, I know what male ejaculation on a bed looks like, and the mark under question sure looked like the kind I am talking about.

A last major lesson was of just how effective a few tips of a few rupees can be for inducing alacrity. Not once over my admission was a nurse far from calling. I survived the stay and, what’s more, can boast of having learned, experienced, and seen a thing or two—all over just two nights.