Bengaluru
Late November I arrived in Bengaluru. I hadn’t noticed that my apartment was on the opposite side of the city from the airport but I found out when the taxi ride took two hours and was congruously expensive. We stopped at a chai stall on the way and I loved the taste, as always. India has a distinctive way of making tea which simply doesn’t transpose to other countries.
The day after I arrived the World Cup of One Day Cricket Grand Final was on in Ahmedabad and as my apartment had a TV set I was able to watch it there. I was doubtful about this because the whole of India was over the moon thinking they had the Cup in the bag when I fully expected Australia to win, simply because the Indians were too cocky and the team under too much pressure to succeed. Anyone would have difficulty living up to that level of expectation, epecially if things started to go wrong. The superstars of the Indian team were featured in massive, glamorous advertisements everywhere and they weren’t short of pretence either, while the Australians were impeccably disciplined, not getting ahead of themselves, knowing they would need to make a supreme effort, and that they were capable of doing it. Everything would have to be excellent, from fielding to running between the wickets. Communication, coordination, everything. And on the day the better side would win.
India were hot favourites in the betting but Australia won with seven overs to spare. Head took a great catch and then played the innings of his life after Australia was in early trouble. Starc penetrated, Cummins got Kohli, Smith walked when he wasn’t out and Labuschagne stuck with Head to the end. It was a typical Australian big-match performance. Some chances were squandered but hard work, brilliance and dogged determination added up to victory. I would have to be careful not to mention cricket for a few days but I felt immensely satisfied.
India didn’t take it well at all. The crowd left before the presentation and I think some of the Indian players were missing too. There was a deathly silence and nothing remaining in the stands but a pile of refuse, like abandoned flags and posters. The country was stunned. It took days before they could admit they had been outplayed by a better team. They shook their heads sadly and their eyes darkened and dimmed when they talked about it. I almost felt sorry for them.
I settled in at the apartment and asked my host, Yuvraj, if he would mind if I recovered there from a hernia operation and he was very obliging. He recommended a good doctor for the initial consultations. The young man living next door was a driver with his own van and he was short of work at the time and would be very helpful in the process. Later he became crucial but I had no idea at that early stage just how involved this process was going to be.
The doctor’s office was a couple of miles from my flat and the rickshaws wouldn’t pick me up. They were operating on a new system based on a mobile app. They were no longer interested in random street pickups, they were glued to their tiny screens in search of the biggest and best fares. Sometimes an old-timer who didn’t own a mobile phone would stop for me and these were the ones who charged me the lowest prices, but mostly I had to walk all the way. I couldn’t use the app because I didn’t have a phone contract in India and it was almost impossible to get one. I needed proof of my address and two witnesses with contracts and certifications. I was loathe to ask complete strangers to vouch for me and after many long, fruitless journeys I gave up. A few years before the government gave out free sim cards to all tourists but the scheme was abused somehow and they went the other way, making it as difficult as possible for tourists to get one.
The doctor referred me to a local clinic where I could begin an exhaustive process of tests. They did an ultrasound examination of my stomach and found a one centimetre tear in the stomach wall. The nurse checking me instructed me to cough as hard as I could while she pressed the device into my flesh and announced after a few minutes of painful coughing that the tear was now 1.3 centimetres. She had an air of subtle, refined cruelty and attempted to play on my fears by remarking that I had a slightly enlarged prostate and enquiring whether I had trouble unrinating. When I replied in the negative she looked away silently in a dranatic gesture designed to give me time to get worried about prostate cancer but I wasn’t having it. I knew that a normal healthy person my age would have an enlarged prostate and that urination in a sixty-nine year old would not be the same as in a young person and anyway I just wanted my hernia fixed.
At every stage someone was asking me if I smoked and how much and when was I going to give it up. It was included in the forms they were filling out, just as it is in Australia. It comes from the World Health Organisation. Every single person in the world was to be harassed about it and persuaded that adopting a virtuous lifestyle would save the poor medical industry a fortune, even though there were no special facilities for smokers and few had bothered even trying to cure lung cancer. Cancer, many friends had observed, is a big business. In Australia it was openly discussed that perhaps smokers should be refused treatment in some cases as they were a liability, and, besides, they were enjoying themselves at everyone else’s expense. An unexpected side effect of Medicare is that one person’s well being becomes a concern for everybody else, so they all have a say in your health care.
They can’t save you from being bombed back to the stone age but they can save you from smoking, whether you like it or not. I had rarely I never needed hospital attention since I was twelve. I could have died a hundred times, but I had cost the holy health system bugger all (Australian for ‘very little’) after smoking half million cigarettes, approximately. The continued testing was a revelation as my results were all positive. My heart, lungs and various other organs were fine and even I was amazed at the results, though I had impressed most of the doctors who had examined me over the years. They couldn’t understand it. My best doctor told me I had a great constitution and would live forever. I knew plenty of non-smokers who were always at the doctor’s and couldn’t live without a cocktail of prescription drugs which were rotting their brains but that, of course, is anecdotal, .
At the hospital I continued the testing regime which, I noticed, was not cheap. A thousand rupees disappeared from my wallet with each one, and there were about a dozen. I was happy with the treatment I was receiving as a financial officer found me each time I went in and guided me through the process. My surgeon was an impressive man, well turned out, wise and reassuring with a sense of humour. He asked me if I could give up smoking for a couple of weeks and laughed when I replied that I doubted it. I knew myself, I knew I was healthy, why should I give up something I really enjoyed? It wouldn’t work and I was honest with him. He asked me to at least try to give up a couple of days before the operation. As if the half million I had already smoked would have little consequence if I stopped for a few days. What difference could it make? And why didn’t they just do their operation? I was paying top dollar but felt like they were doing me a favour.
*Photos on this page from Wikimedia.
Travels to Nepal 