As a rugged individualist, I have never liked following the herd. Which is why, when everyone else was rushing or being rushed to hospital with COVID-19, I decided to be hospitalised for acute necrotising pancreatitis, which is about as bad as it sounds. In a nutshell, it involves your pancreas begging for mercy after years of abuse.
The whole thing was a new experience for me. I had never been hospitalised for anything before. It was a time of many firsts. It was the first time I had ever been put on a drip. Apparently I have delicate veins, like women from aristocratic backgrounds, or supermodels, so each time they tried to insert the needle, it was a voyage of discovery. By the end of the third day, I had more holes in me than a golf course. But it was all totally worth it, because these tubes were the mechanism through which they delivered pain killers.
After weeks of hugging my wife and promising to be a good boy in future, this proved to be a much better way of dealing with pain. The best part was that the pain killers were supposed to be as per requirement, so all I had to do was look pathetic and ask for more. It was brilliant. My childbearing years are probably over, but in case we have another one, Ketamine Chowdhury will be its name.
Soon after I was introduced to pain killers, I also received my first enema. The first time around, the enema man was quite reserved, but he warmed up as our relationship progressed. On the second occasion, he was quite chatty, inquiring about my family, and asking about my hobbies. I’m pretty sure he would have brought me flowers for our third date, but normal service was resumed soon after Round two.
Since I’m in the middle of trying to write a book about Gandhi, this was all very useful. They say you should write what you know, and now, when it comes to enemas, I do. I also had my first ever CT scan, conducted by two men from Lucknow, who were extraordinarily polite. They injected me with blue dye, and kept asking me, with a mixture of concern and hope, whether it was hurting. They apologised repeatedly throughout the process. One of them may have kissed me on the forehead before sending me in, and periodically asked me to hold my breath in the nicest possible way.
During my stay, I was also exposed to different styles of nursing. Most of the nurses were from Kerala. They were competent, confident and multilingual, speaking both incomprehensible Hindi and incomprehensible English, depending on patient profile. Their contrasting approaches to patient care came out most vividly when the plaster and bandages connecting my needles needed to be removed. Some nurses were gentle and patient, coaxing off the sticky bits little by little, while others used it as an opportunity to strike a blow against patriarchy, yanking it off in one rapid movement, ignoring my high-pitched screams.
“This is what it’s like when women have to wax,” said one of them, which was deeply unfair. I have never asked anyone to wax in my life. Nevertheless, a hospital visit is a strong argument in favour of being nicer to women. You may justify your innate sense of male superiority using a combination of statistics, gut feel and the laws of Manu. But Manu never went to hospital, whereas you almost certainly will. When you do, remember that at some point, you will be alone, in the dark, strapped to a bed, and a woman will be holding the needle. Be nice now, before it’s too late.
Otherwise this is not going to end well. And whatever else you do, be kinder to your pancreas.
No pancreases were harmed during the production of Shovon Chowdhury’s most recent novel, Murder With Bengali Characteristics