Drippy times

Everyone around me seems to have malaria. One by one they are all getting slowly but surely infected. I finally know what it feels like to be the hero of a zombie movie, where I am the lone survivor, the last human being among a world of those who fell prey to a mutant virus which has now made them zombies. Invariably, being the last survivor in a zombie movie I will be expected to head to the nearest army base, which by default will be American, which is somehow always immune and ready for any disaster. It will never be the Sri Lankan army that will come to the rescue, it will never be the Venezuelan army that can save the world, it will always be the American Army that will be immune and ready to rescue. I think it has something to do with Sri Lanka and Venezuela having a flimsy film industry. But I am digressing.

I was talking about malaria. It suddenly seems to be rampant. The statistics look grim with there being a 70% increase in occurrences since last year. That is a worrying statistic, especially when all your close friends start ending up in the hospital. I can just imagine schools and colleges across Mumbai resembling ghost towns with only 5 students sitting in a class of 60 and thats just because those 5 have already completed their stint in the infirmary.

Very recently a dear friend was checked into the ICU, after he was ravenously sucked on by an anopheles mosquito. After he was thrown out into the general ward I paid him a visit. That's when I realised the atrocities that go on within the confines of the hospital. The poor sap was made to lie in a bed, with a drip trickling fluid into him, wearing a hideous blue costume that had the lingering smell of the person who had worn it before him. His room was specially equipped to keep him entertained during his week long stay, by providing him with a window. The device was primitive, but if you liked birds and blue skies then you had little to complain. My friend never really had a liking for either.

If it weren’t for the constant weakness, having to have food dripped into you and the crippling boredom, I think a stint in the hospital is rather a nice experience. On the upside, you get to laze around in bed all day that too, on the forceful insistence of your parents. It does make you wonder why they behave so differently when you do the exact same thing at home. There is no dearth of attention you receive when you are admitted. Its a great place to catch up with all your old relatives and school friends. And they’re all rather nice to you. You’ll never have a friend come asking for the money you owe them, while you’re in the ward. In fact they usually come bringing little things with them, like flowers, cards and dandruff.

 However in order to reap the benefits you got to sufferer the atrocities. In the 4p.m. to 7 p.m. visiting slot that I visited the ailing ally, he narrated to me some pretty gruesome violations. One of the dirtiest tricks that hospitals play on patients is the button they install on the side of the bed that says call nurse. Hospitals purposely install this button to raise the hopes of first time male patients who come in believing that the hospital is well stocked with nurses who are actually models with a will to serve to humanity. They enthusiastically press the button, even pressing it 3-4 times in the space of 5 nanoseconds in their excitement. Then when their innocent hearts skip a beat as they hear the knock on the door. They expect an aishwarya rai to walk in and ask lovingly about their condition. Instead in walks the lead actress of a ram gopal varma horror film.

Nurse: What is it?

Patient: Can you please send for the nurse? I seem to have pressed the “Call for the Ram-Gopal-Varma-Horror-Film-Actress Button”, by mistake.

But alas she is the nurse and you have to live with her for the duration of your stay. Worse still is when you hear the shrieking of patients all around you. If you spend enough time in a hospital you will come out convinced that the world is full of sadness, pain and unpayable bills. Your ears are constantly bombarded with cries of, “AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”, “NOOOO INJECTION!”, “Injections are okay, But what's that going in MY ASS!!!”, “AAAAAHHHHHH! THE BILL!” Hospitals are ironical places, because even if a man survives a heart attack, chances are slim that he’s going to survive the bill.

I just hope this Malaria pandemic meets a quinineful death and leaves me the lone survivor in this lonely world of malaria patients, hale and hearty. Maybe am immune to it after all or maybe my Baygon works better than yours. All that matters is that the future of Humankind depends on me.

- By Editor Man