Avid readers of this column (and why would you not want to be a member of this august community, eh?) will recall that the previous column was about my nasal passages bearing more than a passing resemblance to Nal Stop at 7.30 in the evening.
Well, I’m sorry to have to report that the cold has still not left a forwarding address, and continues to very much be in residence, leading to much misery where the undersigned is concerned.
Which is why, this past Monday, I did something that I usually prefer to avoid altogether: visit the doctor.
Normal colds, coughs and fevers, I have long held, are best cured by being comatose for as long as possible, and imbibing as much as possible of thick nourishing soup and endless mugs of adrakwaali chai. It takes, in my experience not more than four days to be fully fit and fine. Except the method broke down this time, and well over a week later, I still found myself very much under the weather.
This, it seemed, was a case for the professionals.
I’ve been going to the same doctor, on and off, for the last 15 years or so, and he and I get along famously well. And so it was that I found myself at eight in the morning outside his clinic, waiting for the good man in the white coat to do his thing. Which he duly proceeded to do. He ran the stethoscope over my chest and back, took my blood pressure, and having armed himself with a torch, took a long hard look down my throat. Having finished his examination, he went back to his seat and started to write out some prescriptions.
“Ashish”, he said conversationally as he continued to write out the report, “perhaps it would be best if you cut down on the smoking”.
I looked at him in some surprise. “But doctor, I don’t smoke”.
He gave me the son-I-wasn’t-born-yesterday look, smiled an all-knowing paternal smile, and said I needn’t lie to him – just cut it down, that’s all.
“Doc, it’s eight in the morning, but I could drink you under this table right here, right now. But I swear by the most expensive bottle of single malt money can buy, I don’t smoke.” (Which is quite true, by the way. Both the drinking you under the table bit, and the no smoking bit, in case you were wondering.)
“Hmm,” he said, stumped for the moment. He scratched his chin in pensive fashion, and then asked me this: “Were you in Delhi recently?”
Avid readers of this column (and why would you not want to be a member of this august community, eh?) will recall that the previous-but-one column was about the four terrifying days I spent on Delhi’s highways.
Delhi, it turns out, didn’t cause my cold, but it is the reason it is taking such a long time to work its way out. And my throat, it would seem, is the type that smokers the world over aspire to. THe probable cause? Delhi.
As of today, though, I’m happy to report, things are much better. The cold is all but gone, the prescribed medicines are almost done with, and most importantly, I won’t be traveling to Delhi for the next two months at least.
Now, if you’ll excuse me: I’ll be off to see if I can finagle one last cup of chai on the back of a somewhat snivelly nose.
He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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