Welcome the first blog of the rest of my life.
As it has been over two months since I touched base with my cyberspace readership, I'll do one of those serial recaps…'previously on George's blog…George reveals he's getting married, and that his heartbeat is beating at twice its normal rate due to some unknown illness'
I'll try and keep the India stuff as fresh sounding as possible. I'm yet to discover whether there is any significant pro or con to writing about two months after the event.
We'll get to the Heart in a moment…first, there is the cricket tournament.
Part of the duties of being the only white face for miles around…one with a penchant for sport…seems to be that I have to take part in the numerous cricket tournaments dotted around the nearby villages. When the turn of Dhani Dulat village came – I was asked to be the 'chief guest' at the tournament. It was revealed that part of the duties of the 'Chief guest' were to make a donation (a minimum of 1000Rs I was informed).
Upon arrival at the cricket ground – a large, flat area of scrubland surrounded by watering lakes, ancient trees and castles of dung firewood – it also became clear that once the chief guest arrived, the game would be put on hold, whilst I was led out to the middle and presented to the two teams competing the final. I felt like a very uncomfortable member of the royal family, greeting the teams before the FA cup final and trying to pretend I had some reason for being there.
Though I had by this time got used to being stared at day in day out, and had developed a duck-like back for such stare torrents, I was still a little overwhelmed by this current turn of events. I had envisaged drinking some tea, watching some cricket, and presenting a trophy to the winning team.
But no such luck…I was led out to the middle of the pitch, where the two teams had lined up facing each other as though taking part in some sporting/military drill. i was led along the lines by the 'president' of the host cricket club, who seemed so enthusiastically caught up in the moment (and possibly so soaked in whiskey) that he wasn't sure which team was which. My attempts at looking humble and a bit dazzled seemed to generate smirks from both sides and my attempts to engage in brief conversation were met with looks more non-plussed that George W Bush attempting doctorate level calculus.
This meet and greet ordeal over, my imagination's powers of creation had clearly been heard by the universe and I sat on a makeshift stage with a commentator and some other guests, with whokm I drank tea, ate biscuits and tried to converse about the match and cricket in general. The extent of the conversation generally got no further than 'yes I like cricket…yes I'm from england'.
The game itself was fairly close, won eventually by the host team, but only after a particularly controversial incident gave them a distinct advantage…one which nearly saw the abandonment of the match as a result of the opponents near decision to boycott the remainder. The incident that sparked the controversy…and near full scale riot…was a dispute over whether the ball had gone for four or six at a particularly vital moment in the game, where the momentum was in the process of swinging in favour of the underdog visitors. The fielder on the boundary called it a 'four' but some nearby spectators who had come to support the visiting team immediately flew into a uniquely Indian form of disagreement – which involves wild gesticulating and raising ones' voice to the point where it seems you are calling down come mortal curse from the heavens'. These spectators claimed the ball had gone for six and pointed out the indentation in the ground where the ball had landed…the fielder pointed out a different spot…and all hell broke loose. The batsmen and bowler raced from the pitch to inspect the evidence…so did about 300 spectators, all of whom crowded round the area to such an extent that by the time the umpires ambled over, any evidence that might have existed was well and truly in admissible
The general hand waving, shouting and pointing reached such a pitch of fervour that I genuinely feared a full-blown fist fight might break out. I was caught between images of being the restorer of peace, a la Gandhi, and getting torn to shreds by an angry mob looking for a viable scapegoat on which to vent their frustrated sense of injustice.
Whist I was still wrestling with my inner warrior and coward, the entire opposition team and support entourage were in the process of staging a combination of a walkoff/sit down protest. I'm not sure who or what was the placating influence was, but after about 10 mins the game was restarted, complete with my worryingly neo-colonial sounding inner monologe chuckling 'only in india'.
The game was eventually won by the hosts, and it was at this point my imagined end to the office of chief guest took another twist. The presentation table was laden with three sizeable trophies, and one medal. I was ushered up to the front, expecting to do the handshake and trophy presentation bit, but no winning captain was forthcoming. It became clear that I was being presented with the largest trophy on display, as thanks for being chief guest. It then got even more bizarre, as each of the other trophies were presented to the other guests with whom I'd shared tea. The meagre medal was the only thing left, and this was duly presented to the winning captain with congratulations.
I tried not to blush as I stood there with my gargantuan trophy, while at the same time the winning captain tried to look overjoyed to receive his medal.
Truly, uniquely Indian. I can't imagine a situation in England where the dignitaries would walk off with the FA cup, while the two teams split a box of Mars bars.
The least said about my fudged attempts to subtly give the winning captain my 1000Rs donation the better. Suffice it to say, I clearly lack the panache of a drug dealing extra on 'The Wire'. My 'slip-him-the-money' back-hander was more like something that would happen if a paraplegic tried to join the masons by imitating their bizarre handshake.
This cricket tournament gave me more, however, than just the unforgettable experience of riots, trophies and bodged back-handers. Shading the pitch on one side of the ground were the amazing ancient pipal trees under which I asked my fiancé to marry me. in the process we managed to offend local custom by expressing our affection in an open way. Apparently a brief kiss on the lips is too much like possible love for village elder statesmen to be comfortable with.
So…to fast forward the story…my new wife to be goes home. I get a slight cold, which is accompanied by a concerningly accelerated heart beat. The cold goes away. After about five days, one ECG test, some allopathic pills, and some homeopathic pills…the heart beat is still beating double time.
So I go to delhi to see one of india's top Cardiologists.
He takes one look at my scan results and tells me 'you have an atrial flutter. We will admit you straight away, and when there is a bed free, we'll get you up to the ICU'
Having not been anywhere near a doctor, or an episode of Casualty for about four years, my brain takes a little while to compute the statement…my response went something like… 'what, you mean…hang on a minute…what…your putting me in intensive care?'
'yes'
'mmm…are you sure that's necessary? I feel fine'
'it's a precaution, since your heart rate's been accelerated for such a long period'
'what…(laughing in a joking, incredulous manner) like I could have a cardiac arrest at any moment'
'yes'
'riiiiight…well since you put it like that!'
I inform my mother and fiancé. I can't imagine how it must be to be woken at about 5 in the morning to be told a loved one I going into ICU with a problem with his heart, but they seem to take it ok.
I'm taken up to a ward while waiting for a bed in ICU to become available. As soon as I'm out of my clothes and swaddled in a hospital robe, it seems like about 8 nurses try to jump on me and start injecting me with things and putting electrodes all over me.
They are all a little taken-a-back when I raise my hands in a defensive martial arts type posture and say with surprising force (probably due to my mild fear of needles) 'no one is doing anything to me, or putting anything inside me until someone tells me what you are doing, and why the hell you are doing it.'
After the ward sister comes along to talk to me and doesn't seem to understand my question 'are you sure the drugs and injections are necessary?' I realise my attempt to not surrender is futile.
I decide to stop being an anti-allopathic arse, and try to make my nurses and doctors laugh instead. I figure they see enough death and misery daily, so I may as well try to make them smile.
After about 4 hours I'm wheeled up to ICU, where I am shocked at the still silence of the place, that is punctuated only by the bleeping of heart and respiration monitors. The ICU nurses seem equally shocked to be greeted by a laughing joking white bloke.
After some semi-threatening conversations with the hospital's payment department, I manage to blag my mobile phone and a notebook – citing these items as essential if I am to keep being able to pay the hospital. By the way, never get Tesco travel insurance. Their website is deliberately misleading and they knowingly fleece people. In fact, this activity is probably not limited to their travel insurance dept, but I have only had experience of this. At somepoint we'll sue them into oblivion, but for now we've neither the time nor energy needed to fight something so faceless and one-dimensional.
But back to the story.
ICU is a very double edged sword. On the one hand, I amuse myself by semi-flirting with the nurses, all of whom seem to be from Kerala. I write them silly poems and play at deliberately getting their attention when they're trying to look busy by holding my breath so my respiration monitor alarm goes off. Generally I am amazed by their patience, dedication and kindness. They are one half of why my stay in ICU is unforgettable. The other half is more brutal. It is the ICU itself…the ICU at night. The lights are switched off at ten, and for all that one might try and get to sleep, one is inevitably woken up almost hourly by one or other occupant of a nearby bed screaming in terrible agony because their morphine/sedative etc has worn off.
Maintaining calm and compassion for oneself is a challenge. You begin to feel guilty because you are not suffering to the same extent. Though my hand has swollen to twice its normal size because of all the drugs that are being pumped into it, and the pain that results thereof, I still find myself castigating myself for reacting to my pain and wishing it to stop.
ICU at night is fucked up, dark, brutal and somewhere I would wish on no one.
After various echo tests and electric shocks, My heart beat is returned to normal. The test is like giving a blowjob to a piece of drain cleaning equipment, the electric shock is probably like a mini version of 'oh my god we're losing him…CLEAR….BZZZT……CLEAR…..BZZZT…beep….beep…beep' but since I was sedated I cannot fully vouch for the veracity of my interpretation.
Once back in normal BPM rhythm, I am transferred to my own personal room to be kept under observation for a few days.
Observation seems to consist of being woken up unforgivably early to have my ECG and pulse checked…before being brought a meal that is non-vegetarian, and a tray of coke and fanta in case I want a drink. Nothing like faux-nutrition to keep one hospitalised and paying cash.
A few days of observation turns into 5 days. Yours truly begins to go stir crazy. The observation nurses are no fun, and the diet is becoming increasingly frustrating. I manage to get myself hooked up to the internet, but even this is only a mild respite – there are only so many crazy conspiracy theory websites one can read before you stop caring which rich family or race of lizard/robot/alien hybrid is running the world.
I do have skype, which is an ace invention, and I also realise I have somehow worked out how to Rap – which is the fulfilment of a long held dream…so it's not all bad…but it is f**king annoying. Imagine Tigger trapped in a 5x10m box for 5 days, and you've some idea of the scene that would have greeted you had you happened to visit.
This about brings you up to the point where I touched back down in England. There are a few other bits here and there, but they can wait until my autobiography or obituary…whichever comes first.
As well as rounding off and giving some closure to my Indian experiences, I wanted to use this blog to make a momentous announcement…
Whilst in India, the desire to run some kind of café type thing, with a community feel became more and more strong. They say be careful what you wish for…well I was, and thanks to some amazing people…I can announce that…
ON THE 5TH of MAY…THE MAGIC PAN – Vegetarian Pancake Restaurant will be opening at Zeb's Café on the High St in Leamington Spa.
Whoop Whoop.
I may continue to use this blog, but I should imagine that much of my creative traffic and inspiration will find its new home at www.pancakesandpoetry.blogspot.com
From there, you will be able to link into the Facebook Group, the Twitter and The YouTube channel.
This is my contribution to making a big noise from a very small place. This is where I act locally, whilst expressing my global thoughts.
Thru these various online communication tools, we'll be able to shape the menu the café offers into something that can please as many of the people as much of the time as possible. We'll also be able to link organisations, inspirations and ideas.
Very Exciting…and I love you all very much.
Thank you all for being so amazing.
Lets eat Pancakes!
One Love.
George.
x
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