Piles
Khushwant Singh has written a very funny piece, in the Outlook, about his piles problem.
Well, I Nether!
Thoughts of a dignified, noble farewell quashed by an endoscopic bathos
Khushwant Singh
I crave the forgiveness of my readers for writing on a subject which is taboo in genteel circles. I also apologise in advance for using words which some people may find distasteful. I wouldn't be doing so if the end of my tale of woe was not so comic.
It all started during my recent summer vacation in Kasauli. I woke up one night with a queasy feeling in my stomach. Half asleep, I tottered to the loo to rid myself of my sleep-breaker. When I got up from the lavatory seat to flush out the contents, I was shocked to see I had passed a lot of blood with my stool. "Shit!" I said to myself, suddenly wide awake. The rest of the night was wasted in contemplation of the end. I had had a reasonable innings, close to scoring a century, so no regrets on that score. Was I creating a self-image of heroism in the face of death? That vanished on the following day as more blood flowed out of my belly.
I asked my friend Dr Santosh Kutty of the Central Research Institute (CRI) to drop in for a drink in the evening. Over a glass of Scotch, he heard me out. When I finished, he asked me: "Have you been eating chukandar?" I admitted I'd had beetroot salad the day before.
"It could be that," he suggested. "It is the same colour as human blood. Or it could be nature's way of reducing high blood pressure—bleeding through the nose or arse. Or it could be a polyp, or piles, or...." He did not use the word but I understood he meant cancer. "Let me examine your rectum."
"You'll do no such thing," I rasped. "I'd rather die than show my rectum to anyone." He paused and continued, "It would be wise to have an endoscopy. It will clear all doubts. We don't have the facility in Kasauli. You can have it done at pgi in Chandigarh or in Delhi. The sooner the better."
I opted for Delhi to be with my family. And rang up my friend Nanak Kohli to send up his Mercedes Benz to take me down. I looked up my dictionary to find out exactly what polyp and endoscopy meant. One is a kind of sea urchin-like growth in the lower part of the intestine, the other an instrumental examination of one's innards. I spent the rest of the day drafting in my mind farewell letters to my near and dear ones. Nothing mawkish or sentimental, but in the tone of one who couldn't care less about his fate, something they could quote in my obituaries: he went like a man, with a smile on his face, etc, etc.
The next morning, my son Rahul and I drove back to Delhi. The first thing I did was to ask Dr I.P.S. Kalra, who lives in the neighbouring block, to come over. Dr Kalra is a devout believer in miracles performed by Waheguru. He has been our doctor for over half a century and has treated several members of my extended family in their last days on earth, until their journey to the electric crematorium. Since I am a lot older than him, he addresses me as Veerjee (elder brother). He took my blood pressure, it was higher than normal. He heard my bloody tale and straightaway fixed an appointment with Dr S.K. Jain, Delhi's leading endoscopist.
The next evening, accompanied by Kalra, Rahul and my daughter Mala, we presented ourselves at Dr Jain's swanky clinic in Hauz Khas Enclave. All white marble, spotlessly clean, and with the obligatory statuette of Lord Ganapati with garland of fresh marigold flowers around his neck sitting above the receptionist's desk. Since I was the first patient of the many he had to examine that evening, I was conducted immediately to his operating room.
I can tell you that endoscopy strips your self-esteem and any dignity you may have. I was ordered to take off my salwar-kameez, given an overall to wear, and ordered to lie down. Dr Jain took my BP and proceeded to insert an endoscope up my rectum.At times the pain was excruciating. It went on for an hour. When it was over, Dr Kalra ordered me, "Veerji, pudd maro—kill a fart, you'll feel easier." I refused to oblige and instead went to the lavatory to get rid of the wind the nervous tension had created inside me.
Dr Jain pronounced the verdict: "No polyp, no cancer, only internal piles which bleed because of high BP. It is nature's way of bringing it down." As a parting gift, he gave Mala a filmed version of all that had transpired—from my bottom being bared to the muck inside my belly. As if that was not enough, when asked about his father's health, Rahul told everyone, "Pop has piles." There is something romantic about cancer; polyp is like a plop sound produced by a frog leaping into a stagnant pool; but haemorrhoids have no romance attached to them; they are simply a miserable man's piles. Many well-wishers called to enquire how my endoscopy had gone and how I felt about the whole exercise. My reply was standard: "I feel buggered."
Well, I Nether!
Thoughts of a dignified, noble farewell quashed by an endoscopic bathos
Khushwant Singh
I crave the forgiveness of my readers for writing on a subject which is taboo in genteel circles. I also apologise in advance for using words which some people may find distasteful. I wouldn't be doing so if the end of my tale of woe was not so comic.
It all started during my recent summer vacation in Kasauli. I woke up one night with a queasy feeling in my stomach. Half asleep, I tottered to the loo to rid myself of my sleep-breaker. When I got up from the lavatory seat to flush out the contents, I was shocked to see I had passed a lot of blood with my stool. "Shit!" I said to myself, suddenly wide awake. The rest of the night was wasted in contemplation of the end. I had had a reasonable innings, close to scoring a century, so no regrets on that score. Was I creating a self-image of heroism in the face of death? That vanished on the following day as more blood flowed out of my belly.
I asked my friend Dr Santosh Kutty of the Central Research Institute (CRI) to drop in for a drink in the evening. Over a glass of Scotch, he heard me out. When I finished, he asked me: "Have you been eating chukandar?" I admitted I'd had beetroot salad the day before.
"It could be that," he suggested. "It is the same colour as human blood. Or it could be nature's way of reducing high blood pressure—bleeding through the nose or arse. Or it could be a polyp, or piles, or...." He did not use the word but I understood he meant cancer. "Let me examine your rectum."
"You'll do no such thing," I rasped. "I'd rather die than show my rectum to anyone." He paused and continued, "It would be wise to have an endoscopy. It will clear all doubts. We don't have the facility in Kasauli. You can have it done at pgi in Chandigarh or in Delhi. The sooner the better."
I opted for Delhi to be with my family. And rang up my friend Nanak Kohli to send up his Mercedes Benz to take me down. I looked up my dictionary to find out exactly what polyp and endoscopy meant. One is a kind of sea urchin-like growth in the lower part of the intestine, the other an instrumental examination of one's innards. I spent the rest of the day drafting in my mind farewell letters to my near and dear ones. Nothing mawkish or sentimental, but in the tone of one who couldn't care less about his fate, something they could quote in my obituaries: he went like a man, with a smile on his face, etc, etc.
The next morning, my son Rahul and I drove back to Delhi. The first thing I did was to ask Dr I.P.S. Kalra, who lives in the neighbouring block, to come over. Dr Kalra is a devout believer in miracles performed by Waheguru. He has been our doctor for over half a century and has treated several members of my extended family in their last days on earth, until their journey to the electric crematorium. Since I am a lot older than him, he addresses me as Veerjee (elder brother). He took my blood pressure, it was higher than normal. He heard my bloody tale and straightaway fixed an appointment with Dr S.K. Jain, Delhi's leading endoscopist.
The next evening, accompanied by Kalra, Rahul and my daughter Mala, we presented ourselves at Dr Jain's swanky clinic in Hauz Khas Enclave. All white marble, spotlessly clean, and with the obligatory statuette of Lord Ganapati with garland of fresh marigold flowers around his neck sitting above the receptionist's desk. Since I was the first patient of the many he had to examine that evening, I was conducted immediately to his operating room.
I can tell you that endoscopy strips your self-esteem and any dignity you may have. I was ordered to take off my salwar-kameez, given an overall to wear, and ordered to lie down. Dr Jain took my BP and proceeded to insert an endoscope up my rectum.At times the pain was excruciating. It went on for an hour. When it was over, Dr Kalra ordered me, "Veerji, pudd maro—kill a fart, you'll feel easier." I refused to oblige and instead went to the lavatory to get rid of the wind the nervous tension had created inside me.
Dr Jain pronounced the verdict: "No polyp, no cancer, only internal piles which bleed because of high BP. It is nature's way of bringing it down." As a parting gift, he gave Mala a filmed version of all that had transpired—from my bottom being bared to the muck inside my belly. As if that was not enough, when asked about his father's health, Rahul told everyone, "Pop has piles." There is something romantic about cancer; polyp is like a plop sound produced by a frog leaping into a stagnant pool; but haemorrhoids have no romance attached to them; they are simply a miserable man's piles. Many well-wishers called to enquire how my endoscopy had gone and how I felt about the whole exercise. My reply was standard: "I feel buggered."
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