Just now, I crave ignorance. For months, I’ve lusted for nepenthe, the mythic draught that dispels the agony of pain, and it arrived this morning, in a fat brown paper package, for a modest Rs 999. Let me explain. On the job, I’m usually on the cushy side of the table. But it’s been a rough month, with a growing catalogue of miseries, and I am now, inescapably, a patient.
I would escape this surreal landscape if I could, but I live here, dammit, and I’m not ready to quit. I need to get cosy, to be told that illness is a mere trompe-l’oeil. I want to hear the reassuring purr of my efficient machine, that old reliable which will whiz me past all roadblocks, disasters and restore me to…
