What started as a minor headache soon took gigantic proportions, with every bone in the body aching as though pulverised under a giant mallet. The throat had developed some pins and needles in its cavity that pricked me with each swallow of substance. I am not a hypochondriac but my vivid imagination conjured up scary visuals.
What irked me more than the bodily suffering was the fact that I couldn’t get down to doing what I loved most – blogging. Like many others, I was vain enough to believe that fellow bloggers looked forward to reading my posts. So, on the third day, unable to ignore the agony, I walked into the nearest clinic.
The clinic I entered was a state-of –the –art affair, with impressive gadgets, chrome and glass everywhere. The young, prosperous white coat looked all business like as he poked, prodded and listened intently before handing me a long list of tests to be done. Feeling a little agitated I asked –“Is it serious?”
“Just routine. Get the results and see me tomorrow.”
I balked at the fees but the sheer confidence with which he handled my case, lulled me into a sense of security about the fellow’s competence. What followed was no less than a nightmare as I paid out a sizeable chunk of my savings to go through the manhandling by a lot of white-coats as they pricked, pummeled and pumped my weak body.
The following day, I landed up at the doc’s, clutching the staggering file of reports and came out a few minutes later, with a long prescription. Not to be dismissed so easily, I decided on a second opinion and a third one if necessary, for I firmly believed the worst.
I walked into another polyclinic and confronted the physician. He was a hearty fellow with a generous girth, given to laughing raucously every few minutes. He studied my reports with amazing interest and called for his assistant.
The aide turned out to be a pretty, young thing who nodded her head and whispered – “What could it be?”
“GOK”, replied the hefty senior, seriously.
I fled. GOK sounded more dangerous than the much-publicised AIDS. Trembling, I placed a long distance call to my cousin, a medico by profession.
“I am dying”, I cried. “I have got the GOK”.
A stunned silence greeted me while I let loose my lachrymal. Then came the crackle of laughter, floating down the line.
“You poor fool. GOK is ‘God only Knows’. We medicos use it when we can’t diagnose a malady. Just relax and don’t stuff yourself with antibiotics”.
That evening, my elderly neighbour called on me. Like all ill people are likely to do, I updated her with the latest bulletin on my health.
“You poor thing. It is just the weather change”, she said. “I will get my honey-ginger brew for you.”
Sure enough, just two doses of the ambrosia put me back on my feet. So much so for the GOK peddlers who had fleeced me clean.
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hey ....great story as usual......keep it up....u can view 2 new recipes on my blog bhairavis iwrite2sulekha.com
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Hi Bhairavi,
thanks for being here...will surely read your recipes...
tanushree
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Hi Bhairavi,
thanks for being here...will surely read your recipes...
tanushree
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