Biryani and Prescription Drugs

It was a hapless Thursday afternoon just a week and a half ago. Nothing noteworthy was happening; a good sign if you are in a foreign land. I attended a training on home improvement by the Habitat team for some clients of a partner micro finance institution called Growing Opportunity. There was a good turn-out with lots of questions asked by potential clients, making it a productive work day overall. At least that’s what I was told. I don’t speak Tamil, so I couldn’t really understand much of what was said. Nonetheless, we all celebrated with some Biryani, a much-sought-after rice dish, from a place my coworker had ordered from for nearly two decades. It was true to its form, and I dug in heartily to the delicious dish with a recently-discovered passion for eating with my hands.

Two hours later, something was not right. My stomach, it seems, didn’t take to the Biryani the way my appetite had. I was sick as a dog by the evening and languished through the night with a rocking nausea that had me clinging to furniture as I walked around my room. Come Friday morning, I was useless, sleepy and terribly sick. The food sickness seemed to have exacerbated a chest cold that had been brewing from all of the pollution in Chennai. So there I was: sick, sick, and sicker. The racking cough triggered the nausea which triggered the sweating which triggered the sneezing. A lovely combination, don’t you think?  

I made it through the weekend with the stomach flu subsiding and the cold viciously settling further into my lungs. I ended up leaving work early on Monday and made my way through the fumes of exhaust with barely enough strength to move. There is something terribly frightening to being sick in a foreign country that doesn't compare to being sick in a place you know. In place of Nightquil, people were subscribing hot milk with lots of pepper in it for my cough and cold; instead of throat spray, salt water and spicy food was the cure. 

Lucky for me, rescue was not too far off! The college campus has the privilege of hosting a 70+ retired doctor who spent her life in the field of medicine. At the request of the warden of my hostel, I visited the good doctor with the hopes she would prescribe something better than hot milk and black pepper. I was in luck. She had stashes and stashes of drugs, and she readily gave me them all. I don’t know if they were expired; I don’t know if they were helpful; I don’t even know what they were. But I walked out of the room after she thumped on my chest with the strict orders to rest and take the handful of medicine she gave me. Whatever it was, it worked. I took the medicine and fell fast asleep around 9 p.m. that night. I woke up the next day around 2 p.m., feeling more alive. 

Since then, I can’t say I have fully recuperated. The chunky cough is still there, but I think the blame lies with the toxic pollution in Chennai. Aside from that, I did get the chance to face my nemesis, Biryani, at my first Indian wedding this past Friday. Fortunately my recent upset stomach didn’t permanently stave off my craving for wonderful Indian dishes.

 So from biryani to prescriptions drugs: I knew getting sick was bound come. India is renowned for it, after all. Still it is never fun to be sick no matter where you are. Fortunate for you, being sick in India makes an illness something to blog about. : )

Eating Biryani on a banana leaf at my first Indian wedding