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I never enjoy the new
Year’s holiday much and have never been tempted to throw
myself in the Trafalgar Square fountains, but this year
marked a new low when I passed the holiday in the
intensive care ward of the Guru Nanak hospital in the city
of Ranchi. Despite knowing India quite well after five
years as a foreign correspondent based in Delhi, I made an
elementary mistake: scouting for an auto on an until
street in Jharkhand capital, I did not keep one eye on the
ground and as a result fell down a deep unguarded hole,
gashing the back of my head.
Immediately India revealed
its nicest side: a Tata Sumo screeched to a stop and a
stranger hauled me out of the hole then drove to my hotel
nearby to warn them. I felt no pain and it was only when I
saw myself in the hotel lift’s mirror covered in blood
that I realised I was in trouble. At the hospital they
stitched me up and kept me under observation. The night
were hideous with the coughs and groans of my
fellow-patients hammering on death’s door. When my wife
Daniela kissed me goodnight at 7pm on December 31, that
was the end of my New Year’s celebrations. The hospital
ward, however was impressively clean and modern and the
attention was kindly as well as professional. This
impromptu road test of the India health system suggests
that all those Brits lining up to fly to India for
operations that would cost five or ten times as much over
there are certainly into a good thing.
Friends in Europe urged me to sue the Ranchi municipality
for millions of pounds, but I have spent enough time in
India not to step willingly into that particular chasm.
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