Last week, I crawled home to find the maid and her cronies clustered in front of the TV. ?See this?? I said to their utterly uninterested backsides, rolling up my salwar (possibly in an unseemly way, but what the hell, anything for effect). My left leg had swollen to elephantine dimensions, so I was rather looking forward to a dramatic reaction. ?Oh?? said my maid, after a brief look over her shoulder, ?I hope you remember that advance you promised??

Was I hurt? Yup. More so, I felt cheated. Because I felt, the whole world unfairly thought I?d cried wolf once too often. Because, a round of visits to clinics, blood tests and proddings and pokings later, doctors decided my leg wasn?t up to much at all.

And for experiences such as these, I blame the entire medical fraternity. Because, only a fortnight before, they?d told me ? a full board ? ?We think you should be prepared to accept the news that you have the Big C, Madam.?

Accept? Why shouldn?t I accept medical opinion? Of course I would ? and I?d make sure I got every bit of mileage out of it. So, I told a few people at the office. (I was mortally afraid that if I didn?t warn them, they?d be irritated when they suddenly found themselves without the only person in the office who knew the key code to the STD line. ?Why didn?t you tell us?? I could picture them snapping at my recumbent body, while I passed into the great beyond wondering uneasily, ?Did I remember to unlock it?? There?s another reason I told them what I did: I mean, come on, what about a little attention?)

There was no pain, no discomfort, so I composedly busied myself tidying up financial affairs for my blameless little boy (discovering, in that activity, that he would inherit the kingly sum of Rs 175.23 paise ? that is, if the cablewallah didn?t show up at the funeral).

Imagine my embarrassment when I was told ? by the same sonorous-sounding board ? I was clean as a whistle in the health department. Not only did I not die, it looks like, as so many astrologers have depressingly predicted, I?m going to live to a rotten old age. ?There?s nothing the matter with you,? said the doctors.

How do I face people now? I?ll have to make up something, I suppose, but not before I finish suing those intoners of the Hippocratic Oath for a diagnosis that could well have arrested my heart.

But oh, the glory while colleagues still swallowed my story! How they helped me down the stairs wherever I went! How they handed me in and out of chairs! How they paid for my lunches!

And now that my leg is regaining its lost beauty, I?ll get none of that. You know what? Next week, I?ll think up something new. Meanwhile, remind me to limp a bit.