Better than bad humour

'Your sugar levels are rather high,' the escort said, adding, 'you must be a sweet person.'

There are many discoveries in life that leaves us speechless. You probably realise how Columbus would have felt watching the native Red Indians peering back at him in wonder on the edge of the Dominican shores; may be as elated and joyful as the way Edison felt when he got the filament right on the electric bulb.

Similarly, there are deposits that blow your mind. The deposit of fine sand on your feet after the fresh surge of wave; a bunch of chocolates from a smiling child expecting a birthday wish; happiness filling the heart like a helium balloon as you hug a hulk of a childhood friend after years of separation. Some people would like to see, most of all, a large deposit of cash in their bank accounts, particularly before a festival or a family occasion.

However, as I walked out of the clinic on a humid Saturday afternoon, the deposit I discovered was rather alarming. Like the buried treasure map of a pirate, it was all printed rather neatly on a bunch of fresh, crisp sheets of paper. My escort snatched them from me and began reading the content.

I might be blessing the fact of not having to read that horror with my own two malfunctioning eyes, but it was not pleasant knowing in any way. “Your sugar levels are rather high,” the escort said with a chuckle, adding bizarrely, “you must be a real sweet person.” He held my hand and guffawed with another unwanted information: “The ticker on the news channel says India’s diabetes population has shot up to 69 million. Oh, you must feel pretty special to be on the 69 club.”

I did the imaginary eye-rolling and sighed, realising what my escort was trying. Yes, people should not make the announcement of a disease sound like death knell. They should cheer up the patient and not try making him feel dejected. Still, my escort could have done better.

None of the things I discovered merit comparisons with Columbus or Edison; nor was I ecstatic to learn that I am Type-2 diabetic. “There’s something about the deposit,” my escort said, as I imagined him blinking his eyes trying to hide a glint in them. “Deposit? What’s that?” I enquired, hoping that whatever joke he was playing on me would bring genuine laughter, not a nervous perspiring grin.

“Yes,” he said elaborately, shuffling the bunch of sheets he held. “The doctor said it must be a real big one...the fat deposit in your liver. Now, don’t you really feel like laughing over this?”

Oh yes, I would laugh if the joke was on someone else, I thought and worked hard to hold that thought to myself.

But I could not help saying: “I may have a disability, but I’m surely an adult. The problem in that is, you can take the bad news pretty well, but not those bad jokes.”
“Hope we’ll be friends if I say sorry,” my escort said after a long, thoughtful silence. “Misplaced attempt or not, it was certainly an attempt at humour. Give me credit for that at least,” he said, guiding me along the shiny hospital floors with the cool, AC air caressing our faces. I was glad that he took my jab for what it is: a plea not to be seen any differently from other people.