The Day the Doctor Thought I Was a Goat

In my school-going days, lunch breaks were never about lunch. They were about sprinting till our lungs protested, and then rewarding ourselves with the greatest culinary treasure available for ten paise: sliced cucumber or mango from the push-tela vendors, who circled the playground like seasoned hunters.  A liberal smear of mint, coriander chutney, a sprinkle of salt, and we felt we were eating something exotic.

One such afternoon, after indulging in a generous serving of cucumber, my stomach revolted. The vomiting simply refused to stop. My grandmother tried every remedy known to mankind, jeera-kashaya, lime, salt mix, ajwain steam, but my stomach had clearly filed for independence.

Finally, my younger sister marched me to the doctor who lived right opposite our house. Those were the glorious days when doctors examined patients in their living rooms, without receptionists, tokens, or appointment apps judging your punctuality.

The doctor began his profession-standard interrogation.

Doctor: What did you eat?

Me: Kumblakai

Doctor: Kumblakai won’t cause this.

Me: I ate it with the peel and it had too many seeds.

Doctor: Why did you go for the seeds and the peel?

Me:  It was tender.  And… I ate it raw.

He stopped his investigation. Slowly raised his head. And looked at me as if he was assessing my species.

Doctor: Raw? Why did you eat Kumblakai, raw?

The confusion was understandable, because, in my dehydrated and semi-delirious state, I had translated cucumber as Kumblakai in Kannada.

And Kumblakai means Pumpkin.

A pumpkin.

Raw.

With peel and lots of seeds. 

Eaten like a cucumber.

No wonder the doctor’s mind was racing through the animal kingdom.

My doted sister, just a couple of years younger, had been quietly standing by, assuming the two “adults” in the room were talking sense, until the doctor’s bewildered expression told her that I had stopped making any.  She finally intervened, horrified at the track I was taking him down.

Sister: He means Southekai, doctor. Cucumber. Not Kumblakai.

Doctor: Ahhhhh!

Relief washed over his face. The diagnosis no longer required cross-referencing veterinary manuals.

A quick injection later, the vomiting stopped and life resumed its familiar rhythm.

Some childhood memories remain etched forever, not because they were dramatic, but because they were hilariously absurd.

This one still makes me smile. A simpler Bangalore, a doctor across the street, a push-tela cucumber snack, and a single Kannada mix-up that almost had a doctor convinced I was grazing on pumpkins like livestock.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.