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Medical Tourism: come for the finger surgery. Stay for the temples. And the paratas.

For the better part of the past decade, my two old friends and I have met up in India every January to explore a different part of an endless country. That all stopped with the pandemic. To our surprise, we all made it through. So two years ago, we had to push our luck and schedule our usual January trip.

All honking, all the time…

To the absolute and utter amazement of just about everyone who knows us, the three of us arrived at the Chennai airport from the US, the UK, and Gujarat at approximately the same time. We piled into our pre-booked taxi and as I listened to the cacophony of honking — in India, vehicle horns are a form of radar sounded at all times to let other drivers know of your presence on the road — I thought nothing had changed.

I was completely wrong. And totally right. The India I first experienced all those years ago was the old India. Roadsides were public urinals, cows wandered freely along streets and highways, and litter was everywhere. The friendly people we met went out of their way to help us, the food was fabulous, and ancient marvels waiting around every corner amazed us. (Sure the US has some Viking graves, cave paintings, and native peoples whose traditions extend for centuries earlier. But for the most part, we Americans rarely encounter anything older than a century.)

At an ancient temple site I overheard a father telling his child, “It’s more than a thousand years old.” The child was skeptical. “Is that more than nineteen?” [All images unless otherwise credited: ©Janine Smith & Jayalakshmy Ayyer]

But in my annual trips over the past decade, while the India I’ve visited has been been working to preserve a history that includes some of the world’s oldest known civilizations, it has also been flinging itself into the future of technical innovation. 

My favorite change?

In today’s India, health coverage and other benefits are tied to each person’s bank account (no minimum balance required, so everyone has one), with biometric thumbprint verification making ID cards unnecessary. Since almost everyone in India has a mobile phone, the joke is that beggars will accept charity via their QR code. Over the past decade in particular, India has been building a world-class medical system, which has fed a growing medical tourism industry.

A few months before our trip, some rogue blood vessels on my middle finger decided to party, and their shenanigans produced a rapidly expanding growth that looked a lot like a misplaced penis.  While this could have led to all kinds of interesting personal developments, I really wasn’t up for seeing it waving as I tried to type—or for the blood splashed onto my keyboard whenever my new digit’s fragile surface was jostled.

My NHS doctor said he could try freezing off the growth, but warned that probably wouldn’t work. He also offered me some cream, which burned but had no effect on my enthusiastically expanding new growth. The doctor said it could be months before the NHS could remove it, so my choices boiled down to seeing a private doctor and paying a shedload of money for removal of my embarrassing mini-member, or going to a doctor while in India.

Jaya activated the Indian Mother Network, and found a relative: her husband’s cousin’s mother-in-law’s niece is what I think she said, but actually I lost track. With that close family tie, Jaya was told to just bring me in, no appointment needed.

My first stop as a medical tourist? The Radiant Skin Clinic—next door to a lovely small temple, across the street from a vegetable stand, and watched over by a serene goddess. Leave your shoes by the door, and in fifteen minutes Dr. Shobana will have you on your way to a great vacation.

Doctor Shobana S, a well-known dermatologist dressed in a beautiful sari, greeted me serenely from behind her desk. A few minutes later, my unwanted mini-appendage was history. Cost for the procedure, including her consultation fee and prescriptions was less than dinner and a movie back home.

For the rest of our trip, this became our new monetary unit. (As in, “How many fingers is that statue?” Or “That guide wanted half a finger, but Jaya bargained down to just a third.”)

Actually, this is the “After” shot—almost fully cured, although the lady who applied my mehndi (henna decorations) had to swirl around the tiny remaining hole. (The “Before” shot was so potentially NSFW that nobody needs to see that. Bad enough that it was on my middle finger!)

Has India changed?

If you want to see an India full of stunning historical and artistic treasures, you’re in luck. You’ll find toilets along the way, on-demand drivers to get you there, and familiar American fast food choices that can’t begin to compare with the delicious foods of India. You can get a world-class medical procedure at bargain prices, amazing food, and all the photos with total strangers you ever/never wanted. And most of all, you’ll get to spend time in a country full of the 1.4 billion nicest people you’ll ever meet. And that one mean one who got us kicked out of the temple that time…

Changing India? Well, a little girl from a small rural South Indian town can grow up, go to the States to attend the University of Chicago, and share a flat with two friends. Half a century later, they can all meet up in India every year, to take care of all medical emergencies, search for toilets, explore antiquities, eat parathas, and watch the future unfold. 

Epilogue:

Many months after I’d returned to Scotland from India, I decided to consult my doctor about some red patches on my hands, most probably the result of a misspent youth under the California sun. He said he would request a referral to a specialist on the mainland. I was amazed when only a few months later, I received a letter from the NHS scheduling an appointment.

After a long wait at the hospital, I finally made it in to see the dermatologist, possibly only because I told the nurse I was going to miss the last ferry back if I didn’t see him right away.

I walked in and the doctor greeted me with the immortal words, “Show me the finger.“

I stared at him. “The finger?“

“The finger with the growth on it.”

Yep. The NHS, with its famed attention to detail and rigor, finally got around to discussing removal of my volunteer finger penis. Which I had already told them had been surgically removed when I was in India. A YEAR AGO.

He nodded, and asked if I used the cream they had recommended. He thought about it for a minute. “Because the cream never works.” For the first time, I was glad the removed growth had been on my middle finger. Following his orders, I showed him the finger.

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