mountains and rivers without end

So I was on that flight from Shanghai to Mumbai via the cozy Hong Kong airport. Cups of coffee and yet unmarked pages of a travel book - that sweet anticipation. Everything was wiped out by upcoming fever. I could feel it in my bones, muscles, eyes. Remember myself browsing through a newsstand, buying a bottle of water, gulping paracetamol, and boarding. What I don’t remember is who was sitting nearby or whether he or she was annoyed with my violent shaking. By the end of the flight I was all muffled up but still boldly filled a questionnaire: headache - no, fever - no, no sneezing, feeling perfect.
At the time there were rumors of flu raging all over Asia, and in Mumbai they had a machine with a mirror, which made you cry in case of fever. That’s how I was caught, and checked, and ushered into the local hospital - all sneeze, and tears, and soaring 39. As we were swinging through the night my only question was – Am I going to stay in India? Aren’t you sending me back? - No, they smiled. All they needed was my malaria check, dengue check, typhus check, and what-not check. Better was to resign and think of it no more.
I was lying on a bed in a huge white ward – nobody, except for me and occasional rats. Oh, what peace, what rest! Every morning started with pills – all colors of them - they still haven’t got the results of my analyses but just in case were giving me the best. Definitely I constituted a poor sight, so every day one of the nurses came to sit by my side and tell me stories of her family, her youth, and asking me those simple questions, which I would hear so often afterwards. Knowing that I wanted some fruits but didn’t have any cash, the nurses regularly procured some bananas to go with an assigned portion of dhal, and rice, and milk tea. Indians say that food equals to love and what can be the warmest treat from the country, which still lies ahead of you, unopened?