I would have liked to fly to Malaysia to get a tooth implant done but a dentist in Delhi promised me a painless and stress-free surgery.
It was just a cosmetic job, not a procedure that was necessary or a surgery that meant life or death. But as someone said, first impressions always count and I am sure no one would have given me a ghostwriting job if I had this big gap in my front teeth when I smiled.
A missing front tooth would have made me look like one of those killers you see in B-grade Hollywood movies, the guy who is a bit ditzy and cackles and smothers someone with a pillow right when you least expect a murder to take place.
I am not sure why a toothless man has to be a murderer, but that’s how stereotyping works in the mass media. Killers never have a clean-cut look or display a set of pearly white chompers like George Clooney or Akshaye Khanna.
The problem was that my front tooth crown kept coming off every time I bit into a naan (leavened flat bread) that comes in a basket with Peshawari Chicken or Chicken 64. The naans stay crisp for exactly six seconds after they are taken out of the oven.
The moment they come to the table steaming hot, they go all soft and you have to use both hands to break them apart.
I am glad these gluey, soft breads did not exist during the ancient times when it was necessary to break bread at important occasions such as weddings that were politically convenient or at events to celebrate land border treaties.
Imagine a leader saying, “Friends, let us break bread at this momentous moment and feast,” and then everyone wrestling with the rubbery bread.
Crown problems
You may ask why I continued to eat a naan when I knew it was detrimental to the health of my teeth. The same reason why I chewed on a caramel chocolate and then made a frantic call to my dentist on his holiday.
When the crown came off again recently I asked my dentist if he could recommend a good implantologist (yes, there is such a professional) in Dubai. A specialist nurse picked up the phone when I called the contact number he had given me. The price that was quoted for an implant and the consultation made me sit down with shock.
Dh10,000 for one artificial tooth, I said, not realising that it meant precision drilling into my jaw, and fixing a certain type of metal that would ensure that I do not get struck by lightning every time I went out into a thunderstorm.
A quick call to my wife who was in Delhi and she said our son’s dentist is an implantologist. Like an excited teenager who just discovered botox to plump up her lips and look like Angelina Jolie, I called up the dentist and he said that he could not promise that I may be eligible for an implant, but told me to come on over.
Then my wife started sending adverts from teeth manufacturing companies. “Reliant dental implants. We offer life-long teeth. 12-year guarantee,” said one.
My trip was going to be a medical tourism jaunt. Maybe I should ask the Indian dental clinic if it could arrange short trips to see the Qutub Minar and the touristy Hauz Khas, I wondered.
Many Asian countries are taking note of this new type of traveller who jets in with the wife and kids, gets a facelift and a hair transplant and visits the Taj Mahal when it is not raining.
Maybe I should head an agency that offers consultancy for medical tourists, I thought, as the dentist asked me to open my mouth wider.
Mahmood Saberi is a freelance journalist based in Dubai. You can follow him on Twitter at www. twitter.com/mahmood_saberi
