A first for January's Create Challenge. Also written in tribute to Bengal Tiger's wonderful retelling of a myth from the glorious Mahabharata.

It was not my first near-death experience. I don't even remember my first near-death experience, which occurred when I was about eighteen months old. Back then, I'd tumbled off my high chair, my mother told me, and turned an otherwise quiet Sunday morning into a nightmare for young parents. By the time they arrived, ashen-faced, at the hospital emergency room, I'd finally come back to consciousness. Cash-poor, they didn't even go inside, and I have no idea what that particular bonk in the head altered in my personal brain activity. It's probably best not to inquire.

There had been other iffy moments along the way: the time I almost drowned in the swimming pool (moral: don't learn to swim from the Red Cross), and the time I almost drowned in a Missouri River (don't go canoeing with idiots), to name but two. Oddly, I love to swim to this day. Not all of my near-death moments involve water. There was the Iranian former black-ops guy who threatened us with assassination, but I frightened him off by counter-threats of voodoo. That, however, is a tale for another day. What I want to tell you about is my first encounter with Krishna. The Hindu god helped me through a particularly rough place on my personal journey, and I shall be forever grateful to him.

Also to Vyasa, who wrote the wonderful epic, the Mahabharata. And to Englishman Peter Brook, whose sweeping imagination proved to have healing powers.

It had been a rough night, spent wakeful, athirst, and full of antibiotics, tubes attached to orifices I didn't know I had. Peritonitis is no joke. Here in North Carolina, people used regularly to die of burst appendices. As it was, the brilliant Canadian surgeon who saved my life informed my dad in confidence – out of my mother's hearing, no doubt – that it was a near-run thing. But he thought I'd pull through.

Never believe a 'kindly country doctor' when he says, 'It's only the diverticular. Take these pills and call me Monday.' By Monday, my white blood cell count had been through the roof. Now, thanks to McGill University's generosity in sharing its finest with us hicks, I would live. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to, though.

'How are you feeling?' asked Dr Pelletier. He had an infectious grin, and somehow, I felt compelled to honesty.

'Better than last night,' I replied. 'But to tell you the truth, I was sort of hoping I wouldn't wake up after the surgery.'

His handsome face changed from amused banter to concern. 'You're serious,' he stammered.

I nodded. 'Of course I am. It hurt a lot. I'd have been in a better place by now.'

The doctor looked thunderstruck. 'I think you mean that.'

'Of course I do,' I said. Then I chuckled. 'But don't worry, I'll go on and get better now. I owe it to your good work.'

When I was able to stay awake longer, Dr Pelletier came back to talk some more – and I found out why he was so surprised by what I'd said. The good doctor, who described himself as agnostic (nothing wrong with that), was working in a hospital in the Bible Belt. Most of his patients claimed to be Christians. In the doctor's experience, they were all phoneys. They were terrified of dying. Running into a lunatic like myself, who couldn't be persuaded that there wasn't a better world elsewhere, was…well, novel.

Theological discussions aside, recovering from having your insides vacuumed out to remove hazardous waste materials in not a lot of fun. I spent about ten days in that place, and for the first few, I wasn't exactly compos mentis. One of the reasons was that gift from the past, morphine. There was a drip, and Dr Pelletier said to use the button freely, so I did. I'm not an addictive personality, and when I'm not in pain, I don't use drugs. When in pain, I have no compunction about them.

So I spent my days in a not-completely-unpleasant haze. Students came to visit, and remarked later that they were sure I wouldn't remember them. I didn't, though I knew who had been there from the mementoes they left. That German cartoon book definitely came from my favourite brilliant redneck lady, the one whose son mooned the mayor of Brussels. But that's another story, too.

Evenings can get dreary in hospitals, once the visitors leave. There's nothing to distract you from the pain. Fortunately, the hospital I was in featured only private rooms, each equipped with a television bolted to the ceiling, conveniently hung for recumbent viewing. There was no cable, just regular broadcast channels, but those included North Carolina Public Television, purveyor of films from the Public Broadcasting System (PBS), the network hated by Congress and other conservatives.

And that was where I met the god.

For the first three nights after my operation, PBS showed Peter Brook's Mahabharata in installments. In all its pagan, breathtaking glory. For those of you who haven't seen it – and I hope someday you will – this re-imagining of the great Hindu epic involves a cast from around the world. Suitable, I thought. This is a story about all of mankind.

I'd studied European folklore, but for some reason, I'd never read this magnificent story. As I lay there, drifting between layers of consciousness in a morphine cloud, the panoply of Indian history unfolded before me. The adventures of the Pandava made me weep. My eyes fed on the colours, and I swore I could smell the perfumes of Asia.

I really liked Ganesh. The elephant-headed one is such a perfect emblem of what a historian should be. I'd let him guard my memory palace, any day. But I was most moved by the grace, wisdom, and solicitude of Krishna, friend and advisor to Arjuna. I found myself nodding in understanding. This story was deep, profound, and universal. What a revelation! As each episode ended, I couldn't wait for the next. I drifted off to sleep, trying to imagine how these ancient gods and demigods were going to solve the problem of the human condition.

I know that sounds ridiculous, but please bear in mind: near-death experience + morphine = extravagant ratiocination. Or some such.

The most profound statement from the Mahabharata, though, was made in the Prologue, between Vyasa, Ganesh, and a child. 'If you pay careful attention, when this story is over, you will be a different person.'

I deeply wanted to be a different person right then. Which might be why the Mahabharata spoke so precisely to my condition in that hospital room.

I may have babbled something of all this to my visitors, who knows? If so, they were high-minded enough not to bring it up later. But there was one aftermath. Years later, when I was visiting my dad, he happened to mention Dr Pelletier.

'Do you know what he's doing now?' my dad asked. I said no, but I was interested. 'He's running hospitals overseas, for a missionary organisation,' he said. 'You can see his website. He's quite a spiritual man.'

Well, I thought. Three cheers for honest agnosticism. I'm glad Dr Pelletier found the answer he was looking for. I am equally glad for the opportunity I had to encounter ancient wonders in that hospital. Two ways of seeing the divine? Who says they're different? Not I.

In case you'd like to see what I'm talking about, try this excerpt from Brook's Mahabharata. Medication optional.

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

27.01.14 Front Page

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