LOOKING for some papers in a battered old steel trunk that has been following me from city to city over the years, I came across some fifteen-year-old photographs of myself.

Vanity aside, they show me as a relatively presentable man whose hair had not turned gray, and whose midriff had not begun to succumb to the force of gravity. Inevitably and predictably, I began thinking about the intervening years and their ups and downs. While most of us take our bodies for granted when we are young the passing years remind us of our mortality. Now that we are middle-aged, the conversation around the dining table is more about blood pressure, revolutionary new diet plans and cholesterol level more than politics, books and movies.

If readers (and my long-suffering editor) are bemused by the direction this column is taking, let me reassure them by breaking the good news that they will not have to suffer me for the next three months: by the time you read this, I will have left for England where I will undergo bypass surgery later this month. For a couple of months after I am released from hospital, I intend to recuperate quietly and then to travel a bit in Europe before I return in mid-August.

I must confess that I am not exactly looking forward to this experience, especially as I have no symptoms or pain. Nevertheless, good living and a sedentary lifestyle have silently been depositing plaque in my cardiovascular arteries. This was discovered during investigations carried out when a pacemaker was put in last year (at huge expense, I might add. In fact, if anybody needs a second-hand pacemaker, please let me know...).

When a well-known cardiologist in London recommended a bypass, Shakir, my cynical son, suspected that the doctor had a mortgage payment to meet, and was therefore proposing an unnecessary operation. But this diagnosis has now been reinforced by another highly reputed (and therefore expensive) specialist, so the surgery is now on, regardless of Shakir's dark suspicions.

Since I read every bit of useful or useless information that comes my way, I had equipped myself with details about new procedures when I met the first specialist in London. For instance, I asked him, what about gene therapy? This consists of injecting the heart muscle with a chemical that induces the development of collateral blood vessels that bypass the blocked arteries. No chance, he replied. This is still very experimental and is only being tried on patients who cannot undergo an operation. Then what about keyhole surgery? Again, it seems that this would not be appropriate in my case.

Cursing the conservatism of the British medical fraternity, I had resigned myself to the inelegant procedure of open-heart surgery until a friend mentioned a brand new technique available for the first time in Pakistan. My old friend Fazal is a medical magpie who picks up all kinds of weird health-related information. According to a photocopied brochure he got me, chelation (pronounced 'key-lation') therapy consists of a series of injections of a chemical that bonds with the chemicals in plaque and flushes them out of the system, thus clearing the arteries. The medical team offering this treatment here claimed that it had not been permitted in the United States because of the power of the hospital lobby.

For a Pakistani raised on conspiracy theories, this explanation was eminently believable, so I tried to make an appointment, but could never get anyone on the telephone. Meanwhile a close friend suggested that I seriously consider consulting her homeopath in Delhi. As she suffers from an impressive range of ailments but still soldiers on for her various causes, I thought this was good advice. So I spoke to the doctor in Delhi, explained the nature of my problems and she promised to send me a course of medication that I would have to take for three months. I figured that between chelation and homeopathy, my arteries would soon be as clean as a bottle after a party.

But when I discussed these possible cures with my wife, she went ballistic and immediately made another appointment with yet another expensive cardiologist in London. This worthy had never heard of chelation, and flatly said he had never encountered a single case where homeopathy had been successful in treating any disease, leave alone a blockage of the arteries. I thought this was a very unscientific attitude, and told him so. But prosaically, he said he only dealt in facts, not faith. When I told Shakir about this exchange, his worst suspicions about the medical profession were confirmed.

So I'm afraid it's back to the operation theatre. As a sweetener, my wife has added trips before and after surgery to overcome my reluctance and hasten convalescence. Although several friends have volunteered to undergo the operation if they can come along to Morocco, France, Spain and Turkey with us, I remain unenthusiastic: the thought of my heart being removed and placed on ice even for a couple of hours is not one that fills the soul with joy. Given my lack of confidence in a profession that ascribes any disease for which it has no explanation to a 'virus', I am taking no odds on the outcome of the operation despite, assurances that it is now about as straightforward as clipping one's nails.

Many well-wishers have suggested that I have the operation in Pakistan and save some money. No chance. How many people come here from abroad to have open-heart surgery compared with the number of people who go to England? Also, the private hospital in London where I will spend a week is supposed to run an excellent kitchen.

For the last couple of years, I have been going to the French Beach on weekends to relax and get away from it all. On most Saturday nights, I am alone and sit for hours looking at the stars and listening to the sea. I cook for friends who drop in for a meal, but generally relish the solitude. Of late, however, sundry groups of yuppies have taken to assembling there in large numbers on Saturday nights for their so-called charity balls. I would have no objection if they came to enjoy nature, but they insist on loud music and lots of lights, shattering the peace and ruining it for everybody else. The latest such assault on the beach took place last week when somebody had the bright idea of selling tickets at Rs 1500 per couple for a Karaoke evening. Mercifully, I found out about this travesty in time and cancelled my weekend at the beach.

Anyhow, I hope to get lots of rest over the next three months, and my health and editor permitting, will resume inflicting my views on readers in August.