Too Many Posts Too Little Time to Read?

I'm sorry that it's either feast or famine on my blog these days. I just posted three pieces today that I've been thinking about. I wanted to rearrange the order, but can't manage it right now. So, you'll have to bear with me.

The first is the longest. The second my favorite--I learned something as I wrote it. And the third a fun story I couldn't quite capture in words--hopefully you'll get it though. I also added pictures since I finally got around to getting them off my camera!

Hospital Stay

The five hour bus ride to Bangalore feels like an eternity. David is now holding his backpack limply and resting his head on it. He looks more and more pale. While I feel the breeze cool my sweat soaked face and body I touch David's dry forehead with worry. The situation is made comic as the baby next to me pours milk on me and my purse. As the mother and father stand to leave the bus I ask the lady's husband with furrowed brow how to get to Wockhardt Hospital, the hospital that a calm and detached voice on the other end of the phone told me to go to. I hate and love SOS international, a phone service for sick students in study abroad programs.

We make it to the bus stand. I help David into his bags and then put on my own. We walk to the prepaid rickshaw stand. I load the little rickshaw with our large bags--I hold David's bag in place with my neck and head. In the back of the rickshaw I see as far as change I only have 4 tens--always the change game in India. I put the 4 tens in one pocket, but hope the driver will break my 100. The driver takes us to the hospital. 42 rupees. I hand him 100 rupee bill and a 2 rupee coin. He says, "I want 10 extra" and points to the large bags. Rage surges within me. I snatch the bill out of his hand, then hand over the 40 rupees from my pocket. He retracts his hand. and says, "10 extra for baggage."

I say, "Fine if you don't want it, I'll keep it." and start handing Dave's bag to him as he stands outside of the rickshaw looking both pale and sun burnt (from the rash he’s had). Again the driver says, "Ten extra for the baggage." I say no. I'm out of the rickshaw bags in hand now. He finally puts our his hand to receive payment and I throw the 4 bills in his direction. David raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes and motion towards the hospital, which looks more like a five star hotel--damn SOS! This is going to be expensive, but I don't have the time to get him somewhere else.

We check in at the reception lobby. A nice man with a trimmed moustache works the desk tonight. His English is good and his smile genuine and calming, not greasy like most Indian men who look at me like I'm the new stripper in town. We get into a room and a female doctor in a lab coat asks lots of questions. She comes back 10 minutes later and encourages David to be admitted. David is hesitant, by the cleanliness of the room and status of the lobby we know this will be pricey. I run back to the lobby and get a pricing list--just to see how much this pretty little room will cost us. It's 2100 a night for a semi-private room (a shared bathroom down the hall but a room with an extra couch made into bed for me to sleep on). That's 50 bucks a night. We go ahead and pay the down payment.

That first night involved running back and forth to the mall getting food, filling out paperwork, going through an orientation, and getting keys, a remote control for the TV, and an "attendee" badge. David gets poked and prodded all night long. We both wake every time a nurse comes in. By 6:00 they bring David his morning tea and at 7 they want him to step out of bed so they can change the sheets. We both roll our eyes and try to sleep a little more after they leave him with a fresh pair of pajamas.

The doctor comes in at 10:00am while I'm out getting breakfast for me and trying to put more minutes on my emergency cell phone. He tells David, "We'll know by Wednesday." He doesn't explain what tests he's running, what treatment he's planning to give, or why he hasn't given David any medication yet. Nothing. Which then becomes a pattern. Each time the nurses come in they never explain what they're doing or why or even what David's vitals are. I finally stop asking because each time we ask the nurse something she just repeats the word in English with some blank stare and says, "yeah, yeah." Sometimes the nurses use gloves and sometimes not. When they don't I shake my fist at SOS!!

Three days like this. 6:00 milk is brought in by the kitchen staff who wear a tuxedos minus the dinner jackets. 7:00 the nurse and one of the cleaning staff to change the sheets. You can tell the nurses by the caps they wear, their white shoes, and light blue uniforms while the cleaning staff wear a dark blue with black shoes. The nurses are all female the cleaning staff all male. 8:00 the cleaning staff wet down the sink and the floor with soapy water and squeegee the floor dry then use a dry mop to finish it off. I am always amazed at how dirty the water gets and how much it smells like a hospital after they leave. 9:00 a guy comes and sprays the room with pest control. 10:00 the doctor makes a formal visit, says very little and pats David on his knee. I run errands in the afternoon--giving David and I some alone time. By dark I come back to the hospital. I make one ice cream run for the two of us after dinner and we spend the night watching some more TV--mostly movies on HBO. We crack a few jokes about Indian hospitals or lame films on HBO and by 11 or 11:30 we turn out the lights. I try to sleep on the uneven couch-made-bed they've provided. The staff at night usually come in once or twice which makes me wake with a start to do who knows what. I sit up and wait until they leave to go back to sleep.

By Tuesday we have a diagnosis, Dengue fever. We've talked about David going home, but nothing was set until we found he had more than just your everyday "Viral Fever." We make more expensive calls home and to the office. They want to keep David at the hospital because his blood platelets are low. I bring the nice night receptionist an ice cream on my Tuesday night ice cream run. And Wednesday morning we are told we can leave today. By 3 in the afternoon we finally get released and try to catch a rickshaw to the hotel I've made reservations for. What a week. I've enjoyed getting to know Bangalore a bit better, India's New York City. But I'll be ready for this to be over--Sunday we fly to Delhi and that night David is going to head home.

Homebody or Lone Wanderer?

Karthik, my new found friend in India, offered to take me to a hill temple just outside of Coimbatore. We drove in his car, a privilege I've come to appreciate after hours and hours on the bus. We hiked up the steps to the Hindu temple for the god of Karthik, a son of Shiva and Paravati.

The story goes that Shiva told his two sons, Ganesh and Karthik, that he would give a reward to the son who goes around the world and comes back first. Karthik jumps on his peacock and starts his journey around the world. Ganesh simply walks around his parents--indicating that his parents are his world. When Karthik returns to find his brother has won, he goes up to a hill and pouts. This is why temples for Karthik are always built on hills.

So, I find myself climbing stairs with Karthik, the man, trying not to breathe too heavy. We reach the top and drink deeply from the water taps. I don't care if it made me sick it feels great to scoop it in my hands and then lap it up enjoying the sweet taste. We walk around the temple and watch the sun set on the mountain. Karthik tells me the story of god who sees the wolrd, but is cheated of his father's prize. On our way back down we even catch a peak at a real peacock.

And for me? I find myself vacillating between intense loneliness and a deep gratitude for the experiences I've had as a single woman. I haven't tried to avoid marriage, in fact I've spent a lot of time seeking after it. And yet, I still find that wandering spirit in me. I fear that I'll never be completely content with living a quiet life in some quiet part of the world as a wife and mother. And yet, I watch with a bit of longing my married brothers and sisters with their growing families. I hold their children and sense the beauty that comes in family life.

Karthik or Ganesh? Homebody or Lone Wanderer? Are we ever just one or the other?

Honored by the Swamaji

Visiting the Swamaji

Sravanabellagola is a major religious site for Jain pilgrims. The town is small and set between two mountains made of pure rock. One is small and has a temple complex, the other is large and after climbing the 647 rock steps you get to hang out in this temple built around a 57 foot tall naked statue of a man. I love it. I love every minute of it.

For every Jain temple there is a Swamaji, who oversees the temple. A couple of our group members got together and wrote a letter requesting an audience with the Swamaji. Our requests were granted and nine of us found ourselves in a simple room sitting around a soft speken man dressed in orange robes who spoke English really well. He asked who was in charge. Everyone looked to me "the Field Facilitator." I who hadn't set up this meeting, who hasn't read a thing about Jainism in the last 3 years since I was in India, I who didn't even know who this guy was. Yep, me. I'm in charge. I explained my role as field facilitator and that I had been three years previously. He asks me to move to the front so that I can help "translate" which meant repeat the questions in louder and more Indian English.

During our hour with him I was struck by two things: He is always smiling. It feels sincere, but it makes him look like he's always got a joke he feels is too naughty to say. I was also struck by how this man's religiosity is made possible because others are supporting him. For example, he has made an oath not to ride in a vehicle except for an emergency. He told us proudly he's only ridden in a car 3 times since he made that vow 5 or so years ago. Who gets your groceries? That's what I want to know!

After an hour of asking questions he motioned to his "servants" who brought us cream cotton shawls, necklaces, booklets, and small replicas of the naked monolith. The men quietly put the shawls and necklaces around my neck. I stood as if I was receiving a medal of honor for courage. I then stepped forward and received the gift of a booklet and statue from the Swamaji, handed to me with two hands like a Buddhist monk. I watched as each of the group members did the same.

He exclaimed that our questions were excellent and well informed. He mentioned that this hour was not wasted and that he'd like to meet with our little group again. We set a time for Monday morning and then were escorted to the VIP dining hall where we ate a simple, but delightful Jain meal--no potatoes, garlic, honey etc. Nothing that would cause harm. We laughed over our situation, all nine of us eating at this beautiful wood dining table wearing our cotton shawls and necklaces.

Being white can be frustrating in this country--always getting ripped off. I call it the white man tax. But I also realized that day that being a foreigner interested in and knowledgeable about Indian culture and religion can open up a lot of doors. I sometimes consider my skin as my ticket in, but it does come with a cost.