A Time To Reflect

charukesi December 12th, 2005

The swivel chair at home has now a new use. Since I have been off the internet and blogging, the computer chair lay unused for the last few days. Till my husband in a flash of brilliance converted it into my personal wheel chair. I came back from hospital with both feet bandaged - I kicked - i.e. waved my hands wildly - and screamed and foiled the best efforts of my doctors and the hospital administrators to get me to stay there for a couple of days. I got off the car and since then have been moving around in the swivel chair.

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Here is some more armchair - swivel chair, wheelchair whatever - travel. The first in the series on just a few hours away. Mostly photo essays with descriptions in between.

It was a lazy rainy Sunday afternoon when we drove to Kamshet. Allured by the promises of the numerous lakes that dot the region, and of paragliding adventures, and armed with the Outlook Traveler Weekend breaks guide. No clear directions except the knowledge that Kamshet was just after Lonavala, barely a two hour drive from Bombay.

After much stopping for directions, and much more assistance from helpful locals who did not have a clue but did not let that prevent them from giving us directions as they saw fit, we reached Pawna lake at Kamshet. And suddenly we forgot all the wrong turns and the squabbles in the car.

Pawna was serene and windy, cool and inviting. And thankfully uncrowded. A small shack selling tea and garam pakoras - just the right thing for rainy afternoons. A few high cane chairs all over the lawns. And the gentle breeze lulling one into sleep. Stupid smiles on our faces. Bliss.

Till the tourists hit. The carload of them jumped on to the grass, stipped in front our of disbelieving eyes and ran to the lake and jumped in. And suddenly Pawna lake was only about underwear and pot bellies and the obscene screams of merrymaking middle aged men. Time for us to leave.

We got lost on the way back to Lonavala, (mis)guided by a local who pointed out a “short cut” route. The road on his route was non existent but was full of surprises. Like this sudden sharp turn on the road here. The distant view of the hills through this wedge in the rocks.

And locals drying chillies and fish on the road and gaping at our car as we passed. And old men with umbrellas and walking sticks, and tirchi topi firmly in place.

A bumpy drive on dusty roads. And finally Lonavala. With this one stop at the side of the pond just after. Striking red of the temple wall and spire across the pond. More conversations over roasted corn and raindrops falling on the face.

And then the expressway back to Bombay. Kamshet invites us again - other lakes to be discovered, Lohagad fort to be trekked up to, and paragliding dreams…

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charukesi December 8th, 2005

What is it they say about trouble never coming alone? Struggling with my foot infection, all slated for the operation on the left foot, I tripped from the stairs early Monday morning and hairline cracked my right ankle. Good thing was I got a bulk discount at the Xray clinic (buy one get one free kind of thing, you know). Now, my right foot is bandaged and the left one is crying out, resentful at being ignored. The jinxed operation is now scheduled for tomorrow, Friday morning. So if you happen to see a depressed looking waddler around Vashi, that is me, not Donald Duck.

And in all that, have discovered support systems I had never thought about. My husband was away in Delhi when I had the fall - and within fifteen minutes, I had four neighbors at my place. Each with her own suggestions and opinions, of course. But they completely took over - and good thing that, since I was not thinking straight. Or in a position to think at all. Between them, they fixed an apppointment with the orthopaedic doctor, took me to his clinic, then got my foot xrayed, got my medicines and droped me back home. And through the day, I was flooded with food, yes food from all these houses, since they imagined me all hungry and depressed and unable to walk to the kitchen - all of which was true.

And in the night, a blogger friend - how facile that sounds! - a friend came over all the way from Andheri - a journey I would normally try to avoid at all costs - to play nurse and critic. Thanks, Harini. And the other friend with whom I was talking on the phone while I tripped and fell, immediately called my neighbor (her family friend) to check what happened to me. Thanks Rashmi. For the lunch too.

The moral of the story is : please take care while walking down stairs. Especially if you are talking on the phone. And limping all at the same time. And always smile at your neighbous when you meet them in the lift.

The good part is that I have been using all this spare time to catch up with my reading. Will post the review of Untouchables as soon as I can. Or maybe more armchair travels. Jaipur next?

I am going to be in hospital for a day or two after my operation. So I am going to be off blog for the next few days. However, feel free to drop in with your nice comments. Or call and cheer me up. Or send flowers. Whatever.

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charukesi December 3rd, 2005

It is not amusing being the carrier of an unknown infection. I have done great deal of medical tourism around the Vashi area over the last few days. I have met a doctor who sent me away because he was a right foot specialist and not left foot (not quite - he sent me away because I asked him too many questions about his days at medical school).

I have put my foot through an x-ray - which reveals nothing except exquisitely shaped bones. And am now slated for an MRI.

In the name of blood tests and investigations, I have donated enough blood to support the pathologists’s anaemic friend.

And I have survived several rounds of prodding and pressing by various medical specialists. Does that hurt? Cannot hear my response thanks to the loud metallic noise emanating close by. Me gritting teeth. Yes, it does, through gritted teeth. Ah! And this? Louder metallic sounds in the vicinity. Echo? Husband gritting teeth - his, not mine.

It is red and swollen and gross. Does it not look like it hurts? No, my doctor and the surgeon he referred me to press it by turns to find out. And what is worse, break into rapid Marathi at the end of each session of prodding. What with my terrible Marathi skills, I can only catch random words and phrases. After all, some words have no Marathi equivalent - “credit card”, for instance. Also “double income family”. And they also shake their heads in a worried manner. Or exchange knowledgable smiles. Neither of which is very comforting for the patient, let me assure you.

As it stands today, the foot is also due to go through the operation sometime next week (that I have been crying wolf wolf about for ages now), to be followed by a biopsy to understand the infection better. Yes, always a good idea to get to know your infection in more intimate manner. And then depending on the MRI / biopsy results, to understand further course of treatment.

Which leaves me hanging in indecisiveness for the next week or two, as I can see it. And in all this gritting of teeth and doling out money by the fistfuls to medical specialists business, I am actually quite glad to have found a doctor who is not trigger-happy and advised an operation at first sight. I am grateful for a doctor who answers my questions patiently, waits and watches before he shoots off the next round of tests / medicines. Things I ought to expect as a matter of course, that I ought to take for granted in healthcare providers, I am grateful for.

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In all this, I have been thinking again and again of a question that Dr. Aniruddha Malpani posed to me (and several others, I assume) recently - why don’t patients take a more active role in their healthcare…. I had promised him that I would pose this question on my blog and see what people have to say about this.

I plan to write more about this as a separate post and raise this question there. But those of you reading this, please leave your thoughts on this now. Thanks!

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charukesi December 1st, 2005

I have been at home, down and out with a wound in the foot that has got infected. Have been running - limping actually - between doctors who stare at the foot perplexed, and plot (!) the next move in their heads. I have been putting off this small operation but will have to go for it immediately now since all the antibiotics that have been pumped into the system have not worked so far.

So here is some armchair travel to cheer me up as I sit and twiddle my thumbs at home. This one on the Marwari bastion of Jodhpur. My Jodhpur visit last October was not particularly pleasant; tourism there is totally geared towards the Western visitor. Domestic racism? But there is something magical about the Mehrangarh fort and the life it holds within its walls that somehow makes up for everything else.

Inside the huge rooms, you find yourself staring at the colorful jaali work on the windows. And you catch reflections of this colour between the huge pillars that hold up the room. And you catch yourself wondering about how the place must have been in the older times, all its original colour and pomp intact. What was the reason for the houses, and the town itself, to be painted a bright shade of purple-blue?

As you step out and walk through the corridors, you watch others like you, people from other states, from other countries fascinated. Just as you are. Fascinated by the human and not human elements that make the fort.

Capturing images through their senses, through their hands to carry back with them. Far away where they come from.

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Can kitsch ever be charming? Or even captivating? The Marwar festival at Jodhpur was. Oh, all the right symbols screaming out “tradition” and “heritage”, but something innocent all the same. The brightly decorated camels and elephants. The best way to catch the spirit of the Jodhpur Marwar festival is to roam the streets of the city during the day.

Here you see the pied piper of Jodhpur, there the dancers on wooden horses.

And at evenfall, head to Mandore gardens, just outside the town. As you wait for the performances to begin, watch the hundreds of monkeys eyeing your camera and greedily reaching out for the peanuts you throw their way. As the first singer raises her voice to the tune of Rajasthan’s anthem, padaro mharo desh, a hush descends on the restless crowds. And the next three hours fly past.

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If local “sightseeing” is not enough to keep you happy and occupied, head out to Osian, barely 65 km from Jodhpur. Visit the Jain temples there, take a camel ride on the desert, take in more “culture” with these brilliant local performers.

Alternatively, you could just watch silent and spellbound, the sunset on the desert.

And wonder about nature’s fashion sense - just what is she thinking of - wearing all those bright yellows and oranges and purples and pinks and reds all at the same time?

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Or you could just do what I like doing best in new places. Amble round the streets aimlessly. Looking at shops selling mojris and mirror work bags. Stopping only for piping hot and sinful jaliebis and samosas. Or for a hard bargain at one of the road side shops. And coming away pleased. As much with your purchases as with your bargaining skills. And not looking back to see the smirk on the face of the seller.

Taking in such busy morning scenes. And wondering yet again about the point of one’s hurried no-time-to-stand-and-stare existence back home.

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My earlier piece on Bundi Rajasthan is here. And if the foot remains the same way in a few days’ time, expect more.

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