the extent

After the rickshaw, the next thing that comes to mind is arriving in the nearest (and best Hubli) hospital’s ER.  Ew.  It wasn’t as bad as you might be imagining, but it didn’t appear clean, either, and the fact that a dead man was rolled into the room while I was there certainly didn’t do much to lift my spirits.  There were three beds in one small room, each bed a faded mustard brown and coated with dried blood.  Several nurses speaking Kannada skittered in and out.

What DID lift my spirits, though, was that the nice Sankalp employee who had picked me off the ground in the first place stayed with me and asked me if there was anyone he’d like me to call, pretty much as I simultaneously asked him to grab my phone and find Kraemer.  Chinnababu had immediately called Naveen, my supervisor, and then headed into work to take over my teaching duties, since, in my half-conscious, very confused state, I’d told him I didn’t think I’d make it in to teach today (though knowing Chinnababu, he’d figured that out long before I had and already had everything under control).

Naveen showed up in seconds, along with Shailendra, Laxmi and Golden (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone!) – someone, lucky for me, had also picked up Kraemer on the way.  My coworkers are AWESOME.  Since that day, anyone who didn’t show up at the hospital pretty much showed up at my house, bearing sweets and ice cream – they know I can’t resist, even when I can’t move a muscle to burn those calories!

Friends of the guy who’d flattened me were also there, begging my coworkers not to file a complaint, promising to pay for anything we wanted them to. 

The doctor, who was NOT amused with my predicament, wiped my face clean of the blood and stuck a needle through my skin to sew up the cut next to my eye.  Can’t say he was particularly careful.  Next I headed to the x-ray machine, where they rolled me to my side and I was quite certain something was not right.  Not right at all.  But even so, the x-ray was apparently clean – the doc took a quick look and said I was good to go.  Go easy, get some rest.

Ummmm, no.  About a week later, once I felt comfortable leaving the house, I visited a specialist.  Genius that I am, I left the x-rays at home, but the new doctor felt around my knee, told me I had a damaged ligament and that I was good to go.  He advised that if I weren’t feeling better in three days to come back, but otherwise, he’d see me again in a week (so I had no qualms about still hosting and hobbling around at our St. Paddy's Day party three days later).

Of course, I’m paranoid, so everyone assured me I was doing better.  A week later, unfortunately, it turned out that that wasn’t the case.  This time I brought x-rays.  Alarmed by what he saw, the doctor explained the severity of the fracture (yup, it was broken – darn ER doc!) I’d incurred and fervently requested that I literally hop out of his and back to the taxi; according to him, less than a millimeter more of displacement would put me in the surgery category.  I hopped. 

And that would be how I ended up with a ginormous, pink synthetic cast on my leg, toes to the top of my thigh.  Possibly the largest cast I’ve seen on anyone ever.

Going Out with a Bang: The Accident

Only a very few of my experiences in India do I wish I’d never had. Getting hit by a motorcycle is definitely one of them.

Now, it isn’t really all bad.  First of all, my injuries could have been much, much worse – it’s not necessary to speculate, so I won’t.  But all the doctors I’ve talked to (and there have been many) could not seem to keep themselves from telling me how very lucky I’d been.  Second, I wasn’t left on the street to fend for myself; instead, the kind face of India showed itself once again, and I was taken directly to the hospital, which happened to be about a block down the same road.  And third, I had an amazing crew attending to my every need.

So here’s the story….

I’d been sick for weeks, and I had finally gotten in my first morning run in what seemed like

 decades.  After breakfast, I started my 20-minute walk to work – not bad and pretty much my only option, given that I don’t own a bike, motorcycle, rickshaw or car – though I admit I might have been a bit distracted: I would be teaching the Fellows that morning, and on those walks to work I’m always running through the key points I definitely want to make sure I hit.

I had just passed a cane juice vendor who I passed every morning, but this time he asked me my name, which took me a little bit off guard.  I looked down the road to gauge the speed of the oncoming traffic, waiting while the Dharwad busses barreled through and the bikes sped by, then headed into the crosswalk.

Apparently, there was one motorcycle I had failed to see.  Maybe I had just misjudged his speed with relation to mine.  Maybe he’d been stuck behind a truck that he’d finally peeled away from.  Or maybe he was just driving plain crazy and too fast – which is not unheard of in India.  Regardless, I didn’t hear the horn until I was maybe four steps from the other side, at which point I stopped, looked up and asked myself: now what?

I’d played these games on the sidewalk before, when you’re running down the street right toward someone walking, and you have to catch each other’s eye or watch their body to figure out who is going to go left and who is going to go right.  I’d always decided that it was up to the runner to move – she was the one moving faster in the first place; so wouldn’t the same logic apply?  Wouldn’t this dude figure out that he needed to swerve to miss me?

Er. No. Thanks for playing.  At this point, I don’t remember much.  I don’t think there were any other vehicles coming that he would have had to look out for, but it’s entirely possible that there was another pedestrian behind me that kept him from swerving off course (I’m giving this guy the benefit of the doubt).  I have a bit of a hazy memory of getting hit, but I think I’m making it up.  I have no idea where he hit me, since there are bruises on both legs, or how I fell (or flew) onto the concrete.  I have no details to give you here.  The next thing I remember is crawling into a rickshaw with some helping hands, examining my shirt and pants and finding deep red splotches on both and taking in the scrapes on my hands and the sharp pain by my eye. (see terribly unflattering photo of me on hospital bed)

Turns out the my champion coworker Chinnababu, a graduate of the Deshpande Fellowship Program I had been running, had chosen a new route to work today and spotted a bright orange Deshpande t-shirted person in the middle of the road.  Whiiiiich happened to be me.  He tells me it was only by the grace of God that he was both later than usual and in the mood for a new route and that I was in my t-shirt.  A kind employee from the building next to ours had also seen the accident, or at least me on the ground, and had made it to me even before Chinnababu did.  Yay for Chinnababu!

the north

From Bangalore, we flew to Agra, which immediately appeared to be a dingier, rougher Hubli, its streets peppered with camels instead of cows and pedal-ricks in addition to the autos.  Apparently wedding season, we frequently sped by venues decorated for the celebrations, with huge, but temporary, arches draped with colorful cloth and hundreds of white plastic chairs awaiting the hordes of guests invited to every party.  We often passed caravans with horses carrying grooms through the crowded streets or rusted tractors hauling mammoth models of Hindu gods and goddesses toward the ceremonies.

While the city didn't impress, and our hotel wasn't anything special, the Taj made the trip more than worth it.  Agra might be out of the way, but I wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone flying halfway across the world to India to make one last detour to this incredible structure.  Built starting in 1632(ish) by Shah Jahan in memory of his wife, the mausoleum is buttressed by two mosques on either side (I think they only really used one, but they put in two for the sake of eye-pleasing symmetry).  Later, Shah Jahan's son put him under house arrest in the Red Fort where he could still see the Taj from afar (also worth a visit), where he died, and he was later buried in the Taj with his wife (unless this part of my half-fictional book on the subject was, indeed, fiction).  The interior design is full of precious stones; you're not supposed to take lights inside, but all the tour guides do anyways to make the gems sparkle. 

Next we took what turned out to be a less than pleasant overnight train to Udaipur. The train itself was an hour or more late to begin with, so when it got there, we were worried it would only be in the station but for a few minutes; imagine us frantically searching for our car and finally jumping on something we thought was close, the four of us lugging our bags through narrow, packed walkways.  Oops.  Even in second class (us cheapies are used to traveling in third!), my mom didn't sleep a wink thanks to the creepy man across from her that stared at her all night.  All sites indicated that 2nd class = two-bunk (private) room, but no, sir.  Not the case.

Udaipur, I might add, City of Lakes, was recently rated number one in the World's Best Cities list by Travel and Leisure Magazine.  We checked out the Lake Palace from afar; while non-guests typically can still dine in this palace-turned-Taj Hotel, the Mumbai bombings kept us from getting anywhere close.

Instead, we took a little boat out to Jag Mandir, another island in Lake Pichola, and enjoyed a beautiful night view of the City Palace and Museum, which we later toured in the daylight.  Cool, but not as cool as Mysore Palace, no question.

We also unintelligently trekked out to Shilpgram, a craft village, which we'd been warned was only hopping during a certain time of the year.  I take full responsibility for this decision.  That said, we did come away with a pretty sweet table cloth, and both my mom and I are still mourning two specific purchases we failed to make; me, a bedspread and her, a handspun silk something or other.  Someday, I will be back…

The shopping and markets were huge, boisterous and full of color - no surprise there.  Our driver was getting hungry so led us back to his favorite spot for - what else? - tea and snacks.  My mom couldn't even make it to the end of the alley, she was so disgusted by the swarms of flies flitting around the carts full of fried food, but Kraemer's empty stomach got him to the end.  I eat a lot of things, including a cooked mushroom from my pasta that fell off my plate onto the table at a restaurant in Georgia that he will never let me forget, but there is no way I was going to touch that samosa he downed in three bites, which had certainly been handled by a cook who hadn't washed his hands recently and poked and prodded by a series of passerbys checking for appropriate samosa temperature.  Mmmm, mm! ;)

Bangalore revisited

I feel that in my last post, I really didn't do Bangalore justice.  Oh, Bangalore.  The steadfast city of continued respite.  While it may not have the cultural and atmospheric draw of some other regions of the country, Bangalore provided us with what we were looking for every time: a much-needed break, good food and, sometimes, a reminder of home.

For my own personal reasons of documentation, and because I always Google restaurant, hotel and trip reviews, I have decided that it is only right here to review here where we ate and stayed.  (Don't laugh at me because I love food!)   Of course, there's Sunny's, close to VC Mall, I believe, an American-type bistro that never let us down from start to finish.  

If you're looking for Indian that isn't a hole-in-the-wall (which I love, but isn't advisable for unIndianized stomachs), check out the tandoor restaurant on MG Road, just a hop, skip and a jump away from the Gateway Hotel - I think it's called Tandoor Restaurant - it's that simple.  Great kabobs.  And speaking of the Taj Gateway … loved it in Mangalore, loved it in Bangalore and wished we'd stayed there in Agra.  Number one through and through.

Sadly, I will have to suggest that you're cautious when it comes to pedicures - they scrub long and hard, and my mom maintains that her pedicure caused her pain for weeks to come.  Be afraid.  (Though I must say - mine was fine.)