Still in Udaipur

October 21, 2010

If I stay here too much longer, I’m going to become a butterball or is it a ghee ball? It’s extraordinary to me that each day my thali is different and as marvelously flavorful as the day before. I found out today that the little beans that sometimes appear in salads and vegetable dishes are soybeans. Who knew they could be that delicious?

Hema insisted I make my own first chapatti. In her kitchen, they are made on an as need basis so they are still warm when you scoop up morsels of food. She also instructed me on how to make my afternoon masala chai. If I weren’t travelling for so long, I’d ask her to make a batch of her mixture as it is the best I’ve had anywhere in India so far.

Last night I was sleepless in Udaipur, yet again. And as frequently happens, my mind was churning and I suddenly remembered I needed to get Hep A & B booster shots. This morning, I was all set to go to one of the local hospitals when Jagdish intervened and made an appointment for me with a friend of his who is a doctor and has his own clinic.

Another opportunity to experience, even if briefly, life as it is lived here.

The consulting rooms could’ve done with more than a lick of paint. Old-fashioned metal fold-up chairs with a dent where one’s bottom is supposed to fit and a little worse for wear and tear, lined the waiting room walls. People sat very quietly. No animated or even unanimated conversations. There was an aura of respect as if in a holy place.

I instantly liked the doctor. He looked like one of the kindly GPs one had as a child and had, what is now an anomaly, a gentle bedside manner. I would so have loved to have taken a photo of his office.

The desk was laden with tilted stacks of aging papers. The bookshelves behind, and alongside the desk, were crammed so tight with books and journals that not even a slim tract could be slid in anywhere. All bore evidence of years of handling. The only clear space, and that’s a questionable adjective, was about the size of the prescription pad lying before the doctor.

The floor was clean at least, but who could even attempt to dust those tattered paper towers. A very narrow examining table was jammed in against the wall opposite his desk; the pathway there was lined with more teetering towers. The sheet covering the examination table was grey and threadbare.

Although I had thought to read the expiration date of both the vaccines when I had purchased them at the chemist, I did not notice that the dose on the Hep A vaccine box was for children.  We had to return to the chemist to get the adult dose. (In SE Asia and India, one has to purchase beforehand one’s own disposable needles and whatever medication or vaccine that needs to be injected. With a prescription.)

I was led into a room with two narrow hospital beds. A very thin woman, maybe late forties, lay crookedly on what can only be described as a grubby sheet, with a drip in her arm. I was instructed to lay down on the equally grubby sheet on the other bed. I hesitated and pointed to my upper arm where I had received the previous vaccines.

The “sister,” as the doctor had referred to her and who was dressed in an everyday colorful sari, shook her head vigorously, pointed to my bottom and then to the bed and insisted I lie down.

I gingerly lay down and requested that the flimsy curtain be drawn as the other woman’s husband was standing at the entrance watching the proceedings.

None of the usual paraphernalia to ensure hygienic procedures was to be seen. No wash basin, no rubber gloves, and no alcohol swabs.  So no pre-and post swabbing with alcohol of skin nor washing of hands done before or after administering the injection. 

Having written this, I was prompted to read the inserts that are included in the empty vaccine boxes, which were returned to me. I now wish I had thought to do this beforehand. For Hep A, the insert states, “the vaccine should not be inserted in the gluteal region.” The sister also rubbed the point of insertion vigorously afterwards. The instruction: “Firm pressure should be applied to the injection site (without rubbing) for at least two minutes.”

I pray the vaccines will be effective nonetheless and my antibodies are up to the levels of those of the locals.  

On the “exit” consult, I asked the doctor how much I owed. His reply, “Mr. Jagdish is an old friend of mine. There is no charge for you.” I tried to insist, but he showed me out the door like doctors of old used to do, by motioning the way out with his arm and giving me an avuncular pat on the back.

Fresh petals floating in water
in Bhnwar Vilas lobby