Have Wheels, Will Travel.

          We drove approximately 200 kms from Srinagar to Daksum with our few-months-old son perched between me and Husband’s back, on our second-hand motorbike. Plastic jerry-cans of boiled water, packets of milk and washing powders and four dozen cloth nappies (disposable stuff tenna hanga mell naashilley) were tied to the vehicle. At temperatures hovering around zero degrees Celsius, the rough roads were covered with slippery ice through which we could see the carpet of needle-like pine leaves. The trees zoomed up twice higher than the Benauli Cocos nucifera naarls. The ghats were steeper than any in the Sahyadris, and much longer. Chai-dukaans were many kilometres apart; no habitat in-between.

Kurkure, Fruity and bottled water were decades away. We drank directly from the curvy Jhelum; at the time, we could do that from the Zuari and Mandovi, too. A crumpled map was our guide and the beautiful Pir Panjal range our reference.

          It was hard to describe to my Aji in Palolem what the rest of India, what snow, was like. The advent of running water, electricity, tourists and television has banished that ignorance.

          When in Jodhpur, we explored the Thar: Uttarlai, Bikaner, Mt Abu (where we encountered a bear on an early morning walk), Salawas, Ranakpur, Shekhawat. An annual measly couple of centimetres of rainfall brought out of the clayey soil millions of tiny prawns. None ate them. Tey shivraak loag survived on goat’s or camel’s milk, the hardy plants that grew around there and pulses.

          Parts of Uttar Pradesh and the North East gave us a feel of Goa: giant jackfruits, mangoes, bananas, pineapples, peroos, chickoos, roots that were roasted and eaten with rice and dark-skinned folk with bright, white smiles.

But the fish were river creatures. Sea-maal was sold at weekly haats (bazaars). Trucks brought in surmai, paamplate, lobsters (before the five-starred kitchens and exporters raised the price) from Jamnagar, Kakinada, even Vishakhapatnam. Perhaps they still do and in better condition, since modern freezing facilities are better.   

Some enterprising Goan Christians had settled in such places and set up shops selling dried bangdey and homemade chaurees. They used to visit their ‘native place’ once a year to get ‘stock’. Anyone visiting Goa got more. Keralites were in the same league.

Our longest drive in distance (1550 kms) and time (five days) was in a 1967 Fiat with a 44-kg hyper-ventilating dog who wanted to sit on the front seat. Friends at Gwalior, Indore, Pune and Nashik provided cheer, meals hot and packed, and beds.

We shed our heavy winter coats enroute, crossed the ravines of MP without event, saw thousands of tons of onions being transported... learned later that Jalgaon has the world’s largest factory to make onion, garlic (think pizza) and banana (for desserts) powders for export.

Last week we drove to Pune via Kolhapur. Even if we hadn’t carried our own water and food (to save money, time and plastic-garbage), we wouldn’t have been inconvenienced. Neera stalls and food ‘joints’ dotted the roads.

Strangely, there were super-speciality hospitals, too. Two of them were not for trauma care but for cardiac treatment. Who expects heart emergencies in the middle of sugar-cane fields? The boards mentioned ‘research’. Clinical research? Ethically done? Anyone checking this? Racing wheels churn up all sorts of thoughts.

Petrol pumps and green boards with arrows were conveniently located. We needed to ask for directions only when we entered the city and the GPS couldn’t figure out which road was closed for digging. Easy when compared to previous years, when driving through forested or sparsely populated areas could be dangerous (and hot, without air-conditioning). The Man once met an elephant one dark and lonely night in far-off Hashimara, West Bengal. Still not certain which of the two was more startled.

We entered Goa via a road with more ditches than surface because one sadist told us it was ten kilometres shorter to Panaji.        

When the road smoothened out, familiar features came into view: crosses, bars, speakers broadcasting religious music over a temple mast, aaboli and jaswanti hedges, women squatting near bus-stops selling tarle, pedvem, lepem and the occasional visvonn, buses packed with labourers going home, boards inviting tourists to hotels, advertisements for boat-‘cruises’ and ‘authentic’ Goan food... and then we saw one for “bikers”, for those interested in wheeling it to see porcupines, otters, bison, hornbills, pangolins, etc.

Away from the hype of the beaches, ‘rocking’ festivals and ‘drinks’, anni ek Goem asa, of which I am eager to learn about… on wheels, or on foot.

         

Homework Not Done.

         Whether it’s a surgeon doing a complicated surgery or a housekeeping sahayak sweeping from meticulously from corner to cobweb, I admire people who do their jobs perfectly, mostly thanks to years of training and diligent practice.

Some are born with talents and skills superior to the rest of us. 

I envy, for example, those who can hold the attention of an audience with endless behind-the-mike budbud whilst waiting for a late-comer VIP, or when the technicians can’t figure out why their wires/ sound systems/ computers/ bulbs aren’t behaving. Some are exceptionally good at inane chatter that keeps people from getting bored, even at company Annual Day functions.

Punn, nothing comes easily. To be a good MC, like in sugley professions, even the talented need to slog at homework. One needs to recall apt jokes and quotes when occasion demands, the presence of mind to use them correctly and the patience and stamina to carry the show so that the audience doesn’t a) snore or b) pelt obscenities (or handy missiles) at the stage.

Every time I see the fair quality of compering these days, even at wedding functions, I feel that the honing of that talent is one of the outcomes of watching television programs. Other good outcomes of watching tv are: you get to travel the world without putting shoes on your feet, learn unpronounceable recipes, watch stale movies without spending a paisa (when was the last time you read this word?), make your local ophthalmologist rich and never suffer from insomnia.

         Where was I? Haan, last week was one of the rare times I attended a ticketed, crowded Bollywood type program. Might not be tempted to attend one again.

         The program was to begin at 1830 hrs. It didn’t. About an hour later, the MC introduced herself (30 seconds) and told us that the program would begin with local talent in a couple of minutes. For the next hour, along with some eight hundred others, I watched the musicians playing around with their instruments whilst the mikes transmitted dreadful squawks over and across the Campal grounds. I waddled (bad knees combined with February sea-breeze) to the MC and told her that she needed to be on the mike, that it wasn’t right to keep us in the dark (literally, for this was out of doors).

She limped to the mike (empathising with my bad-knees-sea-breeze pain) after twenty minutes, to welcome on-stage two ‘fantastic, Goan, local talents’ whose singing was messed up because the mikes/ mixer/ speaker/ something scratched and hissed. Some important-looking guy passing by our row said the weather was responsible, that the sound system had behaved when the sun was still around.

Many minutes after the singing-duo went away, the MC returned to tell us to wait for “.. a couple of minutes… before (we) could start rocking”. Nothing happened.

Some thirty angry people walked to the stage and demanded their money back.

The MC went on-stage and asked us, the audience: “… (VIP) hasn’t come, what am I to do?”

Someone shouted “you sing”. Someone repeated “reeefund, reeefund”. Silly questions warrant matching answers.

Most chanted the name of the Bollywood singer, wanting him on-stage immediately.

Next chook: “… the delay is because someone’s left his bass guitar at the airport”. (Imagine someone telling a patient that his operation was getting delayed because a surgeon’s assistant had misplaced a favourite scalpel.) 

Tisree chook: “You must be patient. People once waited eight hours for the Beatles.” Maybe the MC employed by the Beatles or the organizers had a fantastic repertoire of funny stories and the ability to tell them brilliantly. Maybe he could narrate anecdotes about the Beatles. Our MC, if she knew anything about films, lyrics, composers, or the recent Filmfare awards connected with the VIP singer, she kept it secret from us.

Annee ek gem: “You must respect artists.” Hain? How about organisers respecting audiences and their time? Indians are forgiving. Delays of 15 minutes are expected, 30 minutes considered ‘ok’, but over an hour and a half?

Events have last minute hitches. An empty refrain of “… won’t we rock?” doesn’t make amends.

Finally, VIP aiylo anni paya padlo, filmi style, crouching, knees and forehead on floor. Then he wove ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ into the words of the first song he sang, delighting Youngistan.

The equipment gave trouble; yet the singer and his instrumentalists entertained effortlessly. Practice and professionalism paid dividends. Those guys had done their homework well.

          

Two-Wheeler Meets Tanker

         All motorized two-wheelers in Goa are called bikes. Irrespective of make, engine capacity, condition of road, or driver’s ability, they are driven as fast as their unserviced condition allows them to be driven. Since they can be manipulated through the four-wheelers, there’s an unwritten but popularly followed rule that they can overtake from the left, right, centre, through dividers and via pavements. When they come out from by lanes, the rushing main-road traffic must beware and brake if required. If you thought the main road traffic had right of way, you have another think coming.

         When a ‘biker’ sees a way to overtake a vehicle, something in his brain tells him he must take it. This is true about tourists who rent the bikes and Goan owners, too. Must be something in our tambdi maati. In the event there’s a bigger vehicle coming the other way, the adrenalin encourages him/her to race passionately towards it in fourth gear. Quite often, our ‘biker’ gets his/her way, broadly or narrowly missing obstacles like on-coming trucks/tankers. The thrill of having ‘achieved success’ is exhilarating. Chances are that the biker will do it again. Been there, done that, stupid years ago. Won’t let anyone do it, ever, if I can help it. Metal fenders kissing anything at high speed is the kiss of death. I was lucky. It has taken life or limb of people; the chance isn’t worth taking.   

         The 15-year-old (may her soul RIP) who recently died of crushed injuries to her crushed organs was at fault. She couldn’t have had a licence. Nor the sense to follow road-safety rules. A day later, on Mandovi Bridge, the car in front of us ran over a helmet that had tumbled its way. The car wasn’t going fast. The helmet was broken to pieces, its thermocole insides split, advertising its poor quality. Thankfully, the biker’s head wasn’t in it. Because he hadn’t strapped it on. Many bikers use straps to connect their helmets to their wrists or bike handles.

         To change this culture, to prevent gory loss of valuable young lives, we need to involve students of class VI to IX. Children at this age are capable of handling the responsibility of guiding traffic outside their institutions before and after school-timings. The Road Safety Patrol (RSP) in Mumbai used to (perhaps still does) do a brilliant job of sorting out the mess their parents and other adults made. The students can wear clearly seen and identifiable lapels/badges/cords, red and green flags for signalling and whistles.  A brief course in traffic handling will pay its dividends immediately. It will take the load off the cops. Better, in the years to come, these students will be responsible drivers.

Regarding protective head-gear. Who gives the licences to manufacture poor quality stuff? Helmets, like plastic bags and bottles and medical equipment, must be only of good quality.

         There is a connection between bad road behaviour and physical activity. If children, young ‘uns and adults, too, have a means of expending energy elsewhere, they are less likely to be aggressive on roads. So walk, cycle, take the stairs, work out the cardio-vascular or meditate and dissipate that energy. (This is my belief, if anyone thinks otherwise, sue me.)

         Those who complain in my presence about parking woes and traffic snarls get my dose of questions and responses: why do you use your car/bike? Take a bus. Are the buses uncomfortable? The autos/taxis expensive? Make a noise, hold a morcha/dharna, crib to the ministers, throw tantrums, get public transport workable, have more village level shuttles… or shut up. Most people I know, when I begin this rant, change the topic. Which means they really don’t want a change. Which means it doesn’t matter if the traffic is bad and drivers worse. Which means a 15-year-old’s death is just another headline, not a big deal. Except to the tanker/truck driver who is beaten by villagers, taken into custody and interrogated by the State. He is at the other end of the spectrum who, along with his bus-driving brethren, believes the road is their baapaalo.   Since we can’t have an RSP along highways inhabited by large gaadyo, we could perhaps have a VRSP (Village RSP) in Goa? Employ retirees. Let the rumour spread that irresponsible driving won’t be tolerated in our pot-holed, speed-breaker punctuated road.

         Else GMC must get ready with an efficient cadaver organ-transplant program. Would make an effective statement in a medical tourism brochure. And an extremely sad one.

        

Dealing with Death.

        Dr D Bhandare asked me to write on how “people don’t accept death easily nowadays”.

I knew what he was talking about. (In a previous avatar I worked in a hospital.) One doctor I knew got into trouble when he tried to resuscitate a patient who was brought into Casualty with no pulse. The process of trying to start the heart is horrid to watch even when you know what’s happening. The patient is on a trolley, there are people in white-coats doing a tribal dance around him (for ease of typing I use the masculine gender, no offense to women readers), banging fists on his chest, giving him electric shocks, pumping a soccer-ball shaped balloon on his face, poking him with injections, sometimes even shoving a tube into his mouth, throwing wrappings and cotton on the floor, shouting at the top of their voices. The patient I was referring to didn’t ‘come alive’; the relatives thought the doctor had beaten him to death. The relatives’ angry reaction could have been avoided by drawing a screen around the ‘action’ area.

The more famous a doctor (jaacho haat baroh aasaa) and the more a family spends (udka bashen paishe ghaale), the higher the expectations that a ‘miracle’ will occur.

An acquaintance spent his last hours/days in the ICU, on a ventilator. His well-placed and highly educated friends had prayer meetings for ‘his full recovery’. Considering that he was definitely breathing his last breaths, on artificial life-support, pumped with chemicals, there were still messages on his Facebook wall: “fight, fight, fight”. No doubt those friends gave valuable support to the wife. But not one wrote about counseling for her to deal with que sera sera.

Miracles happen, people say. So do funerals.

        A generation ago, death was taken in one’s stride. Now that we have the means and the know-how to stretch life, we take ‘delaying tactics’ to be the norm. Families ‘don’t want to give up’. People borrow money for medicines knowing that there will be no outcome. (Fighting for life is important; acceptance of death is also important. The crux is: where and when to draw the line).

        We don’t mind forcing uncomfortable catheters into our beloveds, injecting them with drugs to raise the blood pressure, force the kidney liver or lung to work… so the person can spend a couple of more hours/days uselessly on a bed, with several professionals tending to his/her ‘needs’.

Kind relatives/friends must guide the next of kin to cope with the loss-to-happen, help arrange finances, deal with legal hassles, and stay as a support system in the grieving months ahead.

Learning to let go is easier said than done? Of course. That’s why the best time to discuss our ‘living wills’ is when we’re in good health and spirits.

        There are pain issues, non-pain issues, psychiatric and spiritual issues. Living wills allow one to decide whether one wants to die at home, not be kept on life-support, donate organs should that be feasible, etc. Some of the things one asks for may not be possible. “Please kill me” is one of those.

No one speaks of palliative care. Palliative care manages pain, discomfort, nausea. It doesn’t bring on or hasten the end. Even treating doctors may be uncomfortable with end of life care. This homework should be done well in time so that when the family or the family doctor has to execute the (living) will, it’s done smoothly.

        Hours before dying of a dreaded disease, a close relative phoned us to say she was ‘going’. Our response: “Don’t be afraid.” Her reply: “What’s there to be afraid of?” She died at home, surrounded by husband, children and grandchildren. At this end of the planet, we waited for the news, sadly, but knowing she was going the way she wanted. Reassurance and peaceful environments help the transition from here to who-knows-where. A dying patient may not be suffering, just going through a normal physiological function.

        I’ve witnessed this.

Doctor to family: “X is dying.”

Family to Doctor: “Do something.”

Ambiguous words. Did the ‘something’ refer to curing the illness or hastening the process?

        We all believe that dying happens to others… and we all know that’s not true. Fears have to be acknowledged, addressed, talked about. Do you want to die with your children around you? Do you want to be in an ICU fighting till the end? Either is ok. You are entitled to dignity, to treatment, you can choose.

        What might come as a surprise to many is that physicians, nurses and other healthcare workers also grieve over lost patients, but that’s another story.