All the Roadrunning

What a feeling! To finally have a whole tooth (lower left #7) where for the past two months there had only been fragments and a large hole in my mouth. It was such a wonderful…24 hours.

Dr. Kathuria simply had to remain true to the nature of his fine country. The commonly held idea, proven time and time again, that nothing ever works exactly as planned in India has now infiltrated my last remaining hope, the field of dentistry. Two days ago I said goodbye to the kind receptionist, to my personal saliva suction man, my personal napkin provider, my personal x-ray button presser and to the two dentists, thanking them all for their fine work on my oral issues. Today I said hello to them all yet again, while handing over the chipped piece of my crown, securely wrapped inside my contact lens case (right eye side).

It all began when I awoke this morning with the taste of sand in my mouth. The fact that Delhi does not have any beaches to pass out on allowed my mind to immediately reach the most certain conclusion. With my tongue as my search equipment, I quickly located the chip in my two-day old crown, a grain of rice sized hole at the base of the tooth along my gum. Within five minutes I was on the phone with the dentist and within thirty minutes I was in a rickshaw speeding through morning rush hour traffic, on my way, once again, to the most inconveniently located dentist in Delhi.

¨Oh, just that small chip? You did not say it was that small,¨ the doctor declared upon her first inspection, almost making me feel ashamed for wasting her time. After her second, closer examination, she proceeded to arrive at the proud conclusion that, ¨The crown is perfect, absolutely perfect, nothing wrong, just a part of it sliced off.¨

As indicative of top-notch dental work as that conclusion may have been to her, it had a considerably different meaning to me. And while she seemed absurdly content that the rest of the crown still remained in place, I refrained myself from informing her that the fact that I was once again sitting in her office meant that her work was indeed quite imperfect. I pondered whether or not to redo my comment sheet from the other day, with its ´Very good´ and ´Excellent´ markings now being displayed for new patients to read on the waiting room table. ´They tricked me,´ I thought to myself in disappointment, upset for having actually believed that my dental work would problem free.

The dentist proceeded to make a temporary repair for my tooth, while making jokes about the small size of the chip throughout the procedure. Upon finishing her work, she then added a most comforting disclaimer, ¨This might break off also, but if it does, no problem, the crown is still in perfect shape.¨

I am back in my hotel room now, with some sort of strange taste in my mouth and a plastic band wrapped around my tooth. Tomorrow morning I am leaving Delhi, hence the reason why I could not wait the three days required to have a new impression taken and a new crown manufactured by the lab. Upon finishing the procedure today, the dentist informed me with complete nonchalance, as if my life consisted only of bi-weekly visits to Delhi, to revisit the clinic the next time I was in town so that I could have a new crown made, completely free of charge´ (how nice of them!).

So now, despite not having been in my plans at all, I will have to return to this city once again, for visits #5 and #6 to the dentist. As I walked back to my hotel today, I cringed at the thought of more days in the unbearable heat, the long rickshaw rides, the pollution, the crowds and the noises.

At the moment when I took a deep breath and repeated my personal calming mantra of, ´I love India, I love India¨, a young man leaned out of the window of a bus parked along the side of the road. We made brief eye contact and exchanged light smiles. Then, without warning, he spewed out a nice steady, thick stream of vomit that landed right on top of my sandal clad feet. I love India.

The clear highlight of my third dentist appointment in this fine city was when the sharp, inch-and-a-half drill bit popped off inside my mouth and flew into the depths of my throat, providing me with a most intriguing glimpse into the last actions and sounds of a person choking to death. Of course it also took three attempts to make a successful impression of my lower teeth, with the doctor actually having to chase me down the road as I was hailing a rickshaw in order to drag me back upstairs to redo the mold. And of course a dentist trainee was given the task of preparing my tooth for the impression, unfortunately finding himself the recipient of a severe reprimand by the actual dentist upon showing her his work. ¨Too sharp, what is this? Too sharp, look at these edges, much too sharp!¨ she yelled in English, shaking her head along with an audible ¨Tsk, tsk, tsk¨ while proceeding to correct his errors.

Only one more appointment left, tomorrow evening, and my dental troubles shall be over, or perhaps just beginning, if this experiment with Indian dentistry proves to be a failure.

Returning to Delhi from the mountains…The sleeper compartment I had reserved for the bus journey would certainly have been glorious had I been a four-year old child. But a human of my size was obviously not the intended passenger of the bus designers. For most of the ride I had one foot hanging out of the window and one leg hanging over the other edge, most surely to the disappointment of the person below whose face my foot was dangling in front of. I remained in a twisted position for the 13 hours, unable to find room among the randomly placed metal bars on both sides of me to turn over. The constant bumpiness of the roads and the resulting rattling of my metal bed, also helped ensure a bout of nausea remained looming in the gut.

However, my ´neighbors´ in the two double compartments next to me happened to be a most happy entourage of four Buddhist monks from Thailand. They had all randomly met in the mountains, all on separate journeys to study Buddhism in India, but now they were traveling back to Delhi as a group. Its random enough when two Americans meet up in a remote Indian mountain village, never mind four independently traveling, orange-robed Thai monks.

During our 10pm ´now you rest break´ and the 2am ´Toilet, dinner break´, I sat with the monks at roadside food stalls, snacking on coconut cookies and mango shakes. It was refreshing to be in the presence of such constant smiling and carefree laughter, something I realized is not too common in every day scenes in India. But on this long journey, it was a most pleasant escape, reminding me of my wonderful days in Thailand and the culture that fosters such happy people. Every time I re-boarded the bus, ready to begin the next leg of the trip, I brought with me some of the monks´ positive energy, which helped me endure the discomfort and pain of being forced into a contortionist. But I cannot lie, my mind wandered often, as the interactions with the monks also caused me to question why on earth I was headed to the 110 degree, pre-monsoon Delhi heat and not to the beaches of Thailand!

The air cooler in my room right now is spitting out boiling hot air, simply unable to combat the temperatures outside. Four showers a day and about six liters of water keeps my brain cool enough to function semi-normally for brief periods of time. I burn off my meals even before I finish eating them, with the sweat pouring off my face by the gallon. As I gulp down glassful after glassful of cold fruit juices and yogurt shakes, I find it amazing that Indians are still drinking 27 cups of steaming hot chai every day.

I am off for dinner, to a rooftop cafe where dozens of half-melted people stare into the distance in silence, at times muttering a few incomprehensible words to themselves in between bites of vegetarian curries. In Delhi during this season, meals take two hours to complete, not because of the slowness of the chefs, but due to the inability of the diners to summon the motivation to lift their rears from the seat and head to their next destination.

In the end, however, even this seemingly unenjoyable aspect of India plays a vital role in creating the entire experience that somehow remains as addicting to me as Dunkin Donuts is to Bostonians.

Here is a photo of the view from the balcony of my room.  It is the location where I write, where I study my Hindi, where I chase monkeys away from my carrot cake.  For some reason up here in the mountains, the body craves sweets all the time.  At home I might have some ice cream or a piece of chocolate every now and then, but here I eat brownies and apple tarts in the afternoon, milkshakes with dinner and my carrot cake at night.   

After a much needed weekend break, I resumed my Hindi classes again today, finding that the two days of rest allowed the prior week´s intense overload of information to finally settle into my brain.  I can speak a little now, without having to take five seconds to recall every single word of a sentence.  My interactions throughout the day are quite smooth and somewhat natural now, as long as the person I am speaking to does not start speaking back.  I have four more classes left, by which time I should  have a decent base to build upon when I leave to go hopping around the northern plains for a couple of weeks.     

Friday night I will once again be on the overnight sleeper bus, this time on my way down the mountains and back to Delhi to have my dental work finished and pick up my friend who is coming to visit for a month.  I plan to stay in Delhi for only a few days if all goes well, especially since today´s temperature there was 116 degrees!   

I already bought the 650 rupee bus ticket, wanting to ensure that I would have a sleeper compartment reserved.  I simply could not repeat the suffering endured on my bus trip here, when the 14 hour journey was passed in a narrow, non-reclining seat, next to a family of four sprawled out on the bus floor next to me, using my lap as a pillow, my feet as a toy and my window to vomit out of.  No thank you. 

This second photo is from my weekend outing to the ´swimming pool´ in the nearby village of Bhagsu.  I spent an afternoon there with some Tibetans and foreigners, drinking chai, listening to some local Tibetan folk music and taking a quick dip in the absolutely frigid mountain waters.  Notice the Calvin Kl ‘A’ in underwear.  It was almost as precious as the dozens of Indian males flapping their arms around in fear of drowning while wearing miniature (and consequently very tight around their bulging bellies) inflatable tubes around their waists.   

I must return to my balcony now to continue studying.  I actually have to make a pit stop first at the Registration Office to find out if the Dalai Lama, who just arrived home two days ago from overseas, will be giving a public audience at some point this week.  And of course I will have to make another detour to my favorite bakery, leaving me about twenty minutes to do my homework, which involves mastering how to read and write 54 letters and vowels in the Hindi script!

350 words, three tenses, post positions (not prepositions here),  imperatives, possessives, verbs, irregular verbs, singular plurals, pronunciation and writing of the Devanagari script – all in my first four Hindi lessons by Sunil.

Each class is only one and a half hours – with half the time spent learning something new and the other half with me eeking out barely comprehensible sentences at a pace of one word per minute.  Intense indeed.  My brain twitches and overheats often, my muscles tense and my eyes itch from extreme concentration – but, I am progressing, somewhat.   “I sometimes watch Hindi films in India” is becoming natural – “Main kabhi kabhi hindi filmen dekhta hun.”  It is the “Your older sister is not cooking food now because she is washing her expensive clothes in the room outside of the house behind the lake” where I begin to have some difficulties. 

The classroom is a tiny concrete room in a small, crumbling yellow building on the side of a hill.  From the one window I can stare down across the massive valley below all the way to Dharamsala, the scenery dotted with colorful Tibetan houses and prayer flags.  It would be an inspiring place to learn, if I could only take a second every now and then to glance out at this magnificent view.  Unfortunately, even a millisecond of not focusing on Sunil’s small whiteboard results in a serious interruption of the flow.  As time presses on and my brain starts to reach its absolute limit of information intake, my entire body relaxes in one great wave of calm when I finally hear the words, “Bahut accha, Derek.  Kal milenge.” – “Very good Derek, see you tomorrow.” 

I am then forced to spend several hours decompressing completely, usually by roaming aimlessly around the village and its surroundings with the awareness of a cucumber. 

When my brain begins to function yet again, I stroll along the scenic and peaceful mountainside path that loops around the Dalai Lama’s temple.  It ends at the entrance to the temple where I join the daily candlelight vigils taking place each evening.  Hundreds of local Tibetans and foreigners take an hour to listen to the chants of the monks and offer their prayers of peace for the people inside of Tibet and for all living beings around the world.   Twenty-five monks, ranging in age from 12 to 70, on an indefinite hunger strike in order to draw attention to the Tibetan cause, chant quietly in the background. 

Upon its conclusion, I follow the procession along the mile-long route back into the village.  It is now time for me to go to my favorite Indian restaurant, eat some korma, dal and rice and practice my Hindi. 

As I try my best to order a cup of tea (“Ek chai dijiega”) and ask the ten-year old waiter if he plays the guitar (“Kya ap guitar bajate hain?”), Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” suddenly blasts out from the restaurant’s speakers and I find myself humming to the tune instead, my overworked brain trying desperately to cling to something familiar.    

Apka din accha ha (Have a nice day!) 

I had my first Hindi class yesterday, here in the mountain village of McLeod Ganj.  Within thirty minutes my ‘teacher’ was rattling off questions in full speed, difficult questions such as “Is your house dirty?” or “Is this your sick dog?”, expecting immediate answers.  I was sweating profusely in his tiny concrete classroom, much more the result of the pressure than the heat inside.  I filled up 21 pages of a notebook in only 1 hour and 15 minutes!  My second class is today at 2pm, I signed up for a week, quite a silly thing to do, I now realize, before even sitting through the first class.  But at this rate, I should be completely fluent by Thursday afternoon.

I was feeling a little under the weather the past couple of days, a result of the root canal healing I assume.  But today I feel healthy again and am ready to resume eating large amounts of Tibetan bread, momos (Tibetan vegetable dumplings) and tasty noodle soups.  It is an intriguing time to be up here.  Apart from there being only an average amount of tourists, the beautiful weather and the snow-capped mountains towering above, the atmosphere is energized like I have never seen before in this village.  This is due to the current worldwide surge for the Tibetan cause.

This is where the Dalai Lama lives, where the Tibetan government-in-exile is located and where thousands of Tibetans have settled.  As a result, it is the focal point of the cause.  Posters with actual photographs of torn apart Tibetan bodies and other heinous crimes taking place by the Chinese in Tibet hang all over the village, petitions are circulated,  lectures are plentiful, conversations with locals are deep and troubling.  Tibetan monks are eager to find foreigners to share their stories with, many being ex-political prisoners and many having escaped through the Himalayas to reach India. 

Yet the villagers here are still smiling, albeit with hints of pain in thier faces.  Tibetans must be the saddest happiest people on the planet.  Their religion and culture cultivates pure happiness, yet the destruction of their homeland has led to inevitable sadness.  

On that note, it is time to go for a hike through the pine forests of the mountainside, dotted with Buddhist temples and stupas, home to monkeys and waterfalls, and offering a most ideal location to seek some clarity.   

At noon yesterday, I spooned up the last bits of my beans and rice and chugged down a mango shake from my favorite roadside food vendor before heading over to Janpath to join the Tibetan mock torch relay. The Olympic torch was scheduled for its run through Delhi and as a result India´s large Tibetan community had planned a parallel protest.

Despite the 100+ degree temperatures, some 3000 Tibetans, Indians and foreigners marched along the roads, the massive crowd centered around a mock Olympic torch. Tibetan flags of all sizes waved above the heads as passionate anti-China and Free Tibet slogans were shouted in unison. Pro-Tibet t-shirts, face paint, posters and banners created a powerful sense of unity and urgency for their genuine cause. The procession was definitely peaceful but it certainly did not lack in intensity, strong enough to undoubtedly leave most participants and observers inspired and sympathetic.

Several hundred stick-wielding Indian police accompanied this march, although most seemed to be curious onlookers rather than officers of the law. When the procession finished at a cordoned off section of road just south of Jantar Mantar, the crowds swelled even more to listen to the endless series of speeches, given by a range of activists from Tibetan monks to Hindus to Sikhs.

The sense of community encompassed even the strangers and foreigners who were made to feel at ease and most welcome by the hospitable and often chatty Tibetans. The Tibetan greeting of ´Tashi Delek’ passed among the crowds along with flyers depicting the current human rights abuses taking place within Tibet. Older Tibetans in traditional dress wept and prayed, while the youth, sporting afros and wearing designer jeans, shouted with passionate anger. Others sat quietly, prayer beads in hand, pleading softly for justice and compassion.

This impressive display of solidarity and the clear message of struggle was covered extensively by dozens of media organizations, highlighted by interviews in Tibetan, Hindi and English of face-painted youth, saffron-robed monks and Indian activists.

By 4pm, as the event began to slow and with many Tibetans making their way to the path of the actual torch relay, I decided to return to my hotel. As I walked through Connaught Place towards the main bazaar of Paharganj, thinking of ways to get out of the heat, out of the polluted air, out of the routine of 6 hour daytime naps, it was no coincidence when my next destination became so clear. I am now off to the north, to the mountain village of McLeod Ganj, home to the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile.

A combination of the toasty nighttime air (to which even the mighty fan in my room has ceded defeat) and my daytime naps (due to my body´s inability to function for very long in the absolute searing temperatures) has resulted in three sleepless nights so far.   

Some might suggest that I seek out another location, after all, India is a massive country, home to an entire region of cooler mountains.  Unfortunately I am not yet able to leave this city, a restriction placed on me not by any parole officer, but by Dr. Kathuria, the dentist I visited yesterday.   

Here´s the story:Upon arrival at Dr Kathuria´s clinic, whom I had found on the internet, the receptionist was at first adamant that I must be Akash, a man who had a 9:30am appointment.  When I informed her that I was in fact Derek, with a 10:00am appointment, she looked at me as if I were playing a practical joke, repeating several times in disbelief, ¨So you are definitely not Akash?¨  

Apart from the usual peeling paint, empty electrical sockets and crumbing plaster that is to be expected inside of any building in India, the cleanliness, state-of-the-art equipment and procession of other foreigners coming in and out, did give the impression that these people knew what they were doing.  Flipping through the binder full of positive ´report cards’ on the coffee table, I most certainly felt in good hands, as long as they didn´t perform the tooth extraction that poor Akash required. 

Was it odd that a young girl came around the waiting room offering cups of the sweetest chai in the city to those about to be examined for cavities?  Certainly.  But even the dentist must maintain that standard India gesture of hospitality in order to succeed.   

My appointment was mainly for a simple replacement crown.  But this is India and nothing goes according to plan of course.  Therefore, after a quick round of x-rays and a confusing lesson on tooth decay and nerve infection, I unsurprisingly found my face shot up with two vials worth of novocaine and in the midst of a root canal.  The doctor´s logic seemed sound, and besides, it only cost another $50 bucks!   

The doctor drilled away, removing the nerve bit by bit while a swarm of teenage male ´dental hygienists´dressed in navy blue wool lab coats assisted, each responsible for a different aspect.  One boy held the light, one sucked the saliva from my mouth (with a suction instrument!), one pushed the ‘execute’ button on the x-ray machine.  One boy had been given the duty of handing me a napkin at the start of the procedure and then replacing it every few minutes.  I never actually used the napkin and in fact, had no idea what it was for.  But nevertheless, this boy stood by my side, keeping the napkin in my hand fresh throughout my appointment.  

So, the early stages of my stay in India have now been dictated by my required dental work. Two more appointments later in the week to finish the root canal and then a final visit early next week to finish the crown.  But due to my extended stay in Delhi, I will be changing hotels this morning after discovering a massive room with an air cooler at a hotel down the alley.  It is an absolute steal at 300 rupees ($7.50 USD) and will hopefully allow me to enjoy some much needed sleep.   

Well, the cows have begun to moo outside my window and the banana vendors have started screaming.  Although I will never understand why they need to scream so loud at 5:00 in the morning, instead of waiting until a more reasonable hour, I can´t really complain since there is no sleep for them to wake me from this time.     

After a 10-hour midday nap, I have finally ventured into the Delhi streets this evening. Only seconds upon stepping out of the hotel, I found myself in the midst of a massive procession taking place through the narrow market streets. There were out of tune brass bands, costumed men on horses and dozens of brightly illuminated floats driven my tractors in front with small boys pushing the generators behind. It was a celebration of Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god. As a result, there were dozens of ‘Hanumans’ dancing on the floats in wild monkey-like movements, pausing every now and then to hand advertising flyers for a local dentist to the crowds gathering around. The three policemen at the front of the parade, whose duty was to ensure the roads were clear ahead, were quite busy purchasing underwear and electronic items from roadside vendors instead.

In the thirty minutes I spent observing this celebration, I am happy to report that my feet were only spat on twice (although one was of the thick red betel nut concoction type), rolled over by only one bicycle wheel and only stepped in one small collection of fresh cow feces. That is definitely a successful night out on the town!

But my true re-introduction to India this time occurred on the flight from Paris to Delhi, where I met Vikas Kumar.

Before I had even fully sat down in my seat on the airplane, Mr Kumar introduced himself. A small, bubbly man in his mid-twenties, with the requisite thin moustache, dark jeans and navy blazer associated with the growing middle class of young entrepreneurs, he immediately asked me for my good name. Within seconds of our introduction, I was treated to a moment of that typically backwards, yet infinitely lovable, Indian way of conducting human interactions. Vikas handed me his business card, along with some sincere words: “This is my mobile number, you call me anytime if you need anything at all during your stay. Call me next Sunday, we spend the day together, you can meet my wife and friends.” I had not even had time to buckle my seat belt, read the list of in-flight movies or even learn a single thing about this man. More amazingly, since he was the one offering his friendship, he had not even learned a single thing about me.

I loved it! It was the final confirmation I needed that yes indeed I was on my way back to India! What an honorable and beautiful natural instinct – to assume that all people are worthy of friendship upon introduction. “Let me first offer my friendship, my home, my service. Later I will get to know you.”

And now I say goodnight from this fine city. Regardless of the black exhaust that fills each breath, the migraine-inducing honking of horns, the garbage burning in the middle of the street, the constant smell of urine mixing with the scent of freshly baked sweets…there is no place like it, and I believe that the appeal of that fact alone draws people like me to this country year after year.