I knew it was too good to last. Two weeks in India and no cold and stomach upset despite all the running around in the smog filled air and eating at different eateries with varying levels of hygiene ... too good to be true.
The itch in the throat and burning sensation in the nose started a few minutes after I had checked in for the flight to London, at Mumbai's Chatrapati Shivaji airport. The body had held out this long as I had fun, now it had to give in. Gosh, I should have asked my doctor cousin for a prescription and got some antibiotics before I left home. Now, there wasn't even a chemist shop at the airport. The next nine hours were going to be disastrous as I winged towards Ol' Blightey. For about four hours after I got on board I sat Buddha-like in meditation observing the lumps that were forming in my throat and the irritations in my nasal passage. As Goenkaji would have said, 'How often do you get to observe pain and discomfort ?' After four hours it was too much...Sorry, Goenkaji..
I buzzed for the cabin attendant and asked for medication. The purser was a bit taken aback and wondering whether he had a medical emergency on hand, and, whether the flight would have to land somewhere in Asia Minor to offload an ill passenger. However, I said a Tylenol or Crocin should work...he look relieved and got out a form which absolved the airline of all responsibility in dispensing that medication to me. Once my signature was verified, I was given two of the precious tablets which I downed with a glass of water. In about an hour the world started looking better...Anicca, illusion, Goenkaji would have reminded...sorry, Goenkaji I see your point, but, the flesh is weak. In any case didn't the Buddha say in his first discourse that one should avoid torturing one's self and follow the Middle Path...well, the paracetamol was my Middle Path. By the time I landed at Terminal 5, for the first time in my life, I was quite chirpy. However, realizing the Anicca...passing nature of paracetamol...I fortified myself with some stronger medication which my (Indian) cab driver took me to on the way home...needless to add the pharmacist, the only one to be open at 7.30pm, on a Sunday night, was also Indian. He seemed to have seen his share of customers with my complaint (may be the cab driver was referring folks to him as they came off the plane, like bus drivers take their buses to McDonalds in the US). He filled a quick prescription and I was homebound.
I had made up my mind to spend the next twenty four-forty eight-seventy two hours; however long it took, resting, steam inhaling and watching the trains go past from the window in my daughter's bedroom...and yesterday the stomach gave in...this, I had planned for, and a took a quick dose of Number 8 homeopathic medicine given by my niece, a holistic healer, in prep for such situations. A few more doses of the homeopathic medicine worked and by evening I was ready to head out to watch the New Year festivities.
As I was dressing up for the New Year action, my wife asked me the question she asks me every time I plan a trip to India. 'Why do you insist on going there when you always come back with a cold and/or a tummy upset ?' How do I tell her that that's the stuff a love affair is made of. There is no reason, nor linear programming model that explains it...it is just desire that wells up within you and you act from that push of irrational desire because you are in love. To add to her irritation I hum a line from an old Mukesh song...
yeh mera deewanapan hai...this is my brand of madness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AppcdtqKuxE
The wife shrugs her shoulder in desperation and walks away to get ready for the trip we have planned to see the New Year fireworks off the Waterloo bridge.
What I do realize that the body cannot move from a relatively sterile environment like North America and not be affected by the different levels of hygiene, particularly when the exposure takes place in such a short time frame. It needs to acclimatise itself. I remember a friend of mine going to India to study Sanskrit, and, landing up in the monsoons to do a three month course. Needless to add most of the three months were spent in nursing colds and stomach upsets.
Took a scenic bus ride last night that took us through Oxford Street, Regent Street and all the commercial areas done up with lights...a bus ride that my mother would take me on, more than fifty years ago...with mum, the ride would end with a trip to Hamleys or Selfridges where I could buy a toy of up to ten shillings (translates to what, 25 quid of today?) as my Christmas present.
Getting off at Waterloo tube station we took one look at the crowd and realised that it was not the place for two soon to be senior citizens to be around. While excellently policed and crowd controlled, there were too many folks with open bottles of alcohol for our comfort, should something go wrong. We decided to beat a hasty retreat, got into an empty tube and reached home in time to watch the New Year breaking on TV...a much more comfortable of wishing in the New Year.
The New Year started off with an early morning brunch at a dear friend's place. We have known these friends from the days we were in University in India, caught up recently on FB, and, found out that we are both transiting London at the same time on our way back from our holidays. I notice that the holiday season is a time when a lot of Indian office goers in North America and Europe can take an extended stretch of two to three weeks that is required to visit India, attend concerts and catch up with children settled in different parts of the globe.
Stepping out at 8am on New Year's Day was I surprised that the only shop open was a Convenience Store run by an Indian ? No, of course not ... he did not perhaps close down last year
And to complete the reverse colonisation of Ol' Blightey I was thrilled to see that not only is tandoori chicken the national food, but, that the London Underground carries advertisements for shaadi.com.
History seems to have come full circle...
Jai Bharat, Jai Ol'Blightey
The itch in the throat and burning sensation in the nose started a few minutes after I had checked in for the flight to London, at Mumbai's Chatrapati Shivaji airport. The body had held out this long as I had fun, now it had to give in. Gosh, I should have asked my doctor cousin for a prescription and got some antibiotics before I left home. Now, there wasn't even a chemist shop at the airport. The next nine hours were going to be disastrous as I winged towards Ol' Blightey. For about four hours after I got on board I sat Buddha-like in meditation observing the lumps that were forming in my throat and the irritations in my nasal passage. As Goenkaji would have said, 'How often do you get to observe pain and discomfort ?' After four hours it was too much...Sorry, Goenkaji..
I buzzed for the cabin attendant and asked for medication. The purser was a bit taken aback and wondering whether he had a medical emergency on hand, and, whether the flight would have to land somewhere in Asia Minor to offload an ill passenger. However, I said a Tylenol or Crocin should work...he look relieved and got out a form which absolved the airline of all responsibility in dispensing that medication to me. Once my signature was verified, I was given two of the precious tablets which I downed with a glass of water. In about an hour the world started looking better...Anicca, illusion, Goenkaji would have reminded...sorry, Goenkaji I see your point, but, the flesh is weak. In any case didn't the Buddha say in his first discourse that one should avoid torturing one's self and follow the Middle Path...well, the paracetamol was my Middle Path. By the time I landed at Terminal 5, for the first time in my life, I was quite chirpy. However, realizing the Anicca...passing nature of paracetamol...I fortified myself with some stronger medication which my (Indian) cab driver took me to on the way home...needless to add the pharmacist, the only one to be open at 7.30pm, on a Sunday night, was also Indian. He seemed to have seen his share of customers with my complaint (may be the cab driver was referring folks to him as they came off the plane, like bus drivers take their buses to McDonalds in the US). He filled a quick prescription and I was homebound.
I had made up my mind to spend the next twenty four-forty eight-seventy two hours; however long it took, resting, steam inhaling and watching the trains go past from the window in my daughter's bedroom...and yesterday the stomach gave in...this, I had planned for, and a took a quick dose of Number 8 homeopathic medicine given by my niece, a holistic healer, in prep for such situations. A few more doses of the homeopathic medicine worked and by evening I was ready to head out to watch the New Year festivities.
As I was dressing up for the New Year action, my wife asked me the question she asks me every time I plan a trip to India. 'Why do you insist on going there when you always come back with a cold and/or a tummy upset ?' How do I tell her that that's the stuff a love affair is made of. There is no reason, nor linear programming model that explains it...it is just desire that wells up within you and you act from that push of irrational desire because you are in love. To add to her irritation I hum a line from an old Mukesh song...
yeh mera deewanapan hai...this is my brand of madness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AppcdtqKuxE
What I do realize that the body cannot move from a relatively sterile environment like North America and not be affected by the different levels of hygiene, particularly when the exposure takes place in such a short time frame. It needs to acclimatise itself. I remember a friend of mine going to India to study Sanskrit, and, landing up in the monsoons to do a three month course. Needless to add most of the three months were spent in nursing colds and stomach upsets.
Took a scenic bus ride last night that took us through Oxford Street, Regent Street and all the commercial areas done up with lights...a bus ride that my mother would take me on, more than fifty years ago...with mum, the ride would end with a trip to Hamleys or Selfridges where I could buy a toy of up to ten shillings (translates to what, 25 quid of today?) as my Christmas present.
Getting off at Waterloo tube station we took one look at the crowd and realised that it was not the place for two soon to be senior citizens to be around. While excellently policed and crowd controlled, there were too many folks with open bottles of alcohol for our comfort, should something go wrong. We decided to beat a hasty retreat, got into an empty tube and reached home in time to watch the New Year breaking on TV...a much more comfortable of wishing in the New Year.
The New Year started off with an early morning brunch at a dear friend's place. We have known these friends from the days we were in University in India, caught up recently on FB, and, found out that we are both transiting London at the same time on our way back from our holidays. I notice that the holiday season is a time when a lot of Indian office goers in North America and Europe can take an extended stretch of two to three weeks that is required to visit India, attend concerts and catch up with children settled in different parts of the globe.
Stepping out at 8am on New Year's Day was I surprised that the only shop open was a Convenience Store run by an Indian ? No, of course not ... he did not perhaps close down last year
And to complete the reverse colonisation of Ol' Blightey I was thrilled to see that not only is tandoori chicken the national food, but, that the London Underground carries advertisements for shaadi.com.
History seems to have come full circle...
Jai Bharat, Jai Ol'Blightey
