The India Group: Paul Ramsey’s Blog: 6/15/13

Second Entry

Mille’s family arrives at train station in Guwahati

Wednesday, June 12—Guwahati, Assam

The train arrived in Guwahati, not just on time, but 30 minutes early.  Bilal, the travel agent who helps us arrange our India travels, tells me that this train is the best in India.  I know for a fact that there are much more elegant trains in India, e.g., Palace on Wheels, but they are for tourists and only for tourists.  The twice-weekly train from Delhi to Assam is for Indian travelers and probably is the best in its class.  Actually the trip wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated.  

Asleep in the hotel

I slept fairly well the night before and did a lot of napping during the day.  At the station there was the usual first-time-in-a-place hassles: finding a tuk-tuk (motorized 3-wheel vehicle) for a reasonable price (The first 2 drivers were asking 100 rupees [a little less than $2], so I knew a non-tourist price had to be less.  Of course, when they see you’re traveling with a family, they know they’ve got you by the crosshairs.  Even so, I found a tuk-tuk for 80 rupees and tipped the driver 20, so I ended up paying 100, but I didn’t feel so ripped off.); trying to give directions in the dark to some place you’ve never been to someone who can’t read the directions and can’t speak English and you don’t speak Hindi.  Thank goodness Baba speaks both English and Hindi.  I sometimes wonder how the average tourist manages without a Hindi speaker, but then I remember the average tourist doesn’t end up in Guwahati or with the likes of Baba and his family.

Nikunja, the super

Without too many false turns and much questioning we end up at our destination:  The Chandralya Apartments.  The Operation Smile people in Guwahati—a great organization and great people, have secured our accommodations.  The only problem is I’ve given them the wrong date for our arrival.  From day one I’ve written that “we’ll be arriving on Thursday, June 13,” when we’ve always been scheduled to arrive on Wednesday, June12.  I guess the thought of the train ride seemed like 2 rather than 1 day.  Nikunja, the super, appears from somewhere/nowhere and there is what seems like an interminable conversation between several people including Baba.  I can’t understand a word but know that they’re saying you’ve come a day early.  Finally Baba says just those words and I know he’s right.  But Nikunja has 2 rooms and I thank God literally. 

I can’t quite figure out what Chandralya Apartments are.  They’re configured like a dorm suite with several bedrooms off a central living/dining room area with a kitchen.  Some of the units are clearly long-term dwellings as there are brass nameplates on the doors.  Because we’ve come a day early, Baba’s family and I aren’t in the same suite (something else I will come to say a prayer of thanks for) and pity those in their suite who have to endure those children crying and playing age-appropriate but noisy games.  Baba, a typical Indian man—perhaps I don’t need the adjective “Indian”—has never spent so much time with his family and he says to me when we have to find food for the family that doesn’t want to go to a restaurant, “I don’t like all this crying.  When I’m at home and they cry, I leave.”  I’ve suggested that all these young couples should spend a few days with him before they over-procreate.  He says, “I understand.”

Thursday, June 13—Operation Smile Hospital Day

Nikunja and Baba appear at my door at 9 to tell me it’s 9 and the Operation Smile Hospital car will be picking us up at 9:45.  How did the Operation Smile people know we’d even arrived?  But it’s India.  I never totally understand what’s going on or how what happens does.  Breakfast is apparently included with the price of the room—to this day I have never been asked for a credit card or passport or to sign a register.  When I asked one of the doctors about this, he explained, “things are looser here.”  It’s 9:30 by the time I get down to Baba’s family’s suite where breakfast is served.  I try to explain to the cook I can do without, but his only response is how do I want my eggs.  Hardboiled.  When they come I find out Baba and Ramakuiyan haven’t eaten (it’s never clear to me exactly why) but the children have.  I give them my eggs (I hate morning and all associated with it, like breakfast) and go to tell the driver we’re sorry we’re late and they’ll be coming.  Of course, when I get downstairs there is no driver.  Has he left?  No, he hasn’t come explains the gateman.  I go back upstairs where Baba and Ramakuiyan are finishing their eggs.  I’m asking where Nikunja is; he may know something about the driver when I see this arched stream coming from somewhere.  It looks very close and it is.  Krishna is taking a leak out the patio door.  Baba and Ramakuiyan are laughing, I think as much at the look on my face as at their son’s antics.  I’m explaining that they have to use this “as a teaching moment” as in Toto we’re not in Khajuraho anymore.  There’s a toilet in the next room.  There are many potential ‘teaching moments‘ with Krishna:  Feet and butts do not belong on the table in the restaurant and we pay 20 rupees for every broken glass—40 rupees so far.

Hospital Intake

Nikunja comes and calls for the car and we’re taken to the Operation Smile Hospital.  I think that the Operation Smile Unit is part of a larger hospital, but I’m not sure and haven’t asked the right person to get a satisfactory answer.  Dr. Mark Schoemann from Princeton Junction, NJ, the head surgeon for Operation Smile in Assam—young, unpretentious, handsome, exuding genuine kindness and gentleness, and evoking confidence as in “Yes, you can cut me”—appears and patiently answers all the questions I have, and those of you who know me know that there was a list.  He explains that Operation Smile is having a Mission in Assam, so there are doctors, nurses, dentists, speech pathologists, and volunteers from all over the world.  Whereas they usually perform between 50 and 75 surgeries in a week, the number will spike to 200 during the Mission.  He assures me that this won’t affect the care taken with Mille.

Mille and her father, Baba at intake

We’re assigned to a “helper” who shepherds us through the intake process.  Ramakuiyan, Krishna, and Haman stay in the inside waiting area while Baba, Mille, and I begin the intake process.  I’m really just along for the ride.  Baba handles his parental duties excellently well, asking me only one question:  Can he use my cellphone number, as he doesn’t have any minutes on his phone.  The diagnosis was overall better than I had anticipated:  The palate was successfully closed during Mille’s first surgery when she was months old, but her lip needs to be “trimmed”; the dentist didn’t see any special problems with her teeth; the speech pathologist judged that she spoke well but may want, when her head finishes growing, to have the bone in her nose straightened.  This may help her breathing.  One of the speech pathologists, from Australia, came over to us afterwards and said that the nose surgery was optional.  Baba said, as any good father would, “Yes, but she should have it.”  Baba wondered if the surgery would stop her frequent nose bleeds and I wondered if it would stop her nose from running constantly.  Both Dr. Mark and the speech pathologist thought that the bloody and running nose would not be helped by the surgery.  The speech pathologist wonders if Mille doesn’t have allergies.  Dr. Mark is going to have her evaluated by an ear/nose/throat specialist (can’t remember or spell what such a doctor is called).  All went well until we got to the pediatrician who decides whether the child is surgery-ready.  Baba told him that Mille often runs a fever at night and has a cough.  I asked Baba how he knew she had a fever.  He didn’t have a thermometer. 

Hospital Sign

I was assured by every woman who heard me that mothers don’t need a thermometer to know whether their child has a fever—sorry.  I told the pediatrician that if she had to be cold-free to have the surgery we might as well go home now, as I’d never known their home to be cold- or sick from something free.  He told me that if we did the surgery when Mille’s lungs weren’t ready it could be “catastrophic.”  I got the message:  butt out.  They gave Mille, and it looked like pretty much every other child, medicine.  You didn’t even have to go to the pharmacy; it was already there for the handing out.  When we saw Dr. Mark he didn’t seem surprised that Mille would have to wait.  He just said, Come back on Sunday and we’ll see” 

Back in my room, when I reflected on the day, I was really conscious of how minor Mille’s disfigurement was by comparison.  I saw people in that hospital, waiting and hoping, who had no lips to cover their teeth, people with an ever-held towel, that covered whatever it was they were hiding, that was as much a part of their body as any god-given member, people who made you thankful for what you have and didn’t have and made you wonder whether God was good every day to every body.  It was only with a timorous and learned act of faith that I could assent “S/He is.”  I was also struck by the ages of people who had come for help—not just infants and children, but young adults and people with gray hair.  Why had they waited so long?  What difference did it make if you’d had ‘it‘ all this time?  Nobody new would want now anyway.  But I know it does matter.  I’m old and fat but I never leave that house without looking in the mirror.