A woman in Delhi

Here I am in a safer and less discriminated country, oblivious of the news that was hitting India's newstands till this morning. My heart goes out to the victim, her parents, her family and her friends. And memories that I am happy to leave behind come back to me.

I have been there too in unsafe Delhi.And I have been mugged. And probably would have been raped and murdered too. If the good Lord were not watching over me. The Delhi police certainly were not. This incident is to bring to light how inept, corrupt and ineffective the Delhi police is.

At 8 p.m. one August night, 9 years ago.on Mehrauli Badarpur Road, our driver left the car to go look for my colleague's husband. My colleague was also in the car with me. A PCR van went by. Passers by went by. We were certainly not alone. Suddenly, there were 4 men who demanded the car door be opened. Unfortunately, my driver had wound down the window a bit to let a little air in. While we watched, at first indignant and then horrified, one of them slid his hand in and opened the door. The keys were also in the car and two men sat in the front while two others stood by our doors either to jump in or throw us out - we will never know. The car alarm had gone off when the door was opened and the auto lock activated. Obviously new to technology, they decided to split with the car keys and turning around to snatch my cell phone that was hanging from my neck. A crowd had gathered but none followed the fleeing miscreants. All this happned in about a couple of minutes. I had no time to register anything but the color of one of the men's shirt.

The first thing I did was use my collegue's phone to call the cops, who promised to be there in minutes. The nearest police station was half a kilometer away. I made the next call to my husband to bring the duplicate key set. My husband arrived and we waited and waited for about an hour. The crowd started thinning away. And we decided it was unsafe to stay there any longer. We drove to the Police Station and what followed was almost as horrifying as the incident itself. The inspector on duty started inquisitioning me as if I were the culprit, making me repeat my story at least a dozen times. I started getting annoyed and my husband warned me not to be rude. I asked the inspector if it would not be easy to track down the culprits since they had my cell phone. The inspector bragged that the culprits would be brought home. And began questioning me again. I snapped. And told him to lay off. And remember I was the victim.I told him if he was so sure of his success rate to get back my cell phone and car keys and let me go home.  That funnily seemed to work and the next thing he was offering me a cold drink and let me go home

I went home exhausted. Home was a mere couple of kilometers away. Barely I had finished my dinner and there was a call from the police station. It was well past midnight now. Just to give people an idea of how long the inquisition at the police station took. He had detained a young boy and asked me to identify him. It was the wrong guy of course. And an innocent one at that. An inquisition followed again.

I was asked to pick up my FIR the next day. When I did, there was no mention of the theft. After having spoken to me a dozen times, he had just reported my car keys and phone missing!

Why he did so I cannot imagine except that maybe he was in cahoots with the culprits? I never recovered the keys or my phone.

Delhi is not only unsafe from criminals but also cursed with insensitive and inept police officers.

What if the victim of the gang rape or her friend had dialed the police? Would they have come and prevented the crime? 9.9 to 10 they would not. Maybe they did?


 

Hippocrates oath

The plane was delayed. The tiny airport in Regina, usually quiet and homely looked crowded.

I was using my phone sparingly because I did not want to increase the roaming charge. I logged on the slow Wi-Fi at the airport and typed out a message to my son Rohan, who was always online. I hoped he would let Alka know that the plane was delayed again.

Alka was on the edge these days. She was so close to Rhea and had been weeping herself to sleep every night for the last one month. All her motherly instincts were alive with the possible dangers a young girl living alone would face. Rhea was worried about her mother too, but she was also excited. She was getting into the college and course of her choice. It had been a long time dream of hers and she had worked hard at it. My eyes went a little moist with pride for my daughter’s achievement. I quickly wiped them and looked around stealthily.

There was a Sardar talking loudly on the phone about all his recent worldly possessions; an Audi, the Samsung Galaxy and so on. There was a Chinese family of book readers who kept glaring at the Sardar in intervals. There was the usual group of corporate travelers, tapping on their notebooks and listening on the phone simultaneously. There was a silver haired lady who sat serenely through the melee. An occasional twitch revealed perhaps some pain she was feeling.

My phone rang shrilly distracting me. It was Alka. Rohan had given her the message and she wanted to know if I had any update. She had also just spoken to Rhea and was telling she had some problems setting up her new desk in her dorm room. “She finally managed. One girl was practical enough to bring some basic tools with her. “ I frowned. Was Alka accusing me? I had offered to set up the desk but Rhea insisted she would manage and I should leave for the airport. Had I known the plane would be late, I would have stayed back and set up her desk and maybe gone out for dinner with her as well. But how was I to know. When I arrived at the airport, the display screen only said delayed by half hour. That was 3 hours back. I decided it was time to grab myself a coffee and biscuit. By the time I got back, I was happy to see that boarding had begun.

I settled myself in my seat. Tiredness began to seep into my bones and I wondered if I should store the laptop overhead or keep it with me. I decided to keep it with me and go through the emails I had downloaded. I would have no time once I got back home. My shift would begin tomorrow. Even with her scholarship, Rhea’s education would cost us quite a bit and I had to do the night beat at the airport much as Alka hated it.

Once we were in air, I started reading the emails in my Outlook box. I saved the one from Papaji last. There were the usual updates from my friends and ex colleagues back home in Chandigarh. I responded to some. Once the laptop was plugged in at home, the emails would go out.

I opened Papaji’s mail. As I expected, it was a long one. The old man wrote seldom, not very familiar with the internet, and when he did, he wrote volumes. His mail was emotional; there was pride that my daughter had followed in his footsteps. My father was a professional of of repute in Chandigarh. His practice was more than 50 years old and at one time, he had entertained fond hopes of my following in his footsteps and taking up his practice. There was that usual accusatory tone in his mail as well directed towards me berating me for not utilizing my skills and agonizing over the fact that I was a mere cab driver. And very predictably, the email made me sink into a deeper depression. I shut the laptop abruptly as my thoughts took me to the time our Canadian immigration came through.

Such excitement there was in the family and neighborhood. Alka was especially happy. Most of her relatives lived abroad and she would now join the ranks of an NRI. By and large Alka was happy. We lived in a big detached home in the outskirts of Brampton – such luxury unimaginable for a cab driver back home. She had kitty parties with her cousins, did an occasional stint at the beauty parlor and went back home with the kids every year. I never let her know how disappointed I was that I had to settle into being a cabbie. Her brother in law had me set up and we did not really run into problems most immigrants face. If she guessed at my dissatisfaction, she never let on. She was vocal about her gratitude to the Rab for fulfilling her NRI dreams.

I tried to watch a movie. In the next half hour, I was lost in deep slumber. I don’t know how long I slept, it seemed almost immediately that I was woken up by the Sardar’s loud voice and the announcement asking if there was a doctor on board. I glanced around and saw the Sardar excitedly waving his hand. His complexion was a little ruddy but he did not look really ill. I sent a silent prayer up hoping whoever was ill would soon feel better

There was a little flurry of excitement and then calm prevailed. After 10 minutes, the Sardar was up again waving frantically. The air hostess took him away to another seat. And the announcement came again, asking for anyone who was a nurse, who knew CPR or first aid. I struggled with my conscience. Should I offer to help? I was not a practicing doctor in Canada.

I hit the attendant button and my co passenger frowned at me. Could I not see they had enough on their plates already? The air hostess came to me with a flustered expression. When I asked her what was wrong, she said simply, “A passenger has been taken ill sir. If you are a practicing doctor or nurse, we would be happy to give you the details.” I was struggling with the oath I had taken at the beginning of what was to be my career and the promise I made to Alka, never to indulge in that talent. The Hippocrates oath won. “I am a doctor.” I said firmly.

Passengers who heard me nearby stared at me. “What had taken you so long?” I could hear their stares scream. The airhostess looked perplexed too but weighed her options between asking me the question and providing aid to the patient.

I was escorted, not to the Sardar, who I had presumed was having an anxiety attack, but to the passenger who was sitting by him. It was the silver haired lady with a serene face. The occasional twitch had become a grimace and her face was developing an unhealthy pallor. I took her pulse. It was slow. Her breathing was ragged. I spoke to her gently, asking her the source and location of her pain and whether she was on medication. She pointed to the region of between her upper abdomen and chest and shook her head. “Please prepare to land the plane at the nearest airport.” I murmured to the the airhostess.

I guessed the lady was in her mid-fifties. After watching her closely for about 10 minutes my prognosis was she appeared to be having an angina attack. I headed back to my medicine kit and placed a nitro glycerin tablet under her tongue, advising her to keep it there. It was my hobby to stock up on critical medicines whenever I went to India. I sat by her asking her to try and relax speaking in my most soothing bedside manner. Her breathing slowly became regular. It seemed to be an attack of stable angina. The airhostess came by to consult with me saying we were 1 hour away from Toronto and half hour from Sudbury. Should we land in Sudbury? Suddenly Marie(that was her name) opened her eyes and said in quite a steady tone. “I would like to go to Toronto. It is my grandson’s birthday and I would like to wish him personally.” I was in a fix. I took her pulse and brought out my Blood Pressure monitor. She seemed OK. I nodded. Marie squeezed my hand and asked me, “Which hospitals are you associated with Doctor? It would be nice if you could treat me.” I smiled and asked her to get some rest. The probability of her condition worsening was high if she knew I was a cab driver in Canada.

I was wondering what Papaji would say when he heard this story. I was a practicing junior cardiologist at Chandigarh’s PGI hospital. 3 generations before me had been practicing medicine and my father, was very proud with the reports he was getting about me from my seniors. I did a small stint at the AIIMS Hospital in Delhi. And that was when the 1984 riots happened. I was caught in the midst of it all thankful the family was in Chandigarh. As my heart thumped as loudly as the screams outside, my friend’s wife chopped my hair. I shaved my beard and decided I could not live in a place which robbed me of my identity as a Sikh.

I applied for the Canadian residency. I knew I would need to recertify as a medical practitioner when I came here, but I had no idea it would be difficult. With Alka quite certain of maintaining her position as a homemaker and Rhea in high school, the responsibility of putting bread on the table fell upon me. I did make attempts at the certification examinations, but running a cab full time and mostly into the night did not leave me with the time or energy to pursue it. Money was good and I soon had my own cab company.

As far as identities went, Delhi had robbed my identity as a Sikh and Canada took away my identity as a cardiologist.

Alka thought it best I give up my dreams of being a doctor. I was tempted many times to try my hand at a related field, but after a fellow Indian was imprisoned for trying to treat a patient without having the license to do so, Alka made me promise, I would never ever rise to the temptation of treating anyone.

But could I call this situation a temptation? Or a compulsion?

The plane landed smoothly and there was an ambulance ready to take Marie in. I wondered whether to slink away or come clean. I decided to go with the latter. The paramedic who heard my story gaped at me and said, “But man, you did the right thing! It was a matter of life and death and I for one don’t care about the license! You took a risk but seemed bang on the diagnosis. Why don’t you apply for your license again?”

When the papers hit the stands the next morning, Rohan hugged me. Rhea called from Regina tearful and said,”I am so proud to have you as my dad” and Papaji from Chandigarh. “Puttar , you are a true son of this family! Aaj tune Hippocrates oath ka laaj rakha.”

Alka alone was quiet. Later, she said. “I have been so selfish. Please forgive me. Maine aapko kya se kya bana diya.” I patted her on her head and said, “Not to worry. I aided and abetted you.” She looked perplexed.

5 years later

Rhea came out of the Toronto airport scanning the crowd for her father. She was tired; the Global Health Program was a rigorous one. She saw Rohan instead.

“Papa is busy assisting the surgeon at the Trillium hospital.” he said

In the ensuing furore and debates that followed whether a non-practitioner could treat a critical patient, the verdict was simple; I just happened to be the best choice at the time. The incident pushed me to action. I took time off to apply for my license and am now an assistant surgeon in the cardiac wing at the Trillium.

Alka continues to be loudly vocal in her gratitude to the Rab that there are less nights out now I am not a cabbie.

Cookies and Vegetable Gardens

When I was younger and more naive,I had dreamt of 5 years in the Corporate rat race and then an early retirement, a house in the hills, a vegetable patch, plenty of time to call my own - knit, bake or do absolutely nothing.

Post marriage in Delhi, life got hectic with the babies, my job and relatives on both sides. I began to believe that dreams need not come true.

Dreams do come true however, sometimes in bits and pieces. So what if the 5 years have stretched to 23 and retirement looks a good 17 years away.

I did bake a few burnt cakes in Delhi before I began to rely on the plum cakes my colleague Subi got from Faridabad. Once in New Jersey , however, baking seemed to be the simplest thing. All you had to do was buy a mix off the shelf, mix it and stick it in the oven. And viola, your cake/cookie/fudge/pie/tart was ready. I even had a summer day camp at my place in the hope that the parents would be inspired to keep the tradition and my kids for the rest of the summer. The kids had a field day with the icing on the cakes and muffins. This was proudly presented to some dismayed looking moms in the evening. Needless to say only a couple of parents came forward to keep my kids -without the hassle of any event of course- for the summer.

In Mississauga I had to go a step further. My daughter Ishani brought in a recipe for Johnny Cake which the First Nations used to bake. And she insisted we bake it. Some weekends went by with her giving me " What an utter failure as a mom you are " looks until I felt obliged to get the ingredients for the cake. Isha insisted on following the recipe to the word and we soon had the most delicious aroma floating around the house by a cake thoroughly poisoned by baking soda.

My son, drawn by the delicious aroma and thoroughly disgusted by the taste declared the cake fit to be eaten by Mr. Lee Isha's class teacher and the one who sent the recipe home.

Stung by the disappointment on my daughter's face, I proceeded to bake the next weekend with a lot of help from Isha. We produced what she called the " Mother and Daughter" cake certified by many approving nods from father and son and an empty tray.

The baker's ambition grew as ripe bananas found their way into banana bread and Isha and I spent many mild spring afternoons in this pleasant fattening exercise.

Gardening was something I agve up after I moved from Kota and my lush house plants died in transit. My parents maintained my balcony gardens for me. When they were visiting New Jersey too they planted some roses and other flowers. These died as soon as they left.

I never had a vegetable garden anyways - save for the sole chili plant I grew on my balcony in Kota. A full scale vegatable garden was a forgotten dream. I remembered fondly my father's garden at 9 Housing Board Colony. I spent many mysterious and delightful afternoons there. There were tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, watermelons even sugar cane and corn! And papayas and drumsticks.

Among the few happy thoughts and memories I had of Bellary this was one. I tried to recreate the magic unsucessfully for my kids'; in the apartment homes we lived in.

When we moved to a townhome in Mississauga opportunity presented itself again. But I let one year go by. By now, I was practicing 'dreams dont die' with a vengeances. So I grew tomatoes and cucumber and green chillies and had the satisfaction of my dad picking them out.

It is in Bloomburg though that my garden blossomed. I took bare patches and grew grass. I understood the meaning of perenial and grew a rose garden, hostas, heucheras. It is a never ending task through spring and summer..my garden. As soon as I pretty it, there is rain or scorching heat and I must redo things all over again.

But the satisfaction of seeing my babies grow into beautiful strong flowering shrubs and the fresh green smell of cut grass takes away the pain of bruised palms and dirty finger nails. Corporate woman? Naah.. A farmer this one.

Charmwood...

Was meant to be an interim address for me when I first heard of the place. Somewhere where I would park my bags before I packed off for my husband’s house in Sarita Vihar.

But it turned out to be the venue for my wedding, the place where both my kids were born, where my husband and I wove seemingly impossible dreams, where I first claimed a piece of property to call my own and the place which beckoned to me as home when I travelled across continents. It was the ‘mayka’ I created for myself. The place where I housed my parents in their old age.

When I first set foot in Charmwood Village in 1994, what immediately struck me was that it seemed to be a piece of heaven tucked away behind the hustle, bustle and dustle( my word for dust, truckfulls and wagonloads of dust) of Badarpur and Pehladpur. The white villas leapt out at you. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees. What was not white was green and red. It was a wonderful time of the year. Charmwood Village was spanking new. It was beautiful but quite inaccessible by public transport.

As luck would have it, we got thrown out of our Sarita Vihar apartment by a cantankerous landlord and came back to call Charmwood our home. 2 kids and 3 apartment moves later, under the gentle and obstinate persuasion of Babai, we bought the apartment in Mayfair Apartments. That was just a little less than 10 years ago. It was the first place where we did not get into each other’s way too much. My parents and us. We lived in that apartment for less than 2 years before we, the Dasguptas left for the United States. And became forever homeless, rootless, agonized wandering souls.

But Ameeth, I and the kids loved that apartment. Though I hated Delhi, our souls lived there. Isha always boasted about her ‘beeeg’ house in Delhi to her US friends. Indeed Charmwood was most definitely more charming than our Woodbridge apartment. I quietly dreamt of laying out marble flooring, a modular kitchen and more modern bathroom fittings. When I left my country all that was on my bucket list was, pay off for this apartment and take up a teaching job in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. And write. This was my only investment and insurance for the future. Nothing else.

My life since then is a testimony to how we humans complicate our lives in the effort to simplify it. But that is altogether another story. This piece is about Charmwood.

About the charming memories it holds for us. The wedding in the lawns by the villas; Getting my first born with his ‘I know this funny secret about you’ look home.;And getting him home again after his open heart surgery. Conceiving his sibling and losing it; his dancing around the Lohri fire with the sheer joy of having his mom back. Somewhere there is a picture of him, slightly older, somersaulting in the Sterling Apartment lawns because I came home 30 minutes sooner. Somewhere, in the Sterling lawns is a mango sapling planted by my father. Nahida trying to patiently feed Arijit lunch in the lawns and declaring, ‘Ranjana, I like your son.’ There is the memory of bringing home Isha. Isha pottering around in her little lehenga all round the house. Isha and Arijit setting off to find their parents while we sat on the bench in the dark lawn watching them suddenly howl with terror and race inside in fear of some unknown demon.

One wonderful winter vacation in the Mayfair apartment. I spent all my time cuddled in the TV room with the kids watching cartoons and eating junk food with them before we left for our Goa trip. There is this memory of the time I had my first slipped disc and was lying in my new wrought iron bed in Mayfair while Arijit declared to Isha. ‘She has broken her back. You know what this means? She will be home with us for a long time! :) ’

Memories of a surprise birthday party thrown for Ameeth. Another earlier memory where I filled the house with rajanigandha stalks and put on the ‘Happy Birthday’ cassette. And all those wonderful outsourced parties for the kids, with themed balloons, magicians and trampolines.

Happy place Charmwood. Even when the charm wore away. It held all these memories in that square footage of area. It held older memories of happier times of my in laws, my grandparents. All these came tumbling out of boxes, left long unopened. Diaries, sketches, letters, dreams.

How sad it is to pack up a house. How impossible it is to pack up the place the house has built in your mind and in your heart.

Au revoir Charmwood. Welcome to the happy place in my heart!

Miss you Babai - always will

I still cannot fathom Death and what it means. One moment you have a person alive and the next it is a lifeless body.
How can people say with such surety that the dead go to a better place? Have they been there? Or do the dead just disappear into dust or ashes?

Where did Babai go? I sit up nights like an owl, waiting to feel his presence around me, willing to see him looking at me from somewhere in my living room and I do not feel his presence. I cry out to his soul to tell me that he is in a better place. But I feel nothing.

I miss him so. I call the Charmwood number hoping that there will be a pick up - even a silent one. But all I get is the voice message. I long to hear his voice telling me “Bhalo achi re” . Such a huge whopping lie. He was not OK for some time and hiding it. He was especially careful not to worry me – sitting so far away. In his old age, in the years I have been away from home, I began to appreciate this naturally warm and much misunderstood person that was Babai. We joked about lottery tickets, indulged each other and made sure he got a call everyday from his grandson.
When I was growing up, I did not know him as a person at all. I was closer to my mother. The only things I remembered were that he was strong and never ill and nothing could keep him down.

Babai was not a typical dad. One did not sit and discuss one’s dreams with him. His formula was simple. Position, money and food. Food was of paramount importance. Good food was the solution to all ills according to him. It was terribly tragic therefore to see him refusing food in the last few months of his life.

He was something of a maverick, always on to one project after another. Nothing ever got him down. One failed business venture after the other never robbed him of his enthusiasm for the next . He just got back up and ran again. That was what I always remembered and admired about him- The sheer will power and the complete lack of cynicism. All this kept him so busy that he did not do the usual dad things. Like saving up for his girls, or for his old age. He simply believed things would fall in place. And of course they did.

I did do my post graduation, we did have food on the table and both my sister and I did settle down to reasonably comfortable lives.

I remember one evening when I was little. It was about 8 pm. In a small town that was like the middle of the night and I said I needed a frilly frock for the school play next day. No amount of assurance of telling me that it was too late and to wait till the next day would stop my whining. Finally dad was so frustrated he put me out in the dark for a bit and I was heartbroken. As a parent, I know now, how much more heartbroken he would have been. Ma quietly cut up a beautiful sky blue sari and stitched the most beautiful frock into the wee hours of the night.

The next day, when I came back from school there were 2 big boxes from CG Dass full of frilly frocks. “Take your pick.” He said. He was full of grandiose gestures like that.

And when we fell sick, he was the one we found by our side when we tossed and turned. His first question as soon as we felt better always was - what would you like to eat? And he turned the world upside down to get us what we wanted to eat then.

Another memory I had was of the day the BCom results were announced. He came in from the back shouting Han Go to Ma. I ran out to see what was the matter and he gave me a big hug ( we are not a huggy family) and asked Ma to “Mukh mishto korao. Tomar me rank peyeche.” He had tears of pride in his eyes that day. And he had tears in his eyes when he left me standing on the station in Kota. That was my official ‘bidaai’ No tears on the day I left for my husband’s house.

When he came to live with me having to give up his business I got to know him differently. I became the parent trying to get him out of depression by introducing him to people with who he could talk stone talk to. He was not happy and made no bones about it. His way of protest was silence.

I tried very hard to be a good daughter. While I was growing up and then after I became financially dependant. I know he did not always like staying with us. He used to threaten to go away to Kolkata. We indulged him when we could, sending him off to see his siblings.But he was a great grandfather. And more than just that to Isha. He was her second mother

I do not think I was gracious all the time about being a good daughter though. I said words that did not need to be said. I regret every one of them now. My last words to him were an apology with a hug. “I have said many words I did not mean. Please do not worry about them. I just want you to get better and come to Canada”. In my own way, I tried to make it up to him in his last week. Papda maach tangra maach, mishti, I stocked the fridge with his favorite food much of which he would never eat. I tried. Did it matter? I do not know.

The one thing I should have done when he was alive was mend my bridges with my siblings. We did it after he was gone. He did tell Babun, he had spent a lot of time in riling with his siblings and that they were now all gone. He was urging us to make peace. He taught us how temporary life was to be squabbling in his Death.

I know he missed his grandkids. I remember his expression every time we had to leave for the west. There was such loneliness and despair in his eyes it made it difficult for me to look at him.

Ironical I did not see that look that last time I left. There was no one at the door to see me go. And deep down there was this something…was it my soul, that was so heavy so very very heavy. It knew I think that this was the end.

I have not lived a single day without guilt here in Canada. I have been forever guilty. Of not being with him in this last stage of his life. The irony was that I was working on it. I saw myself back in India by the end of 2012. But Death did not heed my plans.

In deference to the best memory I have of him – of the man who always gave it a good fight – I have returned to living life. In deference to the memory I have of him of keeping silent about his deepest feelings, I am avoiding friends who want to come console. My response to all who ask is “I am OK. I am fine. – Bhalo achi” True, most of us have by now experienced a loss in our lives, but each one of us are different in the way we take it. This is my way- Babai’s daughter’s way.

I am not sure about after life. But in me he lives. As he lives in Bula. As he lives in Babun, Monu, Arijit, Debu and Isha
He wrote, he painted and forgave everybody. I will try to keep that legacy alive.

Incredibly Indian

After my trip to the Indian capital last December I was going to write a piece “Maa Tujhe Salaam” on the Republic Day this year impressed as I was with the airport, the metro and the malls of Delhi
But life has its strange twists and turns. I found myself back in Delhi on the eve of the Republic Day under very different circumstances.
My father lay critically ill in the hospital and my sister and I were the chief caregivers. Just like one realizes the true worth of friends and relatives in a time of crisis, does one realize the culture of a place. Delhi is ruled by scavengers! Soon enough I began to see that the cab drivers, the helps at home were all cashing in on the hapless situation we found ourselves in. They were out to maximize their gains in the face of our vulnerability. I looked for angels in the crowd and for the first time in many years found none!
Everything was a struggle. From getting my father a bedpan to getting him cleaned up and into a fresh pair of pyjamas. The inhumanity, the lack of reverence for a human life both amazed and disgusted me. The nurses were in a perpetual daze administering wrong dosages of medicines and relaying half baked information.
When it was time to leave the hospital, and I asked for an ambulance, my father was actually made to step into the ambulance and then ordered out! One had to literally scream to get their attention to the fact that the reason the ambulance was ordered was because the patient was a patient! And people who did their duty at the hospital lined up for their bakshish!
While the doctors were excellent- all surrounding facts almost negated the fact that they were so.
I hired 24 hours attendants for my Dad, who slept while my dad moved himself around to the bathroom on his own.
Unfortunately we lost our father the second time into the hospital. And when it was time to move him to the crematorium, a drunken ambulance driver tried to order the bodily remains out with no reverence to the fact this was the last journey of a person – a living being a few hours ago! The crematorium employee wanted money to hand over the ashes and the pundits were shockingly mercenary.
Thanks to one family of women and an old pujari, we finally found some solace and peace in performing the last rites.
Is this what Incredible India is all about? True the size of the population puts a strain on the infrastructure but whatever happened to the tehzeeb North Indians were known for? In its run to become an economic superpower, Indians are slowly losing their values – the essence of what made India dear to us.