My Old Friend, the East West Medical Center

I had such a nice stay the last time I was here, that I decided to go out and get another intestinal bacterial infection. Not sure quite what I’m doing right, but I now lead the pack in days spent at the clinic—and the gap is widening even as I sit in my room typing. I started feeling sick in my stomach Sunday night—a day after moving into my new homestay—and by midnight had begun “losing my lunch.” Three hours and 10 purges later, I decided to wake up my new host-dad and call up Dheeraj-ji, the assistant program director. Fourty-five minutes later I was checking-in at East West reception. Weakly, I followed the nurses upstairs—this time, to room #10; last time was #15—and received a smile of recognition from each nurse. After all, it has only been about a week and a half since I left.

During this second visit, almost everything is familiar: the man who sweeps and mops my floor every morning; the woman in charge of changing my sheets and wrapping my IV-inlet in plastic when I shower; the team of sweet and quite nurses who take my vitals five times a day and connect diffferent bottles of solution to my arm; and the three or four calm, erudite doctors who visit me alternately, perhaps twice or three times a day.

The esteemed Dr. Chawvla (who studied at Harvard) continues to direct things, albeit from a certain distance. He makes his rounds at this branch-location of the Hospital in the early afternoon, usually accompanied by an entourage of attending nurses and doctors, and the occasional white medical student, presumeably from the states or G.B. The med students are an odd addition to the pack; they observe me with the same clinical detachment they would show for any patient, with no apparent interest in our common homeland. I feel like saying, “come on, now—we’re surrounded by Indians, many of whom don’t even speak english… You can’t even say, ‘yeah, I like the Red Sox too’?”

I am learning once again that, for me, boredom and deprivation inexplicably lead to feelings of elation and sociability. I was feeling downright gleeful after my toast and tea this morning, and all I want to do now is get on the internet and have some fun, superficial instant-message conversations. Too bad there is no internet here—or rather, I don’t know the password to join the wireless network, “EastWestB28.” This is how I used to feel when working shifts at the library at Wesleyan; with nowhere to go and nothing to do, I find myself experiencing an excited readiness for action.

It is also strange timing to be sick and prevented from doing work. This week is our second to last week of formal classes (interrupted next week by our five-day site workshops) and I’ve heard, via James, that people are really beginning to scramble. There are several major deadlines this week related to the forthcoming ISP period and I have already missed a lecture devoted to ISP research methodology. Apparently, there has been a certain mood of panic among the students at the center in the past two days, and I can’t say I’m dissapointed to be away from it. At the very worst, I’m falling behind and will need to work faster once I’m released; but it’s better than breathing all that second-hand anxiety. Besides, I always work better under the gun (for better or for worse).

[[The nurses just came in and changed my inlet from the left to the right arm… God, I hate needles!]]

So, why am I sick again? I’ve spent a certain amount of time speculating as to how I got infected. There are so many opportunities for a Westerner in India! And, especially now that I’ve been sick twice, I’m wondering what I’ve been doing differently from the rest. There is a certain small group of my friends, namely Kylie, who are convinced that it’s this pool I’ve been swimming at. So at every conversational opportunity, she refers to the Pacific Sports Complex as “Giardia.”

“How was Giardia?” she asks, and, “I can’t believe you’re still swimming at Giardia!”

Regarding this second bout of infection, there is some reason to suspect a package of imported dates I bought from a fruit stall on the street. They were sealed in plastic, and Dr. Chawvla doubts they are responsible. Still, I will be avoiding all but the safest food from here on out; sadly, it might also be prudent to give up my daily swims at “Giardia…” On one hand, they use so much chlorine in the pool, that you could wash your hands there before surgery. On the other hand, though, it’s probably not worth the risk, however small it may be.

•••

So, at Storm-ji’s and Dheeraj-ji’s behest I will be “babying” myself (a little) for the forseeable future. Storm-ji has also said that I should be treating myself “like an invalid” from here on out. Apparently, I’ve earned the reputation of ‘that sick, fragile guy,’ which is an odd thing for me. What is also odd, is that for a couple weeks now—concurrent with this new designation—I’ve been feeling truly at home in Delhi; it is a state of mind that I’m not sure I would have been able to picture on August 29th. In fact, I was saying to Steve M., over skype a few days ago, that I can’t remember the last time my life felt so full of life. It is all struggle, stimulation, and the feeling of goodness:

“To my eyes, the city was beautiful. It was wild and exciting. Buildings that were British Raj-romantic stood stide to side with modern, mirrored business towers. The haphazard slouch of neglected tenements crumbled into lavish displays of market vetetables and silks…

“I saw that liberated, unconstrained spirit wherever I looked, and I found myself responding to it with the whole of my heart. Even the flare of shame I’d felt when I first saw the slums and the street beggers dissolved in the understanding that they were free, those men and women…

“Yet I was a little unnerved by the density of purposes, the carnival of needs and greeds, the sheer intensity of the pleading and the scheming on the street. I spoke none of the languages I heard. I knew nothing of the cultures there, clothed in robes and saris and turbans… But I smiled, and smiling was easy, no matter how strange and disorienting the street seemed to be.” (21)
—Gregory David Roberts, upon reaching Bombay, from his autobiography Shantaram