My Sundays fill up with peaceful content as the bus begins to swell with passengers. The ride from Calina to New Bombay is about forty-five minutes with breaks of speed and speedy braking. The intermittent bumps cause people to jump simultaneously out of their seats while those standing in the aisle hold on for the ride. At only fifteen rupees this is the working class mass transit. Businessmen with their shoulder bags and women returning from haggling at the market travel with relative comfort and speed. The size of the crowd varies as much as the velocity and makes my fare a raffle ticket for a seat.

For about ten times the price I can sit inside a taxi and be guaranteed nice seats but not necessarily speedy arrival. The chauffeurs are notorious for their back road shortcuts that get me no closer to my destination. In a city where the cement and cinderblock buildings all look the same, and the man in the hat with a goat is on every corner, the lack of road signs, stoplights and painted street lanes cause the arteries and veins of this city to carry the pulse of people in crazy patterns. In this chaos the black and yellow cars cruise around to carry those with enough money to the far flung corners of the city.

If you want a direct route then train is the way to go. After the train leaves the terminal it doesn’t slow for anyone and with the tracks stitching the city together like Frankenstein, almost every community has a station nearby. Adventurous young men stand at the doorless entry to find escape from the oppressive smell of packed human by letting the hot air blast their face as the cityscape and oncoming trains race by. In order to get inside the mobile crowd you have to push and be pushed by others, and once you’re on you get pushed some more. The guy whose face is in your chest asks what stop you get off and if it’s after his than he pushes his way past, to climb over someone else, to squeeze between two more guys just to be close enough to the door to pop out during the next rush. Ladies don’t have this problem. They have separate cars. There are even first class cars for anyone willing to pay a higher price to have a quarter-inch seat cushion and a quarter the crowd.

All other methods of movement pale in comparison to the autorickshaw. May the man that invented this mechanical menace have a special place in the heavens. This lawnmower with a canopy and a backseat is my favorite tool of tumultuous transportation. Rickshaw drivers have a worse sense of direction than taxi drivers but a bigger thirst for speed. Limited by the strength of their two-stroke engines, they compensate by sheer tenacity and guts. As the smallest of vehicles, the autorickshaw can weave between the cracks of traffic. Cheap and ubiquitous, it takes the cake and leaves its contenders in the dust. Since it has no seatbelts and no doors, it’s perfect for playing tag or for cramming seven people for a ride.

February 17, 2006
(I didn’t have time to post this before I left for Rajasthan)


I’m sitting here in an open air assembly hall. The bug-zapper sizzles and crackles while dusk advances upon me. Two benefactors of the hospital have come by to visit with a few patients. A few that I just interviewed days ago. One suffered a heart attack not long ago and hasn’t obtained his medication for it yet. The other has cancer in his foot but won’t be able to do anything about it for some time. Until then they just hope it doesn’t metastasize. I knew nothing about neither of their problems. I knew about the heart attack but had thought it transpired a while ago. I guess that seeing his amputations and deformities distracted me from inquiring about the rest of his health. In the meantime I wait for Mr. Raju.

Rajukhakha is a saint. Uncle Raju is what they call him.

This last week I’ve been trying to put together a project to fill what time I have left here in Mumbai. I decided that I would compile stories from patients here at Acworth Leprosy Hospital as well as some of the workers associated with it. One of the men that I’ve come to meet is a man who for the last thirteen years has been volunteering at the hospital. He runs a watch parts company and does well for himself but his real work in life is caring for the people that have suffered from leprosy.

I’ve written a bit on leprosy before but I’d like to take a quick moment to reiterate some things. If I saw someone with huge scars on their arm I might think that they were once in an accident of some kind. The scar is no more than a physical mark of a past occurrence. Leprosy is curable. Multi-drug therapy is extremely effective against the bacterium that causes leprosy, and with a few doses the person becomes non-infectious. But unlike the scars left behind by an accident or a cut, the deformities left behind by leprosy marks that person as a leper for life. When people see someone with these characteristic marks they think "this person has leprosy" not "this person had leprosy". For this reason the majority of suffering that comes with leprosy is psychological and caused by society. This is why so many live at the hospital, because they simply have nowhere else to go after their families rejected them.

Mr. Raju tries to make sure that everyone gets what they need. The hospital gives them a place to live and food to eat. It handles the wounds and ulcers that inevitably arise due to permanent nerve damage. But it can’t do much else. This is where Rajukhakha comes in. He gets them glasses, buys their medication when they can’t afford it. He has employed some after they’ve been rehabilitated and even given some short term housing. What he gives to them most is attention and hope. When I followed him from ward to ward, bed to bed, person to person the amount of love and affection he gave, and in turn received, was heart warming. His sincerity is self evident. Knowing that one person can’t efficiently provide for close to two hundred people, he’s organized more than twenty donors to help with the expenses. Even on a night when his own granddaughter was in the hospital he still gave equal time and attention to over fifty residents at the hospital.
Thank God for people like Rajukhakha, whatever their cause, because it is people that lift up others that make a difference.

February 25, 2006


After returning from Mt. Abu, a hill station, something akin to a resort town, I can understand why most tourists see Mumbai as little more than a city to fly in and out of. On the top of the mountain the air is a more agreeable, less humid and the temperature drops down enough degrees to need a sweater at night. In Mumbai the air is filled with car horns and broken mufflers, and the constant bustle creates a feeling of drowning. In sharp contrast, the little town in Rajasthan entices gentle solitude.

The people that are there fall into two groups—the imported and endogenous. Mt. Abu attracts people from all over India with its clean air and peaceful lake, but the largest draw comes from the Brahma Kumaris’ facilities which include a hospital, their headquarters, and a conference center and resort called ShantiWorld (meaning Peace World). With one of their big annual conferences coming up this Saturday visitors from all over the world were there. Buses full of attendees kept spilling their cargo of white clad passengers. They take a universalistic approach to religion with a strong influence from Hinduism. Meditation is highly practiced and they set up programs to help those in need. Easily identifiable in all white saris and other attire, they go about with the goal of spreading peace.

What really impressed me about Mt. Abu had nothing to do with the BK Organization. It had everything to do with the owner of the hotel where we stayed. There is a saying in India that says "Our guest is our god." This man epitomized these words. Always attentive to our needs, he was lavish in his hospitality. For our last meal there, he prepared a feast of fine cuisine that left us satiated until the next day. Upon departing, with our stomachs as full as our backpacks, he wouldn’t allow us to leave until we took a packed meal for the trip back to Mumbai. His kindness truly deserves blessings from the heavens, despite the fact that the hotel is his business.

February 22, 2006

The gentle massage of the jostling train didn’t help any of us sleep and the bus ride’s climb didn’t offer any respite from the feeling of being in constant motion. It took only thirteen hours to reach our train stop whereupon the Brahma Kumaris Organization provided the transportation to their Mt. Abu Hospital. When we did stop it was at a beautiful mountainside hotel with a quaint garden just downhill from the hospital. The facilities are the prettiest I’ve seen in India so far. Their hospital in Mumbai beat the competition when it came to cleanliness and in its proximity to Western standards; Mt. Abu makes the Mumbai facility look cheap. It’s size is remarkable, much larger than would be expected in this small rural area. We met the director and some of the other staff as well as received an orientation on the B.K. Organization at their headquarters. This was all yesterday.

The Brahma Kumaris, from what I can understand, is an universalist theology incorporating aspects and iconography of different religions especially that of Hinduism. They have gained popularity in some quarters with their message of peace and outreach facilities. They charge those with the ability to pay and give care to those who can’t afford otherwise. So it only made sense when they told us how the headquarters runs on solar power. Everyday we eat with other esteemed guests and higher officials. Overall the experience has been nice, albeit a little lacking in medicine so far. We did accompany a traveling clinic to some of the small villages closeby. When I say "traveling clinic" I mean a doctor and an assistant in a van with a wide array of drugs on hand, and when I say "closeby" I mean at least an hour away.

Rajasthan is only testament as to how diverse India is. Mumbai is a dirty city. The trees, the cars, the buildings, and, when in a rickshaw, the people are covered in dirt. Not the dirt you dig in but the grime that is attributed by cars and pollution. You breath it and wear it as a mask every day. Rajasthan is dirty as well but in a clean way. What you see in this part of Rajasthan is dust that comes from soil. The majority of people in the area are farmers and herders and so the dirt has a more earthy feel to it. It’s the kind you don’t mind walking in or getting on your clothes. The people are different in subtle ways. A different color here, a new type of head wrap there. The language is different and among the poorer sector Hindi is spoken far less. The open spaces and beautiful vistas are drawn in surreal lines and colors.

Tonight I leave the city once again to visit a hospital in a distant area. This next week I'll be at Mt. Abu in Rajasthan, a twelve hour train ride from here. I've been having trouble transferring what I write to the blog lately. The computer's disk drives aren't that reliable, and this new area may be lacking in internet access. I do have some good stories waiting to be posted but am too lazy to transcibe them completely. With luck, my internet situation will improve.

February 6, 2006

I could think of no better juxtaposition to explain the diversity within India than what I saw this morning. Yesterday my roommate and I left Goa to return to Mumbai. Panjim, the capital and largest city of this small southern state, was a veritable ghost town on Sunday. The metal curtains of all the shops that line the streets were shut and no one was out trying to make a sale. Even the invitations of the few taxi and rickshaw drivers lacked persistence. The streets were swept, only two drunks were seen sleeping on the steps of a church, and we walked the unbroken sidewalks for hours in the hot sun. We kept getting lost, not because of how big, but rather because of how small Panjim is. We passed the same church about three or four time until we finally reached where we wanted to go.

We arrived in Mumbai at 5:50 this morning to see the market next to the train station bustling with activity. Hundreds of people milled around buying and selling flowers. No other goods could be seen except maybe an occasional reed basket. On the footbridge across to the market other vendors could be seen sleeping under their blankets on giant rugs that obviously covered their wares. The disabled and homeless were already out begging at the station and the city was barely starting to crack its eyes open for the new day.

The weekend was a good change from busy metropolitan life as I got to visit the beaches of Goa. Mumbai is one of the largest ports in the world and the water around reflect its status. Goa is a more touristic area of India and has a very distinctive culture. The Portuguese controlled the area until 1961 and their influence is strongly felt in the language, the architecture, religion and all other aspects of life. We spent the first two days enjoying the sand and water. I was a bit disappointed that there were no waves but relished the opportunity to be in the water once again.

When we finally reached Old Goa, the former capital which has long since been eclipsed by the new capital of Panjim, we barely had enough time to enter the church of Bom Jesus where the body of St. Francis Xavier is kept. We could make out his outline but couldn’t see too many details from the distance.

February 3, 2006

I traded in a peaceful town with caring people for a train ticket to Goa.

Agashi is a quaint location by Virar, about an hour by train north of Mumbai. I stayed there last week and received a warm welcome by everyone I met. My roommate and I were cared for by a family that gave us a peek into what Indian life is like on the inside. Auntie One cooked for us and even cried a bet when we boarded the train to leave. Auntie Two gave us beds and her protective affection. The daughter of Auntie One nine months pregnant and helped with the cooking and along with the rest of the family taught us Hindi.

The night before we left we were invited by Dr. Patil, the director and owner of the hospital at which we were stationed, to his wife’s nephews Murta. This is the celebration the night before a wedding. We were fed and waited on like guests of honor, something a bit awkward to our western sensibilities. Everyone wanted to speak with us and enjoyed teaching us words and explaining traditions while we appreciated the wonderful food and atmosphere.

The Murta was just the beginning of the nights festivities since no sooner than arriving at Auntie’s house we were invited to celebrate the eight year anniversary of Number Two’s son and daughter-in-law. As stuffed as we were from the Murta’s exquisite cuisine we wanted to show our appreciation to the family and felt obliged to join them for a light dinner at their habitual restaurant. The food was delicious and so we crammed the food into the small empty spaces of our stomach with painful pleasure.

Upon returning we passed by another Murta and were invited to celebrate along with the neighbors. We danced, laughed a lot and enjoyed ourselves immensely. It seems strange that we would be invited to all these parties. If two men in punjabi suits walked by my daughter’s wedding I don’t think I would be that quick to invite them in to party, but this goes to show how different the cultures are especially with regards to what is considered polite. Now when two Indian couples watch their wedding video after ten years they’ll see two white guys and think, "Who in the world are they?"

February 2, 2006

I thought I would freak out. Situations like this would harrow my imagination with all the agonizing outcomes possible. To my surprise the anxiety never came. Fear was only allowed an instant in my mind so that it could induce concern and then it was forced out. It’s not an easy thing to watch a child attacked with seizures. His face would spasm into involuntary flashes of the same incoherent expression. The legs and arms would twitch in chorus. The boy was suffering from febrile seizures cuased by typhoid. After the doctor succeeded in placeing an IV line they stopped the siezures and put him on antibiotics.

For the last week we my roommate and I have been stationed out in Virar. This is the small town at the end of the train tracks to the north. Because it’s a small community full of commuters the city is calm and peaceful during the day. The clean air in this sleepy town allows you a view of the countryside with vegetation and distant hills. Between five and eight in the morning, and the evening counterparts, the town pops off with trucks and cars and motorcycles and rickshaws all dodging the pedestrians in the narrow streets. There is a tranquility that permeates the town and makes it a perfect break from the bustle of Bombay.

The hospital here is a private clinic owned and ran by a doctor here that specializes in pediatric surgery. While here I’ve seen a variety of operations that have been quite interesting. A diabetic had his toe amputated without anesthesia due to gangrene. He couldn’t feel a thing because the nerves had died well beforehand, but it was a bit distressing at first.