Yet Another Travel Journal in this (Too) Familiar Rajasthan, But with Family and Kids

Feel free to jump in however you like! There are indeed many similarities between Greek and Indian thought, and quite a few historians and anthropologists suggest that intellectual exchanges between the two civilizations may have been lively. There are plenty of striking examples.

Day 10, August 2nd: Jodhpur-Falna-Jawai Bandh. “On the trail of leopards, the Rajput gentleman, and the drama”

It’s 5 AM. We descend the steps of our haveli and open the gates. As planned, a rikshawala we met the day before near the hotel—who seemed reliable—is waiting for us in the street at the agreed time. This rather young Hindu man, with a pious appearance, speaks little but proves to be dependable and professional. As dawn breaks and urban activity slowly starts up, he navigates the blue alleys, drives down the main avenues, and drops us off in front of the old, beautiful brick building of Jodhpur’s railway station.

We head to the platform for a makeshift breakfast: chai, fruit, and various snacks. Then our train arrives. And not just any train—the Vande Bharat Express! This fast, clean, and modern train, introduced in 2019, consists entirely of air-conditioned carriages: AC Chair Car for the more “basic” option and the prestigious Executive Class. Automatic doors, compartments with immaculate tables, eco-friendly toilets with sensor taps, onboard Wi-Fi, digital travel information displays, power sockets... In every respect, it’s the antithesis of classic Indian trains. It’s the embodiment of “Shining India,” promoted and promised by the liberal reforms of the 2000s, and “Clean India” under Modi, all in one train. We booked it primarily because the schedule suited us, allowing us to reach Falna in under two hours—half the time a regular train would take. It was also an opportunity to experience these new Indian high-speed trains, a first for me (even after ten trips, there’s always something new, thankfully). We opted for the AC Chair class (600 rupees per person), which already exceeded our expectations and was light-years ahead of the comfort and modernity I’ve experienced on any other Indian train. Here, dusty aisles and benches give way to spotless, brand-new facilities; the usual crowds of ordinary people are replaced by small groups of well-dressed, upper-class families; street vendors and sweepers are swapped for uniformed servers and sanitation staff in sterile overalls; and the sense of closeness is replaced by a polite, slightly distant cohabitation. The silence and tranquility are only occasionally broken by the automatic door-closing signal, electronic announcements, the quarter-hourly visits from cleaning staff, or the servers offering complimentary chai and biscuits: the feeling of being in a clinic hurtling along at 150 km/h. For someone used to classic Indian trains, the Vande Bharat can almost feel unsettling at heart... We even get the impression that time passes more slowly. But even though I love my Sleeper Class, I’m not complaining: the experience is entertaining, enriching, and still comfortable! Though, what must the Executive Class be like?!

By the way, what are we even doing in Falna? And does anyone here even know Falna? No one? That’s normal... There’s nothing particularly special to do in this tiny town of 25,000 people, about 150 kilometers south of Jodhpur. Because in reality, it’s not our final destination: we’re heading to Jawai Bandh, which isn’t even a proper town. Jawai Bandh is an artificial lake formed by a dam on the Jawai River (hence its name, meaning “Jawai Dam”), construction of which began in 1946 under the orders of the Maharaja of Jodhpur, due to the recurring damage caused by monsoon floods. It’s also the largest dam in Rajasthan. It supplies most of the water resources for the Pali district, for both basic human needs and agriculture, as well as electricity.

At the edge of the arid Marwar and the gentler Mewar, Jawai Bandh—both a toponym and a broader territorial unit encompassing the villages around the lake—is geologically and climatically much closer to the latter. Its landscape of rocky formations dotted with thorny plants and succulents marks the entrance to the lower Aravalli mountain range, which divides Rajasthan into two distinct climatic regions.

Over time, the lake and its surroundings have become a natural habitat for migratory birds, crocodiles, antelopes, and a diverse range of wildlife. But above all, one thing has drawn tourists to this remote spot in recent years: leopards. In the Jawai Bandh villages, locals claim they’ve always lived in peace with the leopards. And while these big cats help themselves to both wild game and the livestock of Raika herders, there hasn’t been a single recorded attack on humans. In fact—this *is* India, after all—the leopards are sacred here, and a small temple is even dedicated to them in a hillside cave. It’s said that villagers bringing offerings and the leopards coming to claim them cross paths there without any issues. Starting in 2010, Jawai Bandh, which had no tourist appeal until then, officially became a leopard conservation reserve—the largest in the world, apparently—and hotels, tented camps, and luxury resorts gradually sprang up around the lake to offer jeep safaris to discover the local wildlife, flora, and culture. Yet the site remains relatively unknown and spared from mass tourism.

After four visits to Rajasthan, I’d never heard of Jawai Bandh... It was during the planning of this trip that I stumbled upon the name while browsing the English version of the Lonely Planet website—curiously, it wasn’t mentioned at all in the print editions. I dug deeper, did my own research, and realized the reserve was halfway between Jodhpur and Udaipur, making it a potentially interesting stop between the two cities. I also learned that it wasn’t a closed reserve but a protected area around the lake where leopards live in a natural, open environment. Though the monsoon isn’t the best season to maximize your chances of coming face-to-face with these big cats, the vegetation is lusher. Ultimately, the idea of staying in the heart of rural Rajasthan to observe wildlife or visit villages seemed perfect for the kids. We quickly envisioned this stop as one of the highlights of our trip. Once we’d incorporated the location into our itinerary, we had to consider accommodation options. We did our research using Google Maps, clicking on all the lodgings listed around the lake. We ruled out the large hotel complexes, which not only charged exorbitant rates but also contributed to the dispossession of local farmers’ land. We also dismissed the cheaper guesthouses in nearby towns like Sheoganj and Sumerpur, which were a bit too far from the lake. In the end, we settled on tent resorts, campsites in the heart of nature with well-equipped tents. After contacting a few places via WhatsApp, it was Sukhdeo Singh Rathore, the owner of Bagheera Bagh Jawai, who stood out—he was the most responsive and friendly and offered us a much better deal than his competitors: 36,000 rupees (395 € at the time of the trip) all-inclusive for three nights in a large, air-conditioned deluxe tent right in the reserve, with a pool, breakfasts, lunches, snacks, dinners, and three jeep safaris included. Though 12,000 rupees per night was way above our usual budget, the complete package and the offer being significantly cheaper than competitors convinced us, and we didn’t look any further. Later, Sukhdeo even agreed to handle our train reservation between Ahmedabad and Jaisalmer for free, which we paid for via Western Union (only 3 € in fees) along with the 50% deposit for the booking. We stayed in touch in the months leading up to the trip, and Sukhdeo continued to provide us with the information we needed, including how to reach his camp by bus from Falna—though he’d also offered to pick us up by car. But the idea of taking another local bus seemed more appealing.

Right on time—well, about fifteen minutes late—our Vande Bharat Express arrives in Falna around 8:10 AM under a gray, slightly threatening sky. Not many of us get off... It’s true that there were stations closer to our final destination, mainly the one named “Jawai Bandh.” However, none of them are served by a fast train, and Falna isn’t *that* far from the lake, making the Vande Bharat-local bus combo ultimately less time-consuming.

We exit the station, and since there’s no RSRTC (Rajasthan State Road Transport Corporation) bus for our route, we look for the local Khalsa bus supposed to serve the village of Bera, near which our camp is located south of the lake. Online, I’d spotted a bus to Bera at 9:30 AM, but with rural buses, nothing is ever set in stone... We approach the few rickshaw drivers parked in front of the station, who inform us that a bus is leaving soon for Bera—at 8:30 AM! We’d planned to have breakfast in Falna and visit the two (reputedly beautiful) Jain temples in town to kill time, but we don’t dawdle and head down the tiny station street where the buses depart. It’s drizzling, but nothing too bothersome. Since we still have a few minutes, the end of the street is close, and we spot a small group of men bustling around a chaiwala boiling water, tea, milk, and spices in his large pot, we take a short break. We watch the scene of the main street of this small rural town waking up, where rickshaws, a few passersby, cows, and dogs parade along the slightly muddy road. We take the opportunity to confirm the bus to Bera with our chai companions, and they point us to the end of the street. They’re welcoming and chat with me a bit. Suddenly, Kelyandre urgently needs to use the bathroom, and the men point to the temple right next door. It’s the temple of Shitala Mata, goddess of smallpox (and many other nasty diseases), who inflicts or cures them depending on one’s karma. We follow our suitcases under the temple’s entrance porch and quickly ask for the restrooms, which are upstairs. This mismatched family with all their gear in this small-town temple at such an early hour is a bit out of place... A temple attendant approaches and asks us to sign the visitor list: we’re charged 10 rupees as a donation for using the toilets. The man is very friendly afterward and chats with us. Meanwhile, Kelyandre, who went upstairs, is taking a while... We start to worry as departure time approaches, wondering what he’s up to... I go up to check: he’d gotten a little lost looking for the restroom and is feeling a bit unwell...

With this little hiccup, we’re really cutting it close for the bus. We rush with our heavy gear to the end of the famous street... We try to find our vehicle, but a young man explains that earlier in the morning, heavy rains had cut off the small roads. Since he’s heading in the same direction, he invites us to follow him. He tells me we need to take a sawari (shared jeep). Still in the light rain, we load our suitcases into the back and settle into the jeep, which travels a few kilometers before stopping on the side of a larger road. The young man explains that we now need to take a bus that will drop us off about twenty kilometers away in the small town of Sheoganj, which, along with its twin Sumerpur (separated only by the Jawai River), forms the largest nearby settlement to Jawai Bandh. From there, a public bus will cover the next twenty kilometers to Bera. We wait a little under the shelter of the sawari, and a red private bus arrives immediately. We pay the fare (about 70 rupees total) and get off with our adorable guide, who’s made it his mission to get us to our destination safely. There’s plenty of space, and we settle in comfortably, paying about ten rupees per person to the chief conductor (the ticket inspector). Our guardian angel checks that we’re okay; I thank him warmly for his help, but he acts as if it’s all perfectly normal.

After a short ride, the bus crosses Sumerpur, passes over the Jawai River bridge, and drops us off at the tiny bus station in Sheoganj. We get off in the rain, which has intensified in the meantime. Our friend asks around a new small group of men gathered around a chaiwala’s pot: they point us to the minibus for Bera, which will leave in half an hour. We find a little shelter, and one of the men brings us chai! Finally, the driver gets on the bus. Then comes the rush to board the small, dusty vehicle. A little damp, I have to stand squeezed in with those who don’t have seats, but the ever-welcoming and kind villagers give up their spots for Magali and the kids. Kelyandre, once again, has no equal when it comes to falling asleep on his neighbors’ shoulders—but this time, it’s a beautiful village girl around his age, looking like a little pure princess, who, faced with this unexpected situation, pulls her ghunghat, the veil of her green sari, over her face and sits stiff as a board, trying to act like everything’s normal. A quirky scene I have no choice but to capture!

I stay in touch with Sukhdeo on WhatsApp to update him on our progress while checking Google Maps to track the bus’s route in real time. We follow the thorny, rocky expanses of Jawai Bandh, even passing near the small path leading to our camp—but unfortunately, we can’t stop... All in all, with the flooded country roads and numerous roadside stops, it takes us nearly an hour to finally reach Bera’s main street, which serves as the bus station. It’s still a little less time than if we’d taken a regular train to the nearest station. Our guardian angel tells us this is where we need to get off. We don’t know how to thank him for his help. Without hiding his immense kindness, he shows us, with total selflessness, that he was only fulfilling his dharma, his duty—to look after this couple of foreigners and their two young children wandering so oddly through the flooded lands of deepest Rajasthan in search of an alternative route to their holiday destination. Yes, we’re not just throwing around the overused phrase “off the beaten path.” Some might criticize us for needlessly seeking out complications and problems, given that our middle-class Western means instantly make us very wealthy in this country, which, despite what some say, is still largely mired on the long road to development. But our faces wouldn’t be so radiant now if we’d taken a taxi from Jodhpur or found a station right next to our destination. We wouldn’t have experienced the absolutely incredible welcome from all these villagers, who show us nothing but help and kindness in these battered buses against a savanna backdrop: that’s worth a thousand visits to the fabulous forts of Jaisalmer or Mehrangarh. And as we part ways, I regret not knowing more about this man, not being able to invite him for chai and chat about his life. But we get off here, and he continues on his way. We have to accept that our paths separate as they crossed, with no farewell other than empty thanks and a brief exchange of emotional, grateful glances that say more than words ever could...

Sukhdeo Singh Rathore has no trouble spotting us as we get off the bus! He helps us grab our large suitcases and loads them into the back of his new, air-conditioned car. He asks about our morning adventure, which we recount with laughter. We retrace a short stretch of the road we’d just taken by bus, then turn onto a dirt path turned muddy by the rain, lined with sparse but lush vegetation. Around 11 AM—nearly three hours after arriving in Falna and five hours after leaving Jodhpur—we finally reach Bagheera Bagh, the “Leopard’s Garden,” which we’d dreamed so much about. Under a cloudy sky with occasional breaks of sunshine, we discover the modest but sprawling property, consisting of four very large tents. Nearby, a pavilion shelters the kitchen and dining area, a small pool right next to the tables, and farther off, a little house that clearly serves as a storage and laundry room, a beautiful horse, a few ducks, geese, and chickens roaming freely, and all around, a 360-degree view of this unique landscape—lush, semi-desert, and rocky. We enter our enormous tent, which from the inside looks more like a large hotel room with a canvas exterior and local-folklore decor, complete with a spacious bathroom at the back. Plus, we’re alone, and it feels like the whole camp is ours. We’re immediately charmed by the place—it’s even better than we imagined!

Sukhdeo leaves us to explore and says we can message him on WhatsApp if we need anything. Most of the time, he’s on the property, staying in one of the tents or busy with tasks alongside his two teenage employees. We can finally unpack and settle in, freshening up after this dusty, damp morning, when suddenly... problem... our combination lock suitcase won’t open. We try several times, but it doesn’t work. And this is our biggest bag, with most of our stuff inside... We think it might be jammed from being overstuffed and jostled in the various luggage holds this morning. We keep trying, but nothing works. We have to message Sukhdeo to ask if he can find a locksmith in a nearby village. It might cost us a bit for the trip, but we have no choice. Sukhdeo arrives about ten minutes later. He looks at the suitcase, asks for the code, tries to force it a little—no more luck than us. He calls a locksmith he knows in Bera, explains the situation, and sends photos. He follows the professional’s instructions over the phone, but still nothing. We’re really worried because a significant part of our lives is in that suitcase. Could it be the Mehrangarh curse following us again? Sukhdeo then has an idea and tries something: he resets the code, fiddles with the lock, and tries to force it a little. We’re helpless, hanging on his every move. He tries a few times, and suddenly—miracle—the suitcase opens! Another man who was just doing his dharma, but we’re infinitely grateful to him on this trip: we’d be ready to build him a temple! He modestly says he’s dealt with this issue before with tourists who had the same suitcase as us—he realized that when overloaded and jostled, the code simply shifts by one digit, so he tried the number above and below while forcing it a little. Of course, makes sense...

Of royal caste, as his clan name suggests, Sukhdeo Singh Rathore is a man in his early forties, tall and slim with a fine mustache. Combined with his unshakable, laid-back demeanor and affability rooted in his very being, he exudes both the air of a Rajput prince and a 19th-century British colonial administrator. Whether he speaks Hindi or English, he never wastes a word and speaks with a deferential tone without being obsequious, helpful without being servile, with businesslike courtesy that’s nonetheless sincere. One word seems to define him perfectly: a gentleman. He embodies it. After a quick cleanup and rest, with the rain finally stopped, we sit at a table under the pavilion. Sukhdeo asks if we’ll be eating vegetarian or non-vegetarian, and as always, we choose the former. While he prepares our meal with his two boys in the large kitchen with a counter open to the covered dining area, we enjoy the absolute tranquility of the place, perfect for relaxation. The three of them are excellent cooks and serve us a veritable feast of authentic Rajasthani specialties, arriving one after another: rice, different types of chapati, dal, aloo gobhi... and a delicious ker pickle, those small berries from the thorny bushes of Rajasthan. A delight! For an appetizer, we were treated to delicious raw tomatoes and cucumbers grown on the property. Théo, who’s been a bit picky since the start of the trip with these new eating habits and has been eating less than usual, insists on trying them. We know it could be risky, but it’s the first time he’s shown such enthusiasm for eating something, and the produce is entirely natural. So we give in...

We digest one of the best meals we’ve had since arriving with a good chai, and Sukhdeo gives us binoculars to scan the surroundings. He explains that if we look at the nearest hills, we might spot leopards near the caves where they live. For now, we don’t see anything except magnificent peacocks perched on the rocks and this fairly green plain, dotted with those striking volcanic granite formations so unique to Jawai Bandh. Then we go change into our swimsuits to try the pool next to the pavilion, which turns out to be very pleasant. Sukhdeo knows how to be discreet and step back when needed, making himself available when we require him. We chat a bit about our lives—I tell him about my travels in India and my brief study of his mythical ancestor, Pabuji Rathore, while he describes his daily life on this property he acquired and converted into a tent resort a few years ago, and his family back in Pali, the district headquarters about a hundred kilometers away. We then discuss our program: no safari planned today; he’d rather we rest a bit. We’ll have our first excursion tomorrow, another the day after, and we’ll see if we can fit in a third one later. However, we’re free to explore the grounds and the small rocky outcrop near the tents to admire the view and try to spot leopards from afar. There’s not much else to do but soak in the peaceful setting. We go rest a bit in the tent. But Magali notices that Théo isn’t his usual energetic self and reminds me that when he’s like this, he’s coming down with something...

Indeed, he’s not feeling well and needs rest. He keeps complaining about his stomach. At one point, he ends up vomiting. And vomiting again, with diarrhea, non-stop. We try to get him to drink, with mixed success, as he doesn’t feel like it and throws up the water immediately... We give him the medicine we’d packed, knowing we might face this situation. But nothing helps... He keeps emptying himself from all sides. We hope it’s not too serious and don’t have many other options for now but to let him recover. This puts a bit of a damper on the idyllic atmosphere that had settled in.

That evening, we have another wonderful meal with new tent neighbors—a family from Mumbai who, in a quick stopover, did their safari in the afternoon and will spend the night here before leaving early the next day. Their guide told them he saw a leopard, and they think they spotted it with the binoculars but aren’t sure... But Théo is weak and not very hungry. We have the strange feeling of being in a perfect place while these curses keep raining down on us one after another, though we’ve managed to dodge them all so far... Night falls, and we return to our tent. We continue Kelyandre’s traditional “treasure hunt” with questions about the day’s events. Then we go to bed, hoping everything will be better tomorrow...

Still as lively and interesting... Though for the young woman/girl in green, her cute little neighbor on the left is definitely better than the granny on the right 😉 well, it depends on taste... Combination locks—what a nightmare, I’ve dealt with those multiple times. And yeah, it’s often just one digit off, but you’ve got to figure out which one. It’s not always the last or the first... The last time this happened to me was right in Bangalore airport, where I absolutely needed something important inside, and we tried everything for hours. In the end, we had to break the suitcase open and tape it up pretty badly just to finish the last leg of the trip. Since then, no more combination locks—I prefer the good old key lock! !

Still, for the young woman/girl in green, her cute little neighbor on the left is better than the grandma on the right ;) well, it depends on taste...

There’s no accounting for taste, right!

The combination lock suitcase—what a nightmare! I’ve dealt with that several times. And yes, it’s often just one digit off, but you have to figure out which one. It’s not always the last or the first...

Luckily for us, it was only off by one digit, and we had someone clever enough to figure it out. Otherwise, we probably would’ve had to break it open—we were *this* close to doing just that.

Alright, more to come!

More wonderful encounters! And it's true that your way of traveling really helps make them happen. I'm looking forward to the rest of your epic tale "in the land of leopards." But I wonder if you'll actually see any. Suspense...😉

Day 11, August 3: Jawai Bandh « Tracking leopards, the Rajput gentleman, and the drama » (continued)

We wake up to find Théo still not feeling well. He looks really pale, throws up as soon as he takes a sip of water, and keeps having diarrhea. Despite that, we head to the pavilion for a hearty breakfast, still divinely prepared by Sukhdeo and his two helpers. We try to get him to eat and drink a little, but he refuses to swallow anything and just complains about his stomachache... We briefly cross paths with the Mumbaikar family, who are leaving after their express safari. While Théo spends the morning resting in the tent, Kelyandre and I try to enjoy the camp a bit—taking a few dips in the pool or scanning for leopards with binoculars—but I’m still worried, even if I try to stay optimistic. We also take the time to hand-wash some laundry while giving the bulk of our clothes to the two young employees who handle the laundry service. At noon, our hosts prepare another feast, but Théo still refuses to eat and isn’t getting any better. It’s even becoming extremely difficult to get him to drink water. Our first safari, planned for mid-afternoon, is already compromised... By early afternoon, he seems weaker and barely speaks, only whispering a few words about his stomach hurting. We even notice he’s lost weight in such a short time... We give him the medicine we have and let him sleep. Since this remote countryside isn’t the best place to get sick, we ask Sukhdeo if there’s a good doctor nearby. He tells us the village of Bera has a small hospital where he can take us if needed.

Around 4 PM, our jeep arrives as a few raindrops fall. The weather keeps alternating between heavy clouds and brief clearings all day. It’s actually quite pleasant—much cooler than at the start of our trip. Since the monsoon in Jaisalmer, the climate had already cooled a bit, but now that we’ve moved away from the heart of the Mārwāṛ, temperatures have become mild, and short rain showers are more frequent. I’ve never experienced such gentle weather in my five trips to Rajasthan. Eventually, Théo perks up a little, and we decide to go ahead with the safari. We warn our driver about the situation and agree that if the little one isn’t feeling well, we’ll cut the trip short. We bundle him up and get into the jeep. We keep a close eye on him but set aside our worries for a moment to embark on our leopard hunt. We leave the camp, and our vehicle hits the bumpy, waterlogged roads, often lined with buffaloes and cows grazing near the lush, green grass. Sometimes, large herds of goats led by Rāikā shepherds with sticks temporarily block our path before our jeep parts them like the Red Sea.

Before rejoining the main road that circles the lake, we pass through a few hamlets around Bera, quite secluded from civilization. The villagers seem to maintain a very traditional and modest rural lifestyle. As we venture deeper into the countryside, a break in the dark clouds and the now-retracted jeep roof reveal the stunning landscapes of hills and granite outcrops that carve the sky, plains, and reliefs of Jawai Bandh. We stop on a small hill offering a fabulous panorama. These spectacular views bring back our smiles, and Théo even reacts at times, especially when he spots animals or other surprising things that catch his attention. Though he’s not at his best, the leopard hunt keeps his enthusiasm and imagination somewhat alive.

We now plunge into narrow, muddy, and bushy trails where birds take flight before our fearless metal boar that crushes everything in its path. From now on, the game is to duck as each clump of thorny babūl branches—overpopulated in the region—whips toward our heads, risking scratches (which happen occasionally). In this open-top jeep, we use the umbrella provided for light rain to shield ourselves from the sharp attacks. Théo is safe on Magali’s lap, but Kelyandre and I get snagged a few times. We weren’t expecting this thrill ride, which our driver seems to enjoy putting us through! Then the trail turns into a dead end. There’s a messy pile of large cut stones amid the vegetation, suggesting a dam under construction. Indeed, a little further on, there’s a structure resembling a dam carved into the rock. We must be near the lake’s shore and not far from the large dam, though the invasive flora blocks our view. This stop feels like just an appetizer before the main event. We take a quick photo and turn back. We return to a stretch of asphalt before diving back into the thick bushes. Our guide occasionally stops to scan the hills with his binoculars, searching for movement or signs of a spotted feline. Meanwhile, he calls his village informants, who seem to give him some tips while we take occasional photos. We start crossing paths with other competitors—mostly groups of Indian tourists packed into their jeeps—and it turns into both a race and a treasure hunt: each driver has their own intel, and they start following or trying to outpace each other to be the first on the scene. Our driver proves to be a true expert, even a virtuoso, at jeep driving, as he seems more skilled than the others we encounter. Sometimes, he skids in large puddles or revs the four-wheel drive to climb steep hills. It’s like a real rollercoaster ride at an amusement park! We make sure to hold onto Théo, whose smiles peek through despite the bumpy ride, even if he dozes off now and then from the seismic-level jolts. Impressed by his ease, we convince ourselves we can trust our man to lead us to victory. We pass through areas where cultivated land blends into the natural landscape, as the soil must be particularly rich in this region. Suddenly, he gets a solid lead and takes off again at full speed. Our 4x4 peels out, skids, bounces, and ricochets between sharp babūl and jagged rocks. Other drivers hesitate, searching for their route. Ours doesn’t care and blazes his own trail through the bush, even clearing new paths. He climbs rocky outcrops before descending them, tries to shake off followers or force oncoming vehicles to reverse, parks, grabs his binoculars, then peels out again... Honestly, we weren’t expecting such an adventure. It must be part of the show! Now, things are really heating up—everyone’s on the phone constantly: we’re apparently hot on the trail of a leopard on the opposite hill. Shepherds by the road point in a direction, and other jeeps follow while some pass in the opposite direction. Our driver tries to reach the spot by weaving between obstacles, then rejoins the paved road, gets out for a few minutes, and speeds off again into the savanna. At a bend, he swerves and defies gravity by making us climb a steep rocky slope in incredible jolts. We’re stunned and burst into nervous laughter. I thought only goats clinging to mountainsides could pull off such a feat! Several jeeps rush onto the hill, each fighting for a front-row spot, bumping bumpers or hurling insults. More arrive and try to park. This spectacle of vehicles lined up on this rounded rock, headlights, binoculars, and eyes all fixed on the same spot on the hill about a hundred meters away, looks like an odd open-air cinema. Off-season and in a supposedly quiet spot, we’re amazed by this parade of off-road vehicles packed with one-day adventurers! We wonder what it must be like in high season... Has Jawai Bandh become a bit "hype" since the info we gathered? Then, except for a few whispers, everything goes silent. Our guide scans the horizon with his binoculars, which he then passes to us. He whispers that there’s a leopard lying near a rock behind the vegetation. We each take a turn looking but see nothing... He takes the binoculars back, focuses, and hands them to me again, describing the area to observe, but I still don’t see anything... He seems sure of himself and a bit annoyed that we can’t spot the target. Around us, all eyes are fixed on the same spot. Yet, no one exclaims, “I see it, it’s there!” I look again and think I might see something... but no, I have to admit: I don’t see a leopard... I conclude it must have left or was never there. Suddenly, I spot a fairly large animal at the bottom of the hill. Several people in other jeeps seem to see it too. I zoom in! But what I see looks more like a horse or a large antelope. “It’s a nīlgāy,” the driver says... A nilgai in English, a type of antelope common in India. Disappointment quickly gives way to some interest in this steppe bovine that grazes and stares blankly at the silent army of jeeps facing it, seemingly thinking without fear: “What do these people want from me?” It doesn’t move an inch, giving us time to pass the binoculars around and capture the moment. It’s not the leopard we were tracking, sure, but the nīlgāy, literally “blue cow” due to its bluish-gray coat, is still a majestic animal, and we don’t begrudge this encounter. It occurs to me that it might have been used as bait for leopards, but I don’t dare voice that thought...

We realize, though, that there won’t be any leopards today. The jeeps descend the rock a bit sheepishly, engines roaring. To make up for it, our virtuoso driver gives us our money’s worth with a few more acrobatics before returning to the road and taking us back to Bagheera Bagh as night falls. Our minds are in a strange place. On one hand, we’re amazed by the stunning landscapes and the rodeo we just experienced, which alone justifies the visit even without a leopard. But at the same time, we’re troubled by Théo’s health, which we’re struggling to assess accurately.

We reunite with Sukhdeo, who asks about our discoveries and Théo’s condition. Though he showed some signs of improvement during the safari, he now seems quite weak. And while a delicious meal awaits us (the details of which escape me, probably due to the context), he still refuses to eat and has to be forced to drink a little. Sukhdeo advises us to let him rest and wait until tomorrow morning to see if we need to take him to Bera. We return to our tent, but after watching him helplessly vomit everything and delirious with fever, we call our host around 9 PM to take us to Bera’s hospital. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, calls the facility, and a few minutes later, we’re back on the trails at night before joining the paved road...

We arrive in Bera in about twenty minutes. Despite the pitch-black night and minimal lighting, we recognize the central street we took by bus, now completely deserted at this late hour. The hospital is nearby. It’s closed, but someone soon arrives to open the gate. It’s more of a small clinic, but for such a remote village, it seems surprisingly clean and modern—already reassuring, as we were expecting the worst... A nurse checks us in and has us fill out some forms. Then the doctor arrives and, after a few minutes, takes us to his office. He asks questions, performs some exams, and delivers his verdict: it’s an intestinal bacteria, that pesky amoeba that bothers travelers in India so often. But he assures us it’s not serious and will pass quickly with treatment. He prescribes an antibiotic, an anti-nausea medication, and juice boxes to make hydration easier. We’ll need to return for part of the treatment tomorrow morning. In the rush, I forgot to refill my wallet and don’t have enough cash to pay for the service (which, from memory, isn’t too expensive), but Sukhdeo lends us the money without hesitation. A little reassured, we leave. After a few minutes on the road, we’re back on the dirt path leading to the camp when suddenly, the headlights illuminate a wild boar darting right in front of our bumper and disappearing into the bushy darkness! I joke to Sukhdeo that we’ve just had our second safari of the day, which makes him break his usual imperturbable calm and laugh heartily. A little humor doesn’t hurt in these anxious circumstances, and we almost believe it.

We understand, though, that there won’t be any leopards today

But are there really any? So, what are the chances of running into one? I read that the estimated population is around 721 individuals in Rajasthan. That’s a lot and a little at the same time…

It really is quite small for a large state like Rajasthan. But leopards are largely concentrated in this small Aravalli region.

Yes, there are indeed leopards at Jawai Bandh! The sanctuary is even renowned for it. There are only about sixty of them, but the area around the lake isn’t very large, and they live in caves that the guides know well. Villagers reportedly see them almost daily, and many travelers spot them. Compared to enclosed reserves, the fact that they’re "on good terms" with the villagers means they’re less skittish and more likely to show themselves. But the official claim that there’s a 90% chance of seeing a leopard at Jawai Bandh is obviously exaggerated...

Regardless of the leopards, it’s a stunning place.

Day 12, August 4: Jawai Bandh "On the trail of leopards, the Rajput gentleman, and the drama" (continued)

The next morning, we give Théo his medicine—he’s not really feeling any better. After breakfast, we have another safari planned, this one early in the morning, leaving at 7 a.m. We decide to go ahead with it since the medicine he took the day before seems to have had *some* effect, and there are moments when he seems just a little better. We agree with Sukhdeo and the jeep driver to take it easy, with the option to head back if things take a turn for the worse. We set off under overcast, misty skies, but it’s noticeably cooler than the day before as we head north of the lake, about ten kilometers away. We dig out our hoodies and vests, while Théo is bundled up snugly. We follow the main road that circles the lake. The natural beauty of Jawai Bandh in the mist isn’t any less stunning—if anything, it takes on an even more ethereal quality. After a few kilometers on the main road around the lake, we pass the monumental Jawai Dam, the largest in Rajasthan.

Further on, near the roads around the village of Balwana, we spot hills where small temples dedicated to local deities—always avatars of great cosmic gods—nestle in caves. The dark sky and fog give them a mystical air. For a split second while we’re driving, I think I see what looks like a cow’s head in a cluster of rocks by the roadside. I grab my camera and try to capture it to prove I wasn’t hallucinating. But no—I check the photo, and there it is: the snout and nostrils of a sacred cow, as real as can be, yet entirely natural, with no human intervention. India and its mysteries... This time, our guide takes us to a spot where we won’t run into the crowds from yesterday. The jeeps we pass are few and far between, and the competition from the day before is nowhere to be seen. With his phone in hand, searching for reliable tracks and scanning the caves in the hills with his binoculars (which he lets us borrow regularly), he’s much more cautious than yesterday—though he still pulls a few stunts to impress us a little. But still no sign of a leopard... We *are* surprised, though, by the large population of peacocks wandering through the sanctuary or letting out their piercing "piyaaaaaaaa" calls (or at least, that’s how Indians hear it—"piyā" means "darling") that echo through the silent valley. Here, the granite formations create towering, tiered cliffs that look like terraces. You have to squint or pull out the binoculars to spot the tiny Shiva temple perched at the top of the plateau, which I recognize thanks to the large trident planted near the white building, pointing toward the sky.

We stop now and then to take photos or visit a few temples tucked away in the hills. Well, *I* do—Magali is a bit unsettled and mostly prefers to keep Théo in the jeep, and Kelyandre, who’s like an emotional sponge, isn’t really up for it either... Despite our low spirits, there are moments when, overlooking the peaceful plains, we’re completely captivated by the scenery around us. We haven’t seen anything more beautiful on this trip so far. But no matter how much we explore the rugged terrain of Jawai Bandh, the leopards—the whole reason people come to this region—refuse to show themselves, even though we’ve heard it’s pretty easy to spot them (90% chance, according to local sources—yeah, right...). We’re now pretty sure we won’t see any. But in the end, it doesn’t really matter—we’re so in awe of these landscapes and the slices of rural life that exude such a unique atmosphere, one I haven’t encountered anywhere else in Rajasthan.

We pass through the small town of Bisalpur where we stop for a chai and a quick snack. To our great surprise, we even manage to find diapers in Théo’s size in a rustic little shop in this off-the-map village. On second thought, it might just be one of the most unusual things about this whole trip. I capture a few village scenes along the way.

The morning is quiet in terms of safari, but we still cross paths with a few jeeps—admittedly, a bit more packed than ours...

Our guide doesn’t say anything, but we understand he’s given up on tracking leopards. As we suspected, we turn back toward Bagheera Bagh, retracing the same villages and the same peripheral road.

After passing the dam, the weather starts to clear up. A few kilometers later, the driver pulls over by the side of the main road at a spot where there’s a small roadside stall in the middle of nowhere. We think he’s stopping to buy something, but instead, he asks a young man he seems to know well—probably a family member—to take the wheel and drive us back to camp. He’s been pretty friendly during these two safaris, but now he barely says goodbye... Does he feel like not showing us a leopard is a failure? Is he uncomfortable because Théo is sick? Did he suddenly develop some resentment toward us for a reason we don’t know? Or does he just have an emergency that forces him to leave us in a hurry? Either way, the goodbyes are abrupt, to say the least... His colleague takes us back safely, and we return to our familiar muddy paths, now bustling with shepherd castes.

Back at camp, we tell Sukhdeo we didn’t see any leopards but that we’re still amazed by the two jeep rides in this wonderful Jawai Bandh region. We already knew, but he explains that this isn’t the best season and that we should come back between November and March to increase our chances of spotting one. So, not anytime soon! I then ask if he’d be willing to take me to Bera one more time to buy some food better suited to Théo’s condition, like bananas, packaged lassis, and some snacks for everyone. He agrees, and we take the same road in the rain until we reach the village. We park near the small hospital from the day before, where I find a shop to stock up while Sukhdeo does some shopping of his own. Back at camp, a wonderful lunch is waiting for us. As with the other meals, we don’t remember the exact dishes: we just recall that the traditional Rajasthani cuisine was always delicious, but Théo being sick at the time has blurred our memory of the variety. We remember eating a mix of chapāti, often dāl, the classic rural ālū ghobī, a divine bhindi masālā (spicy okra), kaḍhī (a thick yogurt and chickpea flour sauce), as well as soups, pasta, homemade fries, fresh veggie platters, delicious achār (spicy pickled fruits and vegetables), and so many other vegetarian delights... Though we can’t identify them all, they were among the best culinary memories of our trip.

But our immediate concern is trying to find a solution for Théo. We try to pinpoint when he might have gotten sick. We think of the raw veggies he insisted on eating—even though they were fresh and from the property’s garden, they could still contain bacteria that our Western systems struggle with. About two hours after eating them, we noticed the first symptoms. That seems the most likely cause. But on reflection, incubation periods vary, and it could’ve happened at any point since we arrived. In India, it’s hard to know for sure what made you sick. Any restaurant—even high-end ones—even well-cooked food, a swim in a pool, or the hot, humid monsoon air that makes bacteria thrive everywhere... or maybe a combination of all of the above. Either way, it doesn’t solve our problem. We spend the afternoon taking care of Théo, trying to get him to drink and eat a little, with little success. The treatment doesn’t seem to be working. We’re getting more and more worried because he’s even weaker than yesterday and keeps getting sick. He usually speaks so well for a two-year-old, but now he’s whispering isolated words in a faint voice: “No, lie down...” He’s also lost a drastic amount of weight in just two days. He looks like a malnourished, frail little boy... We’re now certain he needs to be hospitalized soon—but not here. Magali starts wondering if coming to India with him was a good idea and if we should’ve waited until he was older. She keeps saying we should’ve gone to Brittany instead—we wouldn’t have had this problem...

I go under the pavilion to talk to Sukhdeo about the situation and the end of our stay. Originally, we’d considered going to our next stop, Udaipur, with a detour to the Jain temple of Ranakpur—one of the most beautiful of its kind—and the ancient walls of Kumbhalgarh Fort, the second-longest in the world (though still nowhere near the Great Wall of China). I explain that this is obviously no longer an option, as our goal now is to head straight to Udaipur to find a good hospital. We don’t even bring up the third safari that couldn’t be honored—it would’ve been inappropriate, and it seems he took my humorous remark about counting the trips to Bera seriously, which, given how things turned out, makes sense anyway. So, we need a taxi for tomorrow morning. With his usual calm, he assesses the urgency, grabs his calculator, and offers to drive us to Udaipur himself for 3900 rupees—just enough to cover the gas for the round trip. That’s almost half the price of a comfortable taxi for this distance. In ten trips to India, I’ve met few people who would’ve done the same... Then we settle the accounts with Sukhdeo: I pay him in cash the remaining 50% we owe for the stay, plus the advance for yesterday’s medical expenses, the laundry that’s still trying to dry in this humid air, and the trip to Udaipur. With his gentlemanly Rajput demeanor (I’m writing it like in old French books about India to highlight the nostalgic charm he inspires), he lets me know we’re even and that he’ll fulfill his mission to help us. He assures me he’s used to making trips between Jawai Bandh and Jodhpur or Udaipur, where his sister lives, and he’ll take the opportunity to visit her. There, everything’s planned. The day continues with packing our suitcases and taking care of Théo. We’re treated to another delicious meal. However, we’re already focused on the next day and don’t linger before heading to bed for our last night in the deluxe tent.

Jawai Bandh Nature Reserve 😊😊😊 Bagheera Bagh Jawai Tent Resort 😊😊😊 Jeep Safari 😊😊 Leopards 🐆😅 Bera Hospital 😕

Hello, I was waiting for your return from Jawai Bandh. I assume Théo’s health improved quickly after the hospital visit. I would’ve been more than worried. I’ve reached my sixties and haven’t been sick in India since 2013—turns out I’d unknowingly drunk water from a well... Anyway, you’re not exactly making me want to return to Bera and the surrounding area. It’s not about not seeing leopards—I’ve always seen them up close and from a distance between November and April. It’s the number of jeeps joining the leopard search. Between 2006 and 2015, there were at most 3 or 4, including mine. I was often alone!

Back then, there were 2 accommodations run by the 2 thakurs of Bera—2 brothers who absolutely didn’t speak to each other. Quite the scene.

Besides that, I see the rural vibe is still the same. This corner of Rajasthan is still truly magical. Looking forward to the rest...

We’re surprised, however, by the large population of peacocks roaming the sanctuary or crying out “piyaaaaaaaa” (at least, that’s how Indians hear the call—"piyā" meaning "darling") that echoes through the silent valley.

In French, it’s said they cry "Léon, Léooonnn..." I’ve got plenty of time to hear—and listen to—them every morning during my walks in “my little jungle,” where a real colony of peacocks has settled. And I don’t hear either “piyaaaaaaaa” or “Léon”... 😉 As you know, I just arrived yesterday, and starting tomorrow, I hope to reconnect with all the “little nothings” of my daily life in Kerala...

Reading about your guide’s behavior, I thought of another possibility you didn’t mention... And I’m surprised you didn’t consider it. A sudden fear of contagion and bringing some “filth” home, but also one of their superstitions—I experienced this exact thing a few years ago. People avoided me as if I carried the devil and risked bringing the evil eye into the family... The strange illness, the medications that didn’t work... It’s the devil... And it wasn’t a fear of contagion, but rather of “bringing bad luck.” You see what I mean...

Here we are in Turkey, in Ankara, where we arrived yesterday. I’m still trying to keep up with this journal during our hotel breaks—especially since I’m starting this Turkish journal and I’d like to catch up on the Senegal one from last February and the Andorra one from this summer 😅

As you know, I just arrived yesterday, and starting tomorrow, I hope to reconnect with all the "Little Nothings" of my daily life in Kerala...

Hope you’ll share those soon! I love these "Little Nothings" that say so much.

Reading your guide’s attitude, I thought of another possibility you didn’t mention... And I’m surprised you didn’t consider it.

I totally get what you mean. I thought about it at the time. If that’s the case, I’m leaning more toward the idea of ritual pollution rather than microbial... Of course, like you, I’ve experienced being seen as an impure foreigner who brings the evil eye during my many travels in India—though rarely. More often, I’ve been treated like a demigod from countries that bring wealth and prosperity 😄 But still, this guide did two safaris with us without seeming bothered. Then he got out of the car after receiving a call from the owner of our camp, so I figured he just failed to show us leopards. But who knows...

Funny, I was just writing to you! !😉

Hello, I was waiting for your return from Jawai Bandh.

Thanks for being there, Didier!

I assume Théo’s health improved quickly after the hospital visit. I would’ve been more than worried.

To be continued in Udaipur... Yes, we were really worried at one point, especially when we didn’t see any improvement after visiting the clinic in Bera... Fortunately, we were well looked after by the owner of Bagheera Bagh Jawai, who’s a gem. The rest of the story will show that too...

I’ve reached my sixties and haven’t been sick in India since 2013. Without knowing, I’d drunk well water...

For my part, I was a bit sick toward the end of the trip, but nothing serious. Just India, you know... Otherwise, I haven’t really been sick in India since 2012, even though I’ve stayed in Rajasthan for quite a while, sometimes with locals and in remote places. But maybe I caught something in Delhi or elsewhere—who knows...

Anyway, you’re not exactly encouraging me to return to Bera and the surrounding area. [...] Back then, there were two accommodations run by the two thakurs of Bera—two brothers who didn’t speak to each other at all. Quite the farce.

In India, it’s pretty common for two brothers who don’t get along to each set up their own business, sometimes right next to each other. I’ve seen that happen several times 😄. The era you’re talking about seems to be over... Now, there must be around forty resorts (luxury hotels or tent camps) in the reserve. I’ve read in Indian articles that for a long time, villagers protested against the seizure of their lands and managed to limit the expansion of tourist infrastructure. But it seems that recently, the Almighty Dollar has won out, and the policy is now entirely focused on developing tourism in this high-potential sanctuary, with hotel lobbies using their influence to invest. It’s highly likely that in a few years, Jawai Bandh will be like any other Indian reserve, which would be a real shame...

For now, Jawai still has that aura of a hidden treasure, and it’s still worth it because the resorts aren’t very visible in the vastness of the sanctuary and don’t yet spoil the magical landscape, as you pointed out. It’s a unique place in Rajasthan. However, as you’ve read, there can be a lot of jeeps even off-season on weekends, which makes leopard spotting fun but a bit ridiculous... I wonder how anyone can hope to optimize their chances of seeing one with 20 jeeps driving around in all directions, making a racket!

Between 2006 and 2015, there were at most 3 or 4, including mine. I was often alone!

Lucky you—you experienced the golden age!

Here we are in Turkey, in Ankara, where we arrived yesterday. I’m still trying to keep up with this journal during our hotel breaks, especially since I’m starting this Turkish journal and I’d really like to not delay too much on the Senegal one from last February and the Andorra one from this summer 😅

Whoa! Have you caught the bug again? Or fallen back into the VF addiction? For me, it’s the opposite—I’m trying to wean myself off... This reminds me of someone who writes journals in a row... ;)

As you know, I just arrived yesterday, and starting tomorrow, I hope to reconnect with all the "Little Nothings" of my daily life in Kerala...

I hope you’ll share those soon! I love those "Little Nothings" that say so much!

I don’t know... But I do enjoy sharing my mundane daily life, which is the life I’m living here.

Plus, for me, it’s a way to stay in touch with virtual friends since I don’t have them in real life. Because sometimes it’s tough here being alone and without contact with non-Indians. But almost all my old reader-friends have left and haven’t come back to VF. But I also need to finish the Thailand journal I abandoned...

In India, it’s pretty common for two brothers who don’t get along to each start their own business—sometimes right next to each other. I’ve seen this happen several times 😄

In *The Peacock Throne* (have you read it?), they even built a wall down the middle of the shop to split it in two. They turned it into two corridor-style shops, and customers have to pick a side and queue up outside—they can’t just walk in anymore... I’m going from memory here...

The two brothers shared the family "palace"; the older one first built a resort right next to the village, and his brother later opened rooms in the palace—obviously, the other one followed suit... A funny twist: I’ve been sharing safaris since 2013 with a friend from Toulouse who used to guide tourists in India. One evening, we ended up at the same spot in front of a female and her two cubs. We started chatting while waiting to spot them, and the two thakurs kept exchanging icy glances...

"Now you remind me of someone who writes travel journals in series... Wink"

I don’t know who it is, but I’m sending them kudos 😄. Thank goodness for travel journals to keep VF lively in 2025 (including yours and Pagaljavab’s 😊🤗)

"There you go, reminding me of someone who writes journals in series... Wink"

I don’t know who it is, but I applaud her 😄. Thank goodness travel journals are still keeping VF lively in 2025 (including yours and Pagaljavab’s 😄🤗)

Hey, it’s great to see you again, Christelle!!! Don’t worry, my comment was just a wink to Pagal (though no one calls him that anymore—too bad, I liked that username), who we’d talked to about our travel-journal binge and back-to-back trips. And I’m including us in that count, since we’re both already talking about new journals when we haven’t even finished the current one 🤦‍♂️ 😵 😄

No, I haven’t read it, but here’s another pan-Indian cultural trait I just mentioned in your *Petits Riens*.

Otherwise, feel free to call me Pagal (which means "crazy" or "mad" in Hindi 😄). It’s my nickname here and I love it!

Hey Pagal! I finally found the time to read your latest posts, now that the autumn break is over and I’m done with looking after my grandkids—whom I adore, but who, like all kids, are pretty time-consuming. I was totally glued to your story, reliving the atmosphere of India through your transport adventures and all those delicious little details. I hope your little boy recovered well afterward… an amoeba can be *such* a pain. Thanks to you, I discovered that night buses can actually be comfortable—ours definitely wasn’t on the way back from McLeod Ganj. It had barely reclining seats, a TV blaring right in front of us all night, and a random stop at a roadside rest area in the middle of the night… Needless to say, we didn’t get much sleep! But there was no other way to get back to Delhi… We also loved the poha we tried for the first time in Mandy, Madhya Pradesh. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to write this journal—it really took me back to my own travels… Looking forward to the next installment…

Hi Anne,

end of the All Saints' holiday and thus the end of looking after my grandkids, whom I adore but who, like all kids, are pretty time-consuming.

Don’t even get me started 😂😂 Anyway, we’ve just got back from Cappadocia, which was a great way to make the most of that time!

I was blown away by this story—it really brought back the atmosphere of India with your transport adventures and all those delicious little details.

That really warms my heart because that’s exactly the spirit of this travel journal. So if you enjoyed it on top of that, what more could I ask for!

Thanks to you, I discovered that night buses can actually be comfortable—unlike our trip back from McLeod Ganj. It was a bus with barely reclining seats, a TV blaring right in front of us all night, and a stop in the middle of nowhere at a roadside rest area... Needless to say, we didn’t get much sleep! But there was no other way to get back to Delhi...

Yeah, I had the same experience going to and from Shimla 13 years ago... Actually, the sleeper buses I mentioned were banned in the Himalayan regions a few years ago for safety reasons. That’s why there are only "semi-sleeper" buses now, which are just slightly reclining seats and not comfortable at all. The name is totally misleading because you don’t sleep "halfway"—you don’t sleep at all! I remember the sleepless night from Delhi to Shimla with an Indian woman next to me even though the bus was three-quarters empty, and the conductor refused to let her change seats because they had to stick to the exact seat number on the ticket... The result? Eight hours of twisting and turning on mountain roads without ever finding a decent position... The return trip was just as hellish, still in a semi-sleeper, with an Israeli guy telling me how expensive India was and how Indians were all scammers, plus an American movie playing on the screen. Impossible to get any shut-eye!

I hope your little boy recovered well afterward... An amoeba can be really nasty...

Actually, the follow-up is coming as soon as I have time to finish and post it. Between a demanding job, two kids, travel, and managing everyday life, trying to write, maintain, and finish a quality travel journal is almost—like we said on Marien’s journal—a form of Jansenist self-denial!

But the next part is coming soon, thanks for your message!

Day 13, August 5: Jawai Bandh-Udaipur « The Indian hospital(ity) »

The day breaks, and we quickly get ready because we’re eager to leave. We loved this stop despite the situation getting complicated, but in our minds, our time at Jawai Bandh is over—now we have to deal with the unexpected but necessary next step: taking Théo to the hospital. His condition seems to have worsened, and it would reassure us to have him looked after by a serious medical team. At 8 AM, Sukhdeo is ready to go. We load our suitcases, I sit in the front, and we set off along the familiar backroads of the sanctuary, saying our goodbyes this time as we head south toward Udaipur. Though it’s undeniably touristy, I still consider the City of Lakes—the place where I first discovered India 17 years ago and am about to rediscover for the fourth time—as the most charming in Rajasthan, if not all of India. But while I was looking forward to Magali and the kids seeing its wonders, we’re not really thinking about that right now. We had planned to spend five days here, after all...

Sukhdeo’s car is air-conditioned, comfortable, and his driving is just like the man himself: safe, efficient, and reassuring. We drive the first few difficult miles on roads that are rough in places, sometimes forcing us to hold on tight to avoid bumping against the car’s interior. Fortunately, after a certain point, we join a two-lane highway—far from French standards but of very good quality for India—which lets us drive fairly fast. Of course, shepherds walking along the roadside with their livestock, or even trying to cross it, would be unthinkable back home! But here, it’s just a bafflingly ordinary sight. The lovely semi-mountainous landscapes of the Aravalli help pass the time more pleasantly. I take the opportunity to start researching Udaipur’s hospitals online because we can’t afford to go just anywhere. Sukhdeo explains that costs will be very low at the public hospital, though its reputation among Udaipur’s residents is mixed. He confirms that despite the higher prices, we’ll get much better service at a private clinic—something we already suspected... Three stand out in the reviews: Paras, Geetanjali, and GBH American Hospital. Sukhdeo says all three are highly reputable and thinks we could choose any of them. Since we need some basis for our decision, I carefully check their websites and Google reviews. I notice that the American hospital GBH often highlights its pediatrics and gastroenterology services. I find articles about Dr. Sunil Janged, an experienced pediatrician with an excellent reputation. We don’t hesitate—our choice is made. Sukhdeo approves.

Despite the lingering impatience caused by our anxiety—wishing we could teleport straight to our destination—the journey passes surprisingly quickly. Aside from a brief stop at a gas station early on, we only take our first bathroom break and a very quick breakfast at a rest area near Udaipur’s outskirts. Seeing Théo’s condition, we’re relieved to be so close to arriving... Finally, after just over three hours on the road, the first buildings of Udaipur appear almost suddenly, with no real transition from rural to suburban areas. As we drive deeper into the city, the places we pass slowly come back to me.

First things first, we need to check in at the hotel to drop off our heavy suitcases so we can relax for what comes next. Arriving near Chetak Circle—a large intersection connecting the "new" city to the old town below—Sukhdeo explains he’s not allowed to go any farther with his car. He’ll wait here while we take a rickshaw to the hotel and back. It’s not too far, in the historic center, near the Jagdish Temple. He suggests asking passersby for directions, but though I haven’t set foot in Udaipur for 10 years, I’ve spent so much time here that the city’s layout is practically imprinted in my mind. I know exactly where we are and which way the temple is, so I head straight for the first rickshaw in front of us. When the driver quotes a high price for the short round trip, I immediately let him know in Hindi that I’m no rookie. Still, in a touristy city like Udaipur, it’s hard to get below the threshold that all the *rikshāwālās* have set for the historic center. I manage to negotiate the ride for 100 rupees. In no time, the three-wheeler climbs the hill toward the City Palace—the main tourist attraction in Udaipur. Despite the situation, I’m moved to see these familiar shopping streets and old houses again. Magali and Kelyandre, however, don’t react—their minds are elsewhere, as if they’re moving through an invisible space.

The rickshaw drops us off at the entrance of the Red Pier (formerly Poonam Haveli), and we head to reception. The manager greets us warmly, and after checking in, I explain that we’re just dropping off our suitcases because we need to rush to the American hospital for our little one. He replies that we’ve made a good choice—it’s the best clinic in the city, especially for pediatrics. Staff eagerly grab our suitcases, and we follow them into the elevator, then down the stairs to the pool, which surrounds all the floors of the building like a *havelī* turned into a charming hotel. We had indeed chosen the "swimming pool view" room, whose windows overlook the adorable, lush pool that made us pick this place. Though it’s a bit dark since it’s on the lowest floor, we barely have time to see that the room is cozy and nicely decorated. It costs 6,700 rupees per night (about 75 €), not including the extra mattress for Kelyandre at 1,500 rupees per night (the price of a very good guesthouse elsewhere), bringing the total to 8,200 rupees (90 €). That easily beats the records from Jawai Bandh and Jodhpur. We’re obviously nowhere near the city’s luxury palaces, but it’s a substantial price for the country—far beyond anything I’ve experienced in ten trips! When we booked from France, we thought we could treat ourselves to this little "splurge" to relax at the end of the trip, especially since Udaipur’s vibe lends itself to it. But our plans have changed, and we don’t even know if we’ll get to enjoy it... We go back up to reception, and in the urgency of the moment, I don’t think twice before paying the remaining amount in cash—the 7,500 rupees for the extra mattress for five nights. That’s an expensive mattress, especially since we might not even need it... We take another rickshaw back to Sukhdeo, who’s waiting right where we left him, calm and unshaken.

We head to the American hospital, just two kilometers away, and arrive around 12:30 PM. We thank Sukhdeo warmly and tell him he’s already done more than enough. We don’t want to take advantage of his immense kindness, and he has other things to do... He nods—he wants to visit his sister and brother-in-law before heading back to Jawai Bandh in the evening, where there’s a lot of work waiting for him at his *tent resort*. But true to the reputation of the "Rajput gentleman" I’ve come to know, he asks if we need him to stay and help a little longer. We assure him we think we can manage on our own. He’s already helped us check into the hotel and brought us to a renowned clinic—that’s huge. We say goodbye, he wishes us the best, asks us to keep him updated on Théo’s condition, and leaves. But knowing how tricky administrative procedures can be in India, I think the moment of truth is coming: it’ll be easy or downright hellish.

And the moment of truth arrives almost immediately, like another twist of fate. As we enter the crowded lobby of this relatively modern-looking clinic, with long lines at the many counters, Magali starts calling her travel insurance—crucial for getting reimbursed since we bought the flight tickets with her credit card. That’s when she realizes she doesn’t have her smartphone... Damn, where did it go!? We search our pockets, bags, everywhere—it’s nowhere to be found. What terrible luck! Losing a personal item in a foreign country—one that now holds an individual’s entire life—especially at this crucial moment when we urgently need to contact our insurance, adds stress to an already urgent situation, just as we were about to reach our goal... I tell Magali this was the last thing we needed right now and that we’re really in trouble... The situation is becoming hard to handle mentally. I call Sukhdeo, who left just minutes ago. No answer—the anxiety rises... I try again, and he picks up! I explain the situation and tell him the phone might be in his car. Fortunately, he’s still near the hospital and goes to check. But three minutes later, I get the message: "Gaadi me nahi hai"—"It’s not in the car." "Never mind, it must be in the rickshaw," I reply, trying to sound like we’ve got this under control. But in reality, it’s a disaster.

Never mind, we’ll deal with that later—there’s something more urgent... It’ll just be one more thing to handle, and I’m not too optimistic about our chances of finding it, but we have to move forward. I pick a counter that looks like it’s for general reception. Luckily, there’s not much of a line. The clerk takes our request and redirects us to another counter where we have to wait our turn. We sit on the metal benches, where Indian women stare at Magali and Théo in her arms with curious expressions.

The twist? A few minutes later, as I return from one counter or another, I see our Rajput knight in the lobby with Magali and the kids. "Wait, he came back?!" I ask Magali, stunned. He offers to call Magali’s number from his phone. Miracle—it rings, and it’s our *rikshāwālā*! Like a military strategist, he explains he forgot his own phone in the vehicle—a brilliant idea that makes the negotiation easier. He says something I don’t understand and asks the driver to bring it to the American hospital, which the guy agrees to. It doesn’t take long before the driver calls to say he’s outside. We give Sukhdeo a small 100-rupee note, which he thinks is fair compensation. He goes out to handle the transaction with the driver and returns in less than five minutes with the precious phone in hand! Maybe with a lot of effort and tough negotiation, we could’ve gotten it back ourselves, though the odds would’ve been slim. But thanks to Sukhdeo, we got it back in minutes, ridding ourselves of a major headache and a huge psychological burden in no time. And on top of that, he announces he’ll stay to help until Théo is taken care of, all while managing urgent bookings and business for Bagheera Bagh over the phone! Seriously, where would we be without him at this complicated stage of the trip?

We thought we’d have to wait a long time, but in the end, it doesn’t take too long before we’re called to see the famous Dr. Janged, Udaipur’s miracle pediatrician, whose hagiographic stories I read in the car. He greets us in person with a smile you can see even behind his surgical mask. There’s an air of ease—or rather, a kind of jovial self-assurance—that still reassures us. Sukhdeo introduces himself and explains the whole situation. The doctor makes his diagnosis after a few quick exams. We’re hanging on his every move and reaction, which remain calm. His verdict comes. He explains, very casually, that it’s a pretty severe case of gastroenteritis caused by an amoeba, but it’s classic for him. The real problem is that Théo is *very* dehydrated. He immediately assures us not to worry—it’s nothing too serious now that he’s being taken care of. Still, his condition will require three to four days of hospitalization for treatment and rehydration: he won’t risk letting him leave until he’s 100% better. I show him the antibiotics prescribed at the Jawai Bandh clinic, and with a wave of his hand, he tells me to throw them away (though I’ll later see they have the exact same composition as the ones he prescribes...).

Anyone seeing Théo right now would be worried, so this diagnosis is a huge relief. There’s a good chance we’ll spend almost our entire stay in the most beautiful city in Rajasthan... in this hospital, which, though not too far from the old town, is on a big, ugly, dusty, and congested avenue—typical of the less appealing parts of big Indian cities. It’s a small price to pay, really... When planning the trip, we considered this possibility without really dwelling on it. And now, here we are... At least it gives us the chance to really dive into the scene, experience life from the inside, and put things into perspective. Even if we find ourselves living the reality of an (affluent) Indian family, we see around us, in this hospital, situations more dramatic than ours...

We’re redirected to another counter to fill out an admission form and pay a deposit of about 45,000 rupees (around 400 €), to which we’ll need to add the cost of medications and any extra charges depending on how long we stay... We have to make the payment at a counter in the basement, in hallways with almost no light... It’s a strange place to pay, but the staff are very friendly. They advise us to call our insurance right away. Magali tries, but of course, they’re impossible to reach. We have no choice—we pay and tell ourselves we’ll try again later... Then we go back upstairs to show proof of payment at the previous counter. Once all the admission formalities are done, a nurse asks us to follow her. That’s when we have to say goodbye to Sukhdeo, with thanks that feel woefully inadequate given everything he’s done for us since the beginning... True to form, he assures us it’s nothing, that he’ll stay in touch, and that he’s available if we need him during the day. He leaves, and the nurse leads us into a slightly run-down elevator for the first of many trips up and down to take us to our assigned room. It’s perfectly fine—spacious and more or less what you’d expect from a slightly outdated public hospital in France. Walls that could use a fresh coat of paint or at least a good scrub, a bed with blue vinyl upholstery and slightly worn sheets, a small bench against the wall for an attendant, and toilets that aren’t new but are clean... Even the tiny consolation of a glimpse of an old town monument through the window is something.

No sooner are we settled than we’re called for the first exams and IV setup. They ask *me* specifically to follow Théo—maybe because I’m his father or because I share his last name (unlike his mother). He’s taken by stretcher to a small area where we wait briefly for our turn. The blood draw is the first ordeal. While we wait, a mother whose child is there for the same reason strikes up a conversation with me in English: she reassures me that this is a very good hospital for kids, though she complains a bit about the care. Then we’re called into an exam room that looks more like another patient’s room repurposed for the occasion. A nurse and an orderly, who seem a bit inexperienced, set up Théo and ask me to hold him still while they prepare the syringe. Théo starts crying and struggling. I try to reassure him, but it doesn’t really work... When I finally manage to steady him, the nurses try to find a vein but fail. They talk among themselves, clearly struggling... Of course, Théo screams even louder and thrashes around, making it even harder for the nurses, who start to panic after their first botched attempt... They end up calling a second, more experienced nurse to help. Théo cries big tears, looking at me as if to ask why I brought him to this slaughterhouse... After some difficulty, they finally succeed. But it’s not over—there’s a second ordeal, the catheter insertion, which is less bloody this time, and the stretcher takes him back to the room. I reassure the traumatized Théo that the worst is over. The first test is behind us...

Shortly after, I’m asked to go to the pharmacy to pick up the first medications and supplies. Another whole process in this new ritual that won’t be the last... Every time the nurses ask us to get new medications or IV refills, we’ll have to go down to this pharmacy on a lower floor—a sort of barred counter where a more or less friendly and cooperative pharmacist takes the prescription, then we pay in cash, wait for the order to be filled, and go back up to the room, only to be asked to do it all over again several times a day. Everything is ritualized in this hospital; in the room, there’s a constant, almost clockwork parade of staff: nurses checking and changing IVs, administering medications, or conducting exams; then come the cleaners, not to mention the guards who make regular rounds to ensure nothing’s amiss. Suffice to say, we’re rarely left in peace for more than half an hour or an hour between each visit, even at night. But the highlight of the ritual is when, once a day, we’re honored with a visit from Dr. Janged himself, followed by his entire team, all lined up in a ceremonial pose with frozen McDonald’s-manager smiles, him in the center, approaching Théo, pretending to play with him while asking the same old questions: "Nausea? Diarrhea? Fever? Ok!" before filing out of the room in single file with the same smiles. From that moment on, I start calling Dr. Janged "Dr. Jain," a nickname that’s stuck ever since we’ve talked about all this. Actually, it’s the hospital’s *second* pediatrician, whom we’ll also deal with occasionally, who’s named Dr. Jain—a name (logically) common among followers of Jainism, a (very) minority religion in India but disproportionately influential in society. But I’ll explain later how I decided to strip the pediatrician of her surname to dress her colleague in it...

Lying in bed with his catheter in the crook of his arm, Théo is weak and sleeps most of the time. He still looks pitiful, but we now think he’s in good hands—it’s just a matter of days before he recovers. For now, we’ll have to take turns staying in the hospital, go through daily exams, and monitor his progress until we can finally leave... The nurses, orderlies, and doctors come and go. Even for me, who speaks English and Hindi, communication isn’t always easy with some of them—their English is limited outside medical jargon, or they speak a non-standard Hindi. With the fatigue piling up, I sometimes have to ask several times to understand what they want. "American" hospital, yeah right...

After all the intense emotions in such a short time, Kelyandre and I realize we’re hungry—Magali, less so... Before we know it, it’s almost mid-afternoon. Sukhdeo had mentioned there was a canteen in the hospital before leaving. I set off on another expedition to the same dark basement where we paid—it’s right next door. It turns out to be closed, and the place doesn’t inspire much confidence... Near the emergency vehicle entrance, by the main door, I’d spotted a small, modern-looking *street food* stall serving fruit juices, milkshakes, veggie burgers, and other Indian snacks in what seemed like clean conditions. Kelyandre comes down with me to the stall, where an old man takes our order and asks me to pay upfront. He takes an incredibly long time to prepare everything, mixes up the items several times, and asks me again what we ordered. After way too long for such a simple task, he finally packs everything into a bag. I start to realize the old man is a bit senile, so I gently tell him in Hindi that he forgot a sandwich. The old man insists he didn’t forget anything and that everything we ordered is there. I argue that the price we paid must include a second sandwich. But he’s already taken the money, and there’s no way to verify... On top of that, he accuses me of lying! I can’t tell if he’s dishonest, senile, or both, but I try to reason with him, showing him that he saw us both choose our items and that the number of sandwiches doesn’t match. He gets angry, and I gather from his long rant that we "Americans" (a term clearly overused here) have big salaries and are out of line making such complaints. After this oppressive day, I start to lose my patience: I repeat firmly to this forgetful idiot to give me my full order. He gestures for me to leave and clams up to end the conversation. I yell at him, call him a *chor* ("thief"), while a young man who comes to order watches the argument with vague curiosity but doesn’t intervene, just sits down in the stall. I threaten to call the police to scare him, knowing full well it’s an empty threat—it’d be a waste of time. I have other things to deal with, and this stubborn old coot won’t budge no matter what. It’s not a huge amount—less than 100 rupees—but it’s the principle: whether you’re a Western tourist or not, the listed price is the same for everyone. I keep yelling insults as I leave to blow off some steam. Kelyandre, who witnessed the scene without understanding everything, asks me what happened as we go back up to the room!

The rest of the day, we settle into our routine between the repeated visits from cleaners, medical staff, guards, and trips to the hospital pharmacy for medications or to private pharmacies at the hospital’s entrance to buy diapers. I don’t forget to shoot a dirty look at the old man in the stall, who pretends not to see me. In the evening, I spot a small vegetarian *dhaba* across the street on Google—Swad Cafe—very cheap and well-rated. I go down to order (homemade pizzas, grilled cheese-and-veggie sandwiches, and probably *chapātīs* and *dāl*). In front of the restaurant, there’s a trench dug for pipe repairs, with rats running around, panicked by the machines and the avenue’s noise. The decor, with its post-apocalyptic biker-gang vibe, doesn’t match the *shuddh shākāhārī* (pure vegetarian) Hindu atmosphere at all—just the kind of communication quirks I only see in India! In the large, slightly grimy kitchen that looks like a small shed, mostly young, sweaty workers in pretty dirty clothes are busy. I cross the road with my order, shoot another threatening glance at the old man, and go back up with my loot. We enjoy our meal, while Théo will have to make do with his IVs for dinner... For the rest of the stay, Magali decides to stay with Théo the first night, even though she’s a bit anxious because her English isn’t great, while Kelyandre and I leave. We go down to the parking lot to take a rickshaw. A new ritual begins: haggling the price down from the 150 rupees systematically asked of Westerners for even the shortest ride in town to 100 rupees. I use the right arguments in Hindi and manage it without too much trouble this time. We arrive at the Red Pier and almost immediately collapse into our pretty room overlooking the pool. Magali sends us a few updates, and we fall asleep, exhausted from this crazy day we never could’ve imagined when we planned this trip.

I’ll respond later because I really want to jump in on several points in this last thrilling message. For now, though, it’s me who’s feeling rough: diarrhea, vomiting, fever, and stuck in bed. Don’t even have the energy to write...

Awesome! I was just about to express my impatience to find out the adventures of episode 13, season 1 as soon as possible 😉

What a nightmare though, but you guys met your guardian angel in the form of Sukhdeo. Those fleeting encounters are often so powerful and unforgettable.

Hello

What a series of anxiety-inducing adventures so vividly described! Still, the main thing is that Theo seems to be in good hands—the rest is just details.

The next post will surely tell us about Theo’s recovery, walking on his own two legs and happily running around.

Thanks again for sharing a bit of your free time with us.

Calaf

Hi Marien

No time to write, and we get it—but we’re all ears for reading!

Wishing you a speedy recovery, and we can’t wait for the rest of your adventures!

Calaf

Hey! Jean-Marie, you need to pull yourself together! Are you taking care of yourself? Do you have someone looking after you? Give us an update soon!

Hello, here’s a very detailed account of arriving at the hospital. I’m struck by the difference in how you get medications compared to France. Above all, what a beautiful display of empathy and service from Sukhdeo. That’s also why I keep coming back to India—you always find someone to help solve your questions or problems... Looking forward to the rest. Best regards.

Thanks so much for your really kind reactions. I hope to publish the next part faster than I’ve managed lately.

Marien> Hope things aren’t going too badly for you. Maybe during your stay in France, your body got unaccustomed to that tough Indian amoeba... Keep us posted and come back soon to pick up on all the points that caught your attention and share your new (and old) adventures!

Kate> Back from Turkey and straight back into the insane pace of work and daily life, it wasn’t easy to make progress on this journal lately—I didn’t even have 5 free minutes in a row for several days. But I finally wrapped up this episode!

Kate and Did0764> That meeting with Sukhdeo was a real stroke of luck for us, and you’ll see it’s not over yet! I had a good feeling when I contacted him beforehand on WhatsApp, but you never know until you’ve met someone in person... He’s truly a gem, and I highly recommend stopping by his place if you ever visit the Jawai Bandh leopard sanctuary. It’s true that Indians often have a reputation for acting out of self-interest, but I completely agree that during a trip to India, there’s usually one person who stands out for the help they provide. In this case, it was Sukhdeo. That said, with one or two exceptions that’ll come up soon in the journal, every single person we met was welcoming and helpful in ways we never could’ve imagined.

Calaf> Yes, from the moment we arrived at the American hospital, we knew Théo was in good hands. The next part won’t immediately cover his discharge since he was hospitalized for several days.

Did0764> The way we got the medications was definitely one of the standout moments of our stay at that hospital. But the next part will reveal that it apparently wasn’t supposed to happen that way for us...

Posting travel journals on VF is turning into a real chore. I just wrote a long message to pagal on this journal. Everything was fine when I clicked send—then it all vanished! Uploading photos to my Thailand journal takes forever. When it’s finally ready and I click send, the page suddenly changes, and I end up in a completely different section. I can’t go back, even though I’d saved it by clicking preview. Once again, I had to start over, including re-uploading all those photos. Finally, it worked!

Michaël, I’ll try again tomorrow—I’m sorry, but I don’t have the energy to start over tonight (it’s almost 8 PM here, and I go to bed at 8:30).[;]

I hope things aren't getting too bad for you. Maybe during your stay in France, your body lost its tolerance for that tough Indian amoeba... Keep us posted and come back soon to follow up on all the points that caught your attention and tell us about your new (and old) adventures!

I’d almost say that today I’m fresh as a daisy—after a nightmare you can’t even imagine that lasted all night: shit and vomit everywhere, changing the sheets multiple times, the smell... Yeah, sorry if that’s too much for sensitive souls... Just to say I really wasn’t feeling well. And since I had a fever, I slept a lot, half-unconscious, and had leaks while sleeping It was the smell that woke me up...

No Pagal, it wasn’t an amoeba. Nothing to do with India. Just a nasty virus. Could’ve happened anywhere... I self-treated because Indian hospitals really aren’t my thing... I actually mentioned that in my reply to your post. But in the end, it might be better if I talk about it one day in my Kerala journal so I don’t hijack yours... I’d suspected for a while about Théo’s hospitalization, and I was wondering when you’d bring it up... You’d mentioned it in another one of my threads...

But as you know, weeds are indestructible (dog-tooth/weed) and here I am again...

Though eminently touristy, I still consider the City of Lakes—the one through which I discovered India 17 years ago and which I’m about to rediscover for the fourth time—as the most charming in Rajasthan, if not all of India.

I always say I should write my own travel journal about Rajasthan with all the adventures that unfolded there, especially in Udaipur, if only for myself to remember… In my memory, Udaipur is the worst city I’ve ever stayed in… I hated it, and I didn’t even want to visit the palace… I only enjoyed it when I escaped that horrible (that’s just my experience) touristy vibe by venturing into authentic neighborhoods where I finally got to mingle with locals and stroll through really friendly and… authentic… markets… I should go back…

I’m taking the opportunity to start an internet search for hospitals in Udaipur because we can’t risk going just anywhere.

If it had been just me and my child, I would’ve started looking for the best hospital ages ago, and I wouldn’t have waited this long to rush there… But hey, it’s a matter of temperament and personality. There’s no judgment in what I’m saying. For myself, I’m very negligent, but when it comes to those close to me—kids, for example—I worry quickly. But I was traumatized without realizing it when, as a 7-year-old, I watched my little sister die from the flu that took a turn for the worse and was poorly handled by the doctor who didn’t recognize the urgency. And traumatized by all the comments from adults that the child I was could hear afterward… Then my daughter almost met the same fate in nearly identical circumstances at just 1 month old. And especially your storytelling skills are such that I could *see* that little 2-year-old—2 is still so young—as if I were there.

For their part, Magali and Kelyandre don’t see any of this. Their heads are elsewhere, and they show no real reaction, as if they’re moving through an invisible space.

How well I understand them!

I often feel for Kelyandre, who’s a bit the “forgotten” child in readers’ reactions—the “older one”—overshadowed by his little brother, the “star,” and for good reason! Everyone talks about him. But this child has caught my attention from the start of the trip… Already his name… which reminds me of that rascal Léandre from *The Tricks of Scapin*. That “andre” (andros/man) that makes him already a little man. Yet when you talk about him, I see sometimes a child still a little boy for his age (experimenting with Indian candies and other sweets) and at the same time, an already little-man-teen-responsible-thoughtful-worried… Almost like a 15-year-old teen… I’m touched by his innocence and his trust when he falls asleep without fear or hesitation on the shoulder of the stranger sitting next to him. Kelyandre has all my sympathy.

A spare mattress for Kelyandre.

And come on! A bed for Théo? A mattress on the floor for Kelyandre…

The moment of truth arrives almost without delay, like another twist of fate. As we enter the crowded main hall with lines at the many counters of this relatively modern-looking clinic to find our way through the crowd, Magali starts calling the travel insurance from her bank card—with which we bought the flight tickets, which is crucial for reimbursement. That’s when she realizes she doesn’t have her smartphone… Damn, where did it go!? We search our pockets, bags, everywhere, but it’s nowhere…

Again! I really sympathize because this has happened to me so many times, and with such panic each time!—Which doesn’t stop me from doing it again…

Losing a personal item in a foreign country that nowadays contains an individual’s entire life, especially at this crucial moment when we urgently need to contact our insurance

It’s truly awful, that feeling of having lost the essentials for survival in such an unknown, “special” country—like being thrown overboard while lost in the middle of the ocean.

The twist is that a few minutes later, as I return from a counter or I don’t remember where, I see our knight rājpūt in the hall with Magali and the kids. “Wait, he came back!?” I ask Magali, stunned.

And there I’m right there with you! It’s the lifeline thrown to you overboard that might save your life when you felt lost, desperate, flailing wildly in the middle of the ocean.

He offers to call Magali’s number with his phone. Miracle, it rings, and it’s our rikshāwālā! Like a military strategist, he explains he forgot his own phone in the vehicle, which is a brilliant idea that makes the negotiation much easier.

Well, yeah, except he was NEVER in the rickshaw… Glad the rickshaw driver didn’t point that out…

Maybe after a lot of effort and tough negotiation, we would’ve managed to get the precious item back ourselves, though the chances were slim. But thanks to Sukhdeo, we got it back in minutes.

Not necessarily. Indians, who can’t live without their phones, have accepted that without it, you’re dead, and they identify with the person who lost theirs and do everything to help find it—and (for me) every time without expecting any reward. One of the rare cases of unpaid help.

Freeing us in no time from a real thorn in our side and a psychological burden of several tons. And on top of that, he announces he’ll stay to assist us until Théo is taken care of, while he continues to handle the Bagheera Bagh’s urgent bookings and matters over the phone! Seriously, where would we be without him at this complicated stage of the trip?

I’m totally with you here too. I experienced the same devotion with my driver in Udaipur when I was swarmed by those squadrons of hundreds of bees. I might’ve died without him, the hospital doctor said, because while I was already barely conscious of my state or the situation, he took charge and made me go to the hospital. Actually, he didn’t even ask my opinion. He took charge like a child and handled everything. He later told me I looked like an alien monster. It’s one of my best travel memories because of that truly selfless act of charity. The Good Samaritan in all his reality, when so often Indians—generally—show complete indifference to the misfortunes of a stranger.

Rather a sort of jovial self-importance that still reassures us.

My first cardiologist in Mangalore! That’s exactly it. Very “self-important,” even if effective. I hated it.

With a wave of his hand, he tells me to throw them away (though I’ll later see their composition is exactly the same as the ones he prescribed…

A known phenomenon, even in France!

And now, here we are… At least it gives us the chance to really get into the setting, experience life from the inside, and put things into perspective, because even if we find ourselves living the reality of an Indian family (albeit a well-off one), we see around us, in this hospital, situations more dramatic than ours…

And that’s where I was telling about an experience that was too long after reflection… A man was literally bleeding out, and they left him in his corner without any care. When I dared to intervene, they snapped at me (with a look that said, “What’s it to you?”): “The family went to get money; we’ll take care of him when they come back.”

We have to make the payment at a counter in the basement, in corridors with almost no light… It’s a strange place to pay, but the staff are very friendly. They advise us to call our insurance right away. Magali tries but can’t reach them, of course. We have no choice; we pay and tell ourselves we’ll try to contact them later… Then we go back upstairs to bring the payment receipt to the previous counter (…) the employee leads us into a somewhat dilapidated elevator for the first trip of a long series of back-and-forths from the basement to the upper floors and back down again.

You’d think all Indian hospitals follow the same model—whether it’s the places, the trips from the basement to the 5th floor, passing through intermediate floors for waits at other counters… or the payment and money. In Mangalore, they let me out with just treatment without operating, even though I could’ve died once outside, because I hadn’t yet arranged for insurance assistance, not realizing how serious my condition was.

They ask *me* specifically to follow Théo, maybe because I’m the father or share the same last name (unlike his mother).

Neither, actually—you’re the mandatory accompanying person when hospitalized in India. Chosen in this case maybe as a man (supposedly more competent than his wife) rather than as a father. And confidentiality be damned if that person isn’t the spouse, father, brother, etc… They don’t care. They have to be there for all consultations, and even worse, they’re addressed more than the patient themselves, as if the patient, by being a patient, is automatically an idiot who wouldn’t understand anything.

A male nurse and a female nurse, looking a bit inexperienced, set Théo up and ask me to hold him tight while they prepare the syringe. Théo starts crying and struggling. I try to reassure him, but it doesn’t really work… When I manage to stabilize him, the nurses try to find a vein but can’t. They talk to each other but seem to be struggling… Of course, Théo screams even louder and moves violently, which doesn’t help the nurses, who panic a bit after their first botched attempt… They end up calling a second, apparently more experienced nurse to help, while Théo cries big tears, looking at me as if to ask why I brought him to this slaughterhouse…

They finally manage, not without difficulty.

Awful scene. Brilliantly told. We’re right there. But awful! And it doesn’t surprise me or make me angry. No empathy for the patient. That’s what stood out from my own experience in various hospitalizations (except during the bee incident!). And a lot of incompetence from the junior staff. Or just well-trained robots.

Shortly after, they ask me to go to the pharmacy to get the first medicines and supplies. Another whole process with this new ritual that won’t be the last… Every time the nurses ask us to get new medicines or IV refills, we’ll have to go down to this pharmacy on a lower floor—a sort of grilled counter where a more or less friendly and cooperative pharmacist waits. We have to give him the prescription, pay in cash, wait for the order to be filled, go back to the room, before being asked several times a day to repeat the same operation. Besides, everything is ritualized in this hospital; in the room, we see a constant, almost millimeter-perfect ballet of staff, like a well-organized ceremony: nurses to check and change IVs, administer medicines, or for an exam; then come the cleaning staff, not to mention the guards who make regular rounds to ensure nothing’s wrong. Suffice to say, we’re rarely left in peace for more than half an hour or an hour between each visit, even at night. But the highlight of the ritual is when, once a day, we’re honored with the visit of Doctor Janged himself with his entire team behind him, all lining up in a ceremonial pose with McDonald’s-manager smiles frozen on their faces, him in the center approaching Théo, pretending to play with him while asking the usual: “Nausea? Diarrhea? Fever? Ok!” before they all file out of the room in a row with the same smile.

That’s where I was telling my own experience, almost word for word identical to your whole description. And I might do it one day in my travel journal if it can help someone seriously ill. I’ll just say I was treated impeccably, including the surgeries. The heart isn’t nothing, after all. But the paperwork, money, food, incompetence of the junior staff—it’s such a hassle, not to mention all the other details too long to tell here. From the moment you enter, all you think about is the day they’ll let you out.

Kelyandre comes down with me to the small eatery where an old man takes our order and asks me to pay right away. He takes an incredibly long time to prepare the orders, mixes up the items several times, asks me again what we ordered. After way too long for the task, he finally packs everything in a bag. I start to realize the old man is a bit senile, so I gently tell him in Hindi that he forgot a sandwich. The old man denies forgetting anything and says he’s given us everything we ordered. I insist, arguing that the price we paid must include a second sandwich. But he’s already taken the money, and it’s unverifiable… On top of that, he tells me I’m lying! I can’t figure out if he’s dishonest, senile, or both, but I try to reason with him by showing him we’re two people who chose our items and the number of sandwiches doesn’t match. Then he gets angry, and from his long rant, I gather that we “Americans” (a definitely overused term here) have big salaries and are out of line making this kind of complaint. After this oppressive day, I start to lose patience: I repeat authoritatively to this amnesiac idiot to give me my full order. He gestures for me to leave and shuts down, refusing to communicate. I yell at him, call him a chor (“thief”), while a young man who comes to order watches the argument with mild curiosity without intervening and goes to sit on a chair in the shack. I threaten to call the police to scare him, though I know it’s just empty words because it’d be a waste of time: I’ve got other things to deal with, and the stubborn old mule will stick to his guns no matter what. It’s not a huge sum—less than a hundred rupees—but it’s the principle: whether you’re a Western tourist or not, the listed price is the same for everyone. I keep yelling insults as I leave to vent and release some pressure. We go back to the room with Kelyandre, who witnessed the scene without understanding everything and asks me what happened!

Hey! What’s up, brother!!!

Hi Jean-Marie,

Sorry for replying so late to your very insightful series of comments, which almost forces me to do a pre-wrap-up of the trip before the final one . Time’s slipping away from me at the moment, and I’m really struggling to make progress on writing this travel journal...

From what I remember, Udaipur is the worst city I’ve ever stayed in... I hated it and didn’t even want to visit the palace... I only enjoyed it when I escaped that horrible (that’s just my experience) touristy vibe by diving into authentic neighborhoods where I finally got to mingle with locals and stroll through some really nice—and authentic—markets... I should go back there...

It’s clear that Udaipur is the most touristy city in Rajasthan, with all the downsides that come with it... But even so, it’s still a gorgeous city that, like all highly touristy places, is full of spots where you won’t run into a single tourist: walking along the ghats early in the morning, stepping just one or two streets away and stumbling upon a lovely local market like you mentioned, visiting the surrounding villages... 95% of the tourist activity is concentrated around the City Palace and the lakefront closest to that area. Outside of that, almost no one... Then again, it’s very personal, but my knowledge of Hindi lets me create connections that definitely change the experience I have of the city. I’ll talk more about that in the journal...

If it had been me and my child, I would’ve started looking for the best hospital ages ago, and I wouldn’t have waited so long to rush there... But hey, it’s a matter of temperament and personality.

The thing is, everything actually happened pretty quickly. When we were in Jawai Bandh, we *did* go to that village hospital as soon as his condition seemed to get worse. The doctor made a good diagnosis and prescribed the right antibiotic. The only issue was that he didn’t treat the dehydration, but by the time the treatment started and we noticed, it was already time to leave for Udaipur, where we went straight to the American hospital.

And your storytelling skills are so good that I could *see* that little 2-year-old—2 is still so young—as if I were there.

I described what happened and how we felt. On one hand, his condition would improve at times with the treatment, but on the other, he was losing weight and was extremely weak. It was shocking to see, and that’s when we asked Sukhdeo to take us to the hospital.

I often feel a soft spot for Keliandre, who’s a bit the “forgotten” child in readers’ reactions—the “older sibling”—overshadowed by his little brother, the “star,” and for good reason! Everyone talks about him. But this child has caught my attention from the start of the trip... Already his name... which reminds me of that cheeky/crafty Léandre from *The Tricks of Scapin*. That “andre” (andros/man) that makes him already a little man. Yet when you talk about him, I see sometimes a child still very much a boy his age (experimenting with Indian candies and other sweets) and at the same time, an almost teenage-boy-responsible-thoughtful-worried... Almost like a 15-year-old already... I’m touched by his innocence and how he falls asleep without fear or hesitation on the shoulder of the stranger sitting next to him. Kéliandre has all my sympathy.

Great analysis! I think about it every time I make progress on writing this journal, but I didn’t expect anyone to pick up on that point. If Kelyandre (with a "y" 😉) is a bit overlooked in readers’ reactions, it’s maybe also because my story doesn’t highlight him as much. There are a few reasons for that. On one hand, one of the stated goals of this journal is to inform people who might want to travel to India with kids, especially very young ones, because many ask themselves the same questions we did, and we found very few accounts on the subject. As a result, the reactions of the youngest are naturally more prominent, especially since they’re easier to observe: traveling to India with a 2-year-old requires constant attention! On the other hand, it’s harder to capture the emotions of a 10-year-old, and you nailed it—at an age when kids enter pre-adolescence earlier while still being very much children, with all that entails: struggling to express their feelings about what they see, moments when they isolate themselves with video games instead of exploring their surroundings, and sometimes a tendency to mirror their mother’s emotions. He might have been less amazed by this trip to India than we were, which makes it harder to describe. Then there’s his personality. Not at all “cheeky/crafty,” but particularly well-behaved, obedient, disciplined, and a bit reserved. That also makes it trickier to capture his experience. Still, I did observe his reactions, which I mention regularly in the journal: his anxiety, his surprises... You hit the nail on the head when you described him as a “responsible-thoughtful-worried-teenage-boy”: that’s the most accurate way to define him. His name intrigues you for good reason: it’s almost unique. “Kely” is a Celtic root that can mean “church” or “someone who is strong,” and of course “andre” from the Greek “andros.” It’s a curious combination! The name was actually borne by an acquaintance of his mother’s from the French West Indies who apparently was the only one in the world with it! The original inspiration likely comes from the fact that in Spanish-speaking Caribbean countries, you find “Kelly-André,” and this would be a French version of that name. In the end, it sounds quite Celtic and completely unique—there might only be two (or a handful) in the world.

And come on! A bed for Théo? A mattress on the floor for Keliandre...

You’re overinterpreting 😛 In all the other rooms, Kelyandre had a bed. It was only in this one that we had to add an extra mattress. Plus, he loves it because he’s a bit of a klutz, and it’s actually better since he has a restless sleep and sometimes falls, like I mentioned when we were in Jodhpur. He hit his head on the nightstand and could’ve ended up in the hospital too... I’ll add that Théo also slept on a mattress at some points during the trip!

Hey! Hi, brother!!!

But which one is your brother in this scene? Kelyandre, me, or that senile old man! 😛

For the rest, I’ll quickly respond to your other great observations: meeting Sukhdeo was an incredible stroke of luck for us, and despite the somewhat odd way Indian hospitals operate and the flaws in their staff, we received care that reassured us completely!

I’ll try to write the next part soon...

After writing this message, with perhaps my natural way that rubs so many people the wrong way—especially my spontaneity—I worried in several ways that you might take it as judgment... And maybe that’s how you read it? And now, to be even remotely understood, we always have to accompany our words with these hieroglyphics I handle so poorly because I’m from another era, especially when joking or being a bit ironic. That was the case with the mattress, and a wink to "salut mon frère" for someone who reminded me of some of my own reactions with that kind of guy... in similar situations...

As I wrote to you about another topic, you don’t have to justify yourself if an old guy makes clumsy remarks. You know, grandparents always feel the need to butt in and give their opinions to parents... I really felt like I was part of this little group...

Sorry about the 'y' in Kelyandre, too. Now I draft my messages before sending to avoid the page crashing at the last minute. And I dictated it into the mic, which transcribed Keliandre... And I didn’t pay attention. Anyway, I thought it was a really beautiful and rare—if not unique—name. Too bad your very plausible explanation of Kelly André ruins my interpretation of *andre* (andros).

There are actually quite a few Kellys in Guadeloupe...

No, I didn’t take it as a judgment, and even if I had, that’s what sparks debate. I know you already told me I don’t have to justify myself, but on the contrary, I really enjoy "justifying myself"—or rather, responding and reacting precisely to what’s said: that also sparks debate, and it’s essential. The popular saying "But you don’t have to justify yourself!" implies that justifying yourself is wrong, which has always been a mystery to me... Anyway, I’m responding to clarify things.

About the "brother" remark, I totally got your allusion, of course! I just thought the way it was phrased left room for multiple interpretations, so I replied with humor.

As for "André," you’re not wrong at all since it always comes from the root "andros" (nothing to do with applesauce, though). Yes, "Kelly" is very common in the Antilles and the Caribbean.

The popular saying "But you don’t have to justify yourself!" suggests that justifying yourself is wrong,

I live so much in my bubble and so cut off from the world that I didn’t know it was a "popular" saying. I’d say it’s more of a trendy, in-vogue expression... Me, I’m still stuck on that awful "impact" and "impacted"...😵😂 🤦

Hi Pagal, I know you're really busy, but a short post just to wrap up the story of your little boy's hospitalization would make me so happy!!! I think quite a few of us are waiting for news, even though we know everything must have turned out fine in the end...

Hi Anne,

Thank you so much for your encouragement! It’s really tough to make progress on my travel journal right now—between work, daily life, and unexpected events piling up on each other, I feel completely overwhelmed... Taking it bit by bit whenever I can, I’ve almost finished the second day of the hospital stay, so I might be able to post it tomorrow. I hope to pick up the pace for the rest and finish this journal someday! My passion for writing it is still just as strong, but time is already so scarce that carving out moments to write feels like a real struggle, no matter what some naysayers might say. Alright, back to it!

Day 14, August 6: Udaipur « The Indian hospital (ity) »

I wake up very early and receive a message from Magali around 6:30 AM with an update. She didn’t sleep well because the famous hospital staff parade kept going, even at night—someone passing by every half hour on average: cleaning, then security, then a midwife or a nurse... Théo had more bouts of diarrhea during the night, though they were less painful. He even drank a little boxed lassi, then a full bottle, which is actually a huge step forward. Magali thinks he seems a bit better, even if he still isn’t talking—unlike his usual chatty self at just two years old. She asks me to come early because she’s struggling to communicate with the nurses, who keep sending her to the pharmacy with new prescriptions. I also need to pick up a dropper, some Doliprane, a book, and Théo’s favorite stuffed animals, and if possible, some bananas to try to get him to eat a little. I shower and wake up Kelyandre, who gets ready quickly. First, I suggest we take a little walk to the ghats. I’ve always loved the morning activity and religious rituals by Lake Pichola, and I think it’ll help take our minds off things before heading back. We walk down the street to the bustling Gangaur Ghat... which, this time, is completely deserted and sad under the heavy, gloomy sky—a perfect reflection of our mood: a beautiful example of Baudelaire’s correspondence between the natural environment and mental state. We head back toward the Jagdish Temple to grab some chai and snacks before quickly hailing a rickshaw to the American hospital (renegotiated to 100 rupees, as usual—the inflated but capped fare for tourists who don’t budge). On the way, Magali texts me that Théo had a bowl of turmeric vermicelli for breakfast, which he devoured, saying with great emotion, “It’s so good!” It’s the first time he’s eaten anything in days *and* actually reacted like that—it’s a promising sign because we’re seeing a little bit of the Théo we know! Clearly, the IV treatment he’s been getting since yesterday is starting to work, and the progress is quick. Still, I need to get there fast because the nurses are harassing Magali about this pharmacy trip she doesn’t understand. As our rickshaw pulls up to the clinic entrance, Magali sends me on a mission to the basement to bring back more of that turmeric vermicelli Théo loved. Unfortunately, the canteen is only open during meal times. Oh well (or maybe just as well), we’ll never try that canteen...

While I take over in Théo’s room, Magali leaves right away with Kelyandre—she needs to shower and rest a bit in the comfort of the hotel. We’ll have to get used to this back-and-forth between the hotel and the hospital. Plus, it’s the first time Magali will have to navigate the Indian jungle alone with her minimal English, facing those shady rickshaw wallahs and other vultures always ready to scam the clueless tourist. I tell her to clearly ask for “Jagdish Mandir” (Jagdish Temple) and make her repeat it several times before they leave. Now it’s my turn to watch over Théo. The nurses come by and prescribe another mile-long list of medications. If this keeps happening several times a day, our hospital bills will skyrocket... For once, I ask them to fetch the meds themselves since I can’t leave Théo alone. Meanwhile, Magali texts me that she’s already having trouble with the rickshaw wallah she found... Even though she doesn’t know Udaipur, she notices he’s not taking the right route, despite her repeatedly saying, “Jagdish Mandir! Jagdish Mandir!” He drives along the lake and drops them off near a small park. She protests, trying to make him understand it’s not the Jagdish Temple with repeated “It’s not here,” but the driver doesn’t care—he demands his 100 rupees, makes them get out, and speeds off. I try to figure out how this happened but can’t... It’s only while writing this that I suspect he heard “Jag Mandir” (a small palace island on the lake) instead of “Jagdish Mandir.” Based on Magali’s description, he probably left them where you take boats to the island... I give Magali some advice but trust her to find her way. As they start walking toward the Jagdish Temple (since there’s no one around), they finally run into another rickshaw. She negotiates it down to 100 rupees, and this time, they reach the right place. She passed her first test as a resourceful (and not too gullible) tourist!

To unwind, they take the opportunity to visit Udaipur’s iconic temple dedicated to Vishnu, the great god of order and creation in the Hindu trimurti. Magali tells me they couldn’t see the deity because it wasn’t visible to devotees while the priests were “feeding” it. Still, they enjoyed a small musical ritual that they really liked. Afterward, between the Jagdish Temple and the hotel, they found a small Krishna temple—Krishna being Vishnu’s most famous avatar—which Magali recognized by his flute. A woman performed a puja for them, sprinkling water on their heads. Finally, they returned to the Red Pier nearby to rest, hand-wash some essential underwear that had piled up in the suitcase, and drop off the bulk of the laundry. Meanwhile, I keep watch over Théo and deal with the medical team, which isn’t always easy...

A little later, Magali and Kelyandre join me at the hospital. I take the chance to head down to the little grocery run by the sweet elderly couple we’ve been frequenting since yesterday. We stock up on cookies, ice cream, chilled sparkling water, chai, and other things—I drink some there or take it to go in a little plastic bag, as is the custom in India. They’re starting to recognize us and Kelyandre, and they’re happy to see us come by several times a day. When they spot us, they quickly wipe down the tables with a dirty rag (another classic Indian move). They ask why we’re here, gradually inquire about the little one’s health, and chat with me about this and that... These little tables by the roadside, near the pot where the chai is always brewing—first water, then crushed cardamom and ginger, black tea leaves, a splash of milk when the mix turns dark enough, sugar, and a few drops of some mysterious essence before the caramel-colored brew is strained and served in cups or poured into bags—become our regular break and social spot when we’ve had enough of the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere. For lunch, Magali and Kelyandre go back down to grab some samosa and pakora and bring some up for me. The couple must be wondering about this odd family that keeps coming in alternating pairs—a white man, a woman, and a mixed-race child, one with braids, the other with curly hair that fascinates them—though they clearly enjoy having us as regulars.

In the afternoon, it’s my turn to head out because I need to find cream for Théo’s diaper rash... The hospital prescribed one that’s making it worse—he seems to be having a bad reaction. On Google Maps, I spot an Ayurvedic shop less than a kilometer away. I set off on foot to find natural remedies and also to get some exercise and explore the neighborhood near the hospital. The beautiful houses with wrought-iron gates mostly display plaques for doctors with high-caste Brahmin or Jain names. I start imagining that our Dr. Janged (whom we’ve nicknamed Dr. Jain—I still haven’t explained why...) lives in one of these splendid villas. There are also big jewelry stores, wedding clothing and sari shops, clearly run by the same communities. Gold, metal, and gem work is indeed a noble and pure activity that has given certain castes of blacksmiths (like the Jangid/Jangi of Rajasthan) a status akin to Brahmins, or to Jains, who, though they claim not to be Hindu, are considered among the highest Brahmins and have influenced their most pious, austere, and pure practices. A large number of doctors naturally come from these castes, which hold knowledge and purity.

I pass a roundabout and finally find an alley lined with multi-story office complexes housing a bit of everything: law firms, real estate agencies, pharmacies, phone shops, various consultants... and the one with my Ayurvedic shop. A guard in uniform points me to a floor, but it’s not easy to find once inside. From the outside, the buildings look fairly clean, though old—like French suburban housing from the 60s-70s. But inside, it’s a maze of gray, dirty hallways where I hardly see anyone, giving the impression of an abandoned building or a creepy underground parking lot... I get another message from Magali asking me to try to find coconut oil or something with chamomile or lavender... First, I need to find the shop! There are stores and offices everywhere, most of them closed, with signs pointing in all directions. I go in circles, change floors several times, and risk taking the terrifying elevators, praying they don’t break down. After checking the address again, I finally figure out the building’s layout, and some men in suits (which clash with the surroundings) point me to what looks like a small office turned into a shop. There’s no one there, but an old man—maybe a maintenance worker—answers in Hindi that the owner will arrive in half an hour. It seems like my visit is a big deal, and he’s doing everything to keep me there. He calls the owner like his life depends on it to tell him a foreigner is at his shop. I decide to take a little walk and come back. A kind-looking man in his fifties greets me. I explain why I’m there. I was expecting a modern shop with tubes of ointment and jars of pure oils, but there are no products in sight... I quickly realize from his explanations that he’s an Ayurvedic doctor who makes his own little bottles of remedies! I know right away I won’t be buying anything—I didn’t come to buy questionable magic potions. Still, he passionately praises the incredible power of his concoctions. I think I’ll find what I need more easily in the tourist area, but I don’t want to offend him since he’s being nice. I tell him I don’t have money on me, that I need to ask my wife, and that I’ll come back later—some excuse to leave. I try to look convinced about the mix he suggests and make my escape, never to return! If I weren’t so fond of these experiences that always teach me something about this country I know so well, I’d probably say I wasted a lot of time for nothing—but that’s never the case. On the way back, I grab some really good chai at a little roadside stall where a group of older men strike up a friendly conversation. Even though the route wasn’t complicated, I somehow take a wrong turn and end up at Chetak Circle, the big intersection that connects to the old city. Though the hospital isn’t far, a rickshaw approaches me. Since it’s so hot, I give in and negotiate a cheaper fare than usual given the short distance.

In the late afternoon, we get a surprise visit. It’s Sukhdeo’s sister, Damayanti, with her husband and one of her daughters—they came to check on us! We’re so touched... Under these circumstances, we get to know each other a bit. She speaks excellent English. She’s a sports teacher and recently earned the title of “Doctor.” Her husband is in the military. She’s as lovely as her brother. She also passes on his apologies—he couldn’t stay with us because of work waiting for him in Jawai Bandh. We explain that he’s already done everything he could for us. They both ask about Théo’s health and look at the little one with compassion. She thinks Kelyandre is bored here and offers to take him to play with her son. We’re really moved by her offer, but Kelyandre doesn’t speak English and wouldn’t feel comfortable far from us in a country he doesn’t know, with strangers who don’t speak his language—which she understands. She also thinks our hospital food isn’t great and says she’ll bring us lunch tomorrow. Then they leave, telling us to meet them in the room at noon. We really owe this wonderful family big time.

This time, it’s my turn to spend the night with Théo while Magali and Kelyandre return to the hotel. In the evening, two nurses come to change the IV bags. They realize the catheter is poorly placed—something we’d pointed out earlier, but they hadn’t really listened. Ouch. Théo had just fallen asleep peacefully, and now he’s woken up for another unpleasant moment... Ripped from his sleep for another round of rough treatment, he screams and cries for a long time. It takes me a while to calm him down and get him back to sleep. The only silver lining is that the catheter is properly placed this time and shouldn’t move. I text Magali, who’s really down and furious at the medical team’s incompetence—so much so that she regrets choosing this clinic. She’s even starting to doubt the treatment’s effectiveness. I try to cheer her up a bit because, even with the hiccups and Théo’s suffering, he’s being well cared for, and his condition is improving after barely more than a day here. In the constant flow of people in and out of the room, a new little man in a white coat—looking stressed like he’s in an emergency—recites a formal, memorized line, asking if everything’s okay and if I have any complaints. I tell him everything’s fine and lie back down on my little bench after tucking Théo in under his blankets.

Full marks for the review—it’s so vivid you feel like you’re there! And a little extra for me, having gone through a (too) long hospitalization in one of Kerala’s (supposedly) best hospitals. In everyday life, all these administrative complications and other hassles are particularly stressful, but when you’re seriously ill and unable to deal with them, it’s downright unbearable. And on top of that, you two weren’t even the ones hospitalized. Your story brought back my own experience.

Yes, that must be really stressful... We're all hooked on this captivating story!!! Hang in there for what's next...

More to come soon!

Hi Anne, You sent me a private message, but when I click "reply," it just spins and spins, and I CAN’T write a single word! You’re not the only one I’m having this issue with. I won’t make any unpleasant comments, but all these bugs on VF are really frustrating... So I’ll send you a private message to answer your questions as soon as I can. Sorry, Pagal, for being FORCED to go through your journal just to reply to a private message that isn’t even from you! 😤

Hi Marien, I sent you a private message to ask for information about destinations in Kerala since you live there. Usually, travelers tend to go to the south of the state, but I think you know the north well. So, I’m rewriting my request here as a public post, hoping you’ll see it! Sorry Pagal for invading your travel journal like this...

At least you're adding content to my travel journal, which I'm really struggling to do right now! 😅

At least you're adding content to my travel journal, something I've been struggling to do lately 😅

You took the words right out of my mouth! 🤯 But I wasn’t thinking of you...[;]

I’ll quickly revisit the leopard reserve. In recent years, we’ve seen two documentaries about it on French TV. Nowadays, many of these documentaries are made by German, British, or American teams and are broadcast worldwide. Once something makes it to TV, its confidential side is gone for good.

A little personal thought: when I read the passage about the "impure foreigners with the evil eye," I quietly thought they were pretty bold—both for "impure" and for "evil eye" (literally and figuratively, by the way). Let whoever understands, understand; I won’t elaborate further.

For young children, it would never have crossed my mind to take them to this kind of country, if only because many adults come back with illnesses some never fully recover from. I don’t quite feel the same way anymore since I’ve observed many families whose trips to Asia went smoothly and who handled it with complete serenity. Besides, I’ve known people who were kept in a bubble by their parents when they were young, and their bodies suffered from not being exposed to enough germs. Still, when a child that young shows strong and persistent symptoms, the only advice is for the family to act sooner than you did and pull out all the stops immediately. Lives have been lost in similar circumstances. Maybe you had reasons not to worry too much—we all depend on our genetic makeup, and perhaps your family’s is particularly robust. That said, it’s really brave and honest of you to have shared all these events in full. It stands in such stark contrast to those who only present the positive side of their stories.

So, we have at least two great "Indian" storytellers on this forum, and it’s truly a pleasure to read you both. A big thank you for sharing!