Yet Another Travel Journal in this (Too) Familiar Rajasthan, But with Family and Kids (page 7 of 11)

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...