Day 15, August 7: Udaipur
« The Indian hospital (ity) » (continued)
Today is the first day of Teej, a major annual Hindu festival that honors the devotion and austerities of the goddess Pārvatī to win the heart of her husband, the great god Shiva. Simultaneously, it celebrates the arrival of the monsoon according to the Hindu calendar—a season of fertility and renewal, which is how it got its name, borrowed from a small red insect that appears during this period. For three days, women dress in particularly colorful saris, jewelry, and henna, fast in devotion to their husbands to wish them a long life (especially since being a widow in India is a ritual and social curse) or to hope for a good marriage. In the evening, they go to the temple to honor the powerful Pārvatī with offerings of flowers, fruits, pastries, songs, and dances in her glory. This festival was one of the reasons we scheduled these five days in Udaipur, as the Teej celebrations were described as quite popular when we were planning our trip. But it’s clear we’re off to a bad start to be able to attend.
In the end, Théo slept pretty well despite the brutal new incision in his vein the night before. I received a few worried messages from Magali overnight to make sure he was okay and well-covered so he wouldn’t catch a cold from the air conditioning in the room, which we keep turning up only for the nurses to lower it every time (you might know this Indian obsession with keeping rooms at 18°C when it’s 35°C or more outside—the best way to catch a sore throat). I only see the messages when I wake up at 6 a.m. and reply to reassure her that this second night went well.
In the morning, the nutritionist visits to ask what meal I’d like for Théo. This new ritual in the constant stream of visitors is more pleasant than the others because it’s a sign his health is improving. She suggests boiled vegetables for vitamins and rehydration. I explain that yesterday, he really liked the turmeric vermicelli and the simple dāl with rice and yogurt. Those also seem like the least risky options for him, but I agree we should vary things a bit. I ask Théo, who answers in a still-weak voice that he’d prefer pasta or the dāl/rice. She recommends vegetables instead... On a completely different topic, she informs me she’s learned that the nurses have been asking us to fetch the medications ourselves from the hospital pharmacy since the beginning, which she seems quite unhappy about since it was supposed to be their job. She tells me to firmly refuse from now on. I’m both stunned (though not really surprised) and relieved to hear this—it’s been a huge hassle! But how were we supposed to know when we didn’t understand the system and the medical team asked us to do it ourselves? I think if she’s aware of this, why doesn’t she give them the order herself? She leaves, assuring me she’ll let them know. So we’ve been making all these trips back and forth, taking turns so someone could stay with Théo, and wasting so much time waiting at the pharmacy counter when it wasn’t even our responsibility! Nothing too surprising, though—even at the “American” hospital, we’re still in India. I tell myself the upside is that we’ve been able to control the cost of the medications we had to pay in cash for each prescription, which wouldn’t have been the case if the medical team had handled it—who knows what overcharging we would’ve found on the final bill...
Magali and Kelyandre, now experts at taking and negotiating rickshaws (almost) like seasoned India travelers, come to take their turn around 8 a.m. to relieve me. Magali asks me not to linger at the hotel because Sukhdeo’s sister is coming to bring food for Théo, and since she’s not very comfortable with English, she prefers I be there to receive her. I head down to the parking lot, where I immediately find a very friendly rikshāwālā who accepts the 100-rupee fare without hesitation. At the hotel, the ever-smiling and kind manager asks for news about the little one. I take advantage of this comfort, which we’ve barely used so far, to take a quick bath (yes, there’s even a bathtub!). I do notice, though, that the room is quite humid due to the season and its proximity to the pool.
I leave the hotel as quickly as possible to enjoy Udaipur a bit and reconnect with the feel of this city, which was my gateway to India seventeen years ago and which I’ve revisited many times since. I start nearby at the Jagdīsh Temple, where I have vivid memories that now seem almost surreal in hindsight. Without going into too much detail, during my first trip to India in 2007, I had joined someone who was doing a “Rajasthani dance and percussion” workshop with other artists inside the Udaipur palace. On the last day, their teacher—a fairly influential brāhmaṇ woman—had offered them the chance to dance on the stage set up in front of this most revered temple in the city for the immensely popular Kṛṣṇa festival. I arrived late and found myself stuck in the middle of a tightly packed crowd of hundreds of people literally going wild as these French women performed a short, simple choreography to an old Bollywood song, filmed by local television. I explained to some young men that I knew the girls on stage, and they lifted me over the crowd so I could climb over the barriers and join the VIP platform where I should’ve been if I’d been on time. I watched the rest of the festivities, including an astonishing human pyramid contest, sitting right next to the son of the last Mahārāṇā, the title of the Rājpūt rulers of Udaipur. In the electric atmosphere of that wonderful night, we were then invited to a special pūjā in the temple...
This early morning, those memories overlap on the same nearly empty square as I climb the thirty-two steps leading to the first maṇḍapa (pavilion) I’ve ascended so many times. The Jagdīsh Temple dates back to the 17th century and is dedicated to Viṣṇu in his form as Jagannāth, the “Lord of the Universe.” Its walls and bas-reliefs are covered with splendid sculptures of mythological scenes, some depicting postures from the Kāma Sūtra that would be considered risqué today.
Its structure, studded with deities and mythological figures rising in pillars to the top, reminds me of the temples I visited in Tamil Nadu in 2018.
Four chapels at each corner of the temple’s square enclosure are dedicated to other major Hindu deities: Shiva (Viṣṇu’s destructive alter ego), Gaṇesh (the elephant-headed son of Shiva who removes obstacles and brings prosperity), Sūrya (the ancient Vedic sun god), and Shakti (the divine feminine principle, the active force of the cosmos). At the top of the steps, a statue of the eagle god Garuda faces the main sanctuary of Viṣṇu, which is elevated on the second maṇḍapa. Inside, devotees sit in meditative pauses, gathered around a pūjā performed by the priest for the deity. I join them, sitting toward the back of the room, and try to take a photo—strictly forbidden in the most sacred temples. I’m scolded by some zealous young devotees but play the ignorant tourist card: they let it slide, and I delete the blurry shot anyway.
During this visit, Magali texts me that she’s simultaneously participated in the pūjā of another god: the daily ceremonial visit from our “Dr. Jain” and his team. Great news: the tests are good, and Théo can be discharged tomorrow! He could’ve almost left today, but the doctor prefers not to take any risks and wants to be sure he’s 100% recovered. Magali is greatly relieved, and her grudges against the hospital are somewhat swept away! So are mine—the news lifts a huge weight off our shoulders. I finally start to see the rest of the trip differently. Théo recovered quickly, and this difficult ordeal is almost definitively behind us. We’ll finally be able to enjoy the little time we have left in Udaipur and end our journey as we began it. Well, not quite yet—we still have 24 hours to live through this curious experience of a hospital stay in India...
Unlike the other days, the weather is mild and sunny. In a good mood and with a lighter spirit, I decide to walk the 2.5 kilometers to the American hospital. On the temple square, the scene of donkeys loaded with heavy sacks of rubble, which they carry up the steep streets—a sight that struck me seventeen years ago—is exactly the same today.
Walking down Jagdish Temple Road toward Ghāṇṭā Ghar (the Clock Tower, less remarkable than Jodhpur’s), I peacefully enjoy the lively street scenes of this busy commercial artery.
I keep an eye on both sides of the street because I’m looking for a tailor: the button on my shorts has been coming loose for a few days. I quickly find a small shop where a mustachioed man in his fifties is busy behind his sewing machine. Since he’s friendly and happy that I speak Hindi, he asks me lots of questions, offers me chāy served in a plastic pouch with small cups, and we start to hit it off. He does his job with great professionalism and tells me to pay what I want. I give him 50 rupees and say I’ll probably come back the next day because Magali and Kelyandre also have things to mend. He wishes me luck with the little one, and I continue down Sindhi Bazar, where there are no tourists left even though I’m still in the old city. I cross a particularly colorful vegetable market, which reminds me that beyond its (magnificent) historic quarter overrun with tourists, Udaipur remains a thoroughly authentic Indian city.
I wander past pastry shops, street-food stalls, street scenes, and a strange dumping ground right in the middle of it all... At Delhi Gate roundabout, the old city gives way to wide, congested avenues leading to the new city districts. A different walking atmosphere sets in.
From the tailor’s, it only takes me about twenty minutes, taking my time, to reach the hospital by mid-morning. Just as I’ve barely stepped into the room, I have to go back down—I forgot to buy bananas, which Théo and all of us eat a lot of. Near the rickshaw parking lot, I go to the juice vendor who’s always there early in the morning, but he has almost every fruit available in India except bananas... He points me toward the residential neighborhood behind Residency Road, the main avenue in front of the hospital. I wander through the rather deserted alleys and get lost in the small residential lanes but can’t find anyone to ask. Finally, I find a chāywālā where I stop for a short break. He gives me directions, and after a few more minutes of walking through this almost “upscale” neighborhood, I finally spot, like a mirage, a banana cart and its owners—a very rustic, smiling couple quick to chat and joke. For 30 rupees, I get double the usual amount of bananas for 40 or 50! The heat is rising, and I have to retrace my steps to bring my haul back to the room.
When I return around noon, Sukhdeo’s sister is already there. She came alone this time. She’s prepared ālū gobhī and some delicious chapātī for Théo, which she brought in metal containers with plastic lids. Théo had just received his dāl and rice from the hospital, but I notice that combining everything makes a complete vegetarian thālī! We cut pieces of flatbread for Théo so he can pick up bits of potato and cabbage in front of Damayantī, who’s moved by the scene, just like us. She doesn’t stay long: we chat about this and that, she’s reassured to know Théo is being discharged, and we promise to stay in touch. We tell her we’ll have to find a way to return the containers she brought. Either way, we can never thank this incredible family enough for their help to the very end.
We’ve finished the meager leftovers of Théo’s food, but it’s not nearly enough for the three of us. We check the photos of the long Hindi menu on Google Maps for Swad Café, the small vegetarian ḍhābā that wasn’t very clean but which we liked on the first day, on the other side of Residency Road, across from the clinic. The food is as local as the prices: dishes are around 100 rupees, and the chapātī are 10 rupees. Magali is tempted by something not spicy, so following my advice, she decides on malāī koftā (vegetable and cheese balls in a creamy coconut sauce), and I go for chanā masālā (chickpea curry). I go back up, and we start unpacking the order. Magali tastes her malāī koftā but makes a face: it’s very sweet-salty, creamy, and not at all what she expected. We swap dishes. She finds mine very spicy but still more satisfying than hers. Since Kelyandre isn’t thrilled with what he sees, we make an exception to our promise never to buy anything from the crazy old man at the foot of the hospital who (intentionally or not) scammed us two days ago. It’s better if it’s not me who goes, so Magali heads down. When she starts placing her order with the doddering man, a young guy immediately steps in to handle it. It seems our little altercation got around! We’re the only foreigners in the whole hospital and its surroundings, and the employee must have connected Magali to last time’s incident. Another clash avoided! This time, nothing’s forgotten, and Kelyandre can enjoy his double-cheese veggie burger.
With little transition, I have to leave again quickly for the old city because I need to find a tailor for Magali’s torn kurtī and bring some wipes from the hotel for Théo. I also want to stop by a shop I spotted online on the way because a colleague asked me to bring back a spice mix for biryānī, and some Indian friends in Paris wanted a good bag of Mathaniyā red chilies, known among connoisseurs for their round, sweet taste and vibrant color. Since I like walking, I try the experience on foot again. But the shop doesn’t have what I need. While looking for my way, I realize I’m a bit lost. Then I see a rickshaw stop next to me, and the driver invites me to get in. I hesitate but climb in because I’ve lost some time. When I sit down, he asks if I recognize him: yes, it’s the rikshāwālā who took me from the hospital to the hotel this morning! He recognized me and stopped. What were the odds of running into the same driver, on the same day, at this exact time and place? After all, we encounter so many coincidences like this... Thinking I’d have better luck finding my spices at the market I crossed this morning, I ask him to drop me off at Sindhi Bazar, where I scout around or just wander past the stalls out of curiosity—there’s so much that’s tempting! After asking several vendors, I finally find a spice seller whose goods spill out into the street. He directs me to large jute sacks filled with the Mathaniyā chilies I was looking for. I tell him I’ll come back tomorrow to make my purchases, and he gives me his card.
After scouting, I head back to the hotel. After resting a bit, taking a good shower, gathering the things I came for, and dropping off our dirty laundry at the front desk, I realize I have some time to spare. With the accumulated stress and fatigue from all the back-and-forth, I let myself be tempted by the Ayurvedic massage parlor next to the hotel, Ayurvedic Body Shop, which has been catching my eye every time I pass. I push the door open and am greeted by a woman in her fifties who hands me a menu of services and specifies that it’s “man to man” only. I feel like telling her I know I’m not in Thailand and am familiar with the country’s customs. Even if things seem to be slowly changing due to globalization and social media, Indian propriety generally requires being massaged by someone of the same gender to avoid any sexual services (which completely denies—or pretends to deny—homosexuality). I imagine she has to take this precaution to avoid confusion with tourists used to Southeast Asia who might think it’s the same in India. Since I’m not one of them and only came for a classic Ayurvedic massage, it suits me just fine. There are several options, most between 1000 and 2000 rupees. I choose a one-hour session for 1500 rupees. The woman calls the masseur, who arrives quickly. Contrary to what the storefront suggests, the place is tiny, and the room is divided into small spaces separated by curtains. The service is in line with the vast majority of Ayurvedic massages I’ve had in India: the masseur communicates very little but is professional. I step back out onto the street feeling relaxed and at ease, my mind light.
Back in the room just seconds later, I get another message from Magali saying she has a stomachache, feels nauseous, and is occasionally shaking as if she’s cold (which really isn’t the case...). She thinks it’s the lunch from the ḍhābā that didn’t agree with her... It’s odd because I ate the same dishes as her and I’m fine. The problem with traveler’s diarrhea is that between immediate food poisoning and cases that incubate for two or three weeks, it’s hard to know exactly where or when it came from. Still, she blames her condition on that malāī koftā, just the thought of which gives her chills. It’s time for me to head back. I grab my things and go hail a rickshaw. Like what happened to Magali and Kelyandre the day before, the driver doesn’t take the usual route. I don’t know if he has an alternative route or if he’s just wrong, but it’s not the right direction for now... I keep a close eye on him, and when he starts heading toward the Chand Pole bridge leading to the other side of the lake, I immediately call out to remind him I’m going to the “GBH AMERICAN HOSPITAL”! He’s confused and says he mixed up the hospitals. Fortunately, the detour isn’t huge. He finally takes me to my destination and, recognizing his mistake, doesn’t ask for extra payment—a rare occurrence...
So it’s me again for this third and final night at the hospital because Magali still struggles to understand or make herself understood by the medical team. Kelyandre and she stay with Théo and me for about an hour. Then, like the pros they’ve become over the past two days, they head off to find a rickshaw to go to the hotel. Shortly after they leave, Théo’s meal tray arrives. More dāl and rice! It was really worth the nutritionist coming to ask what we wanted. But it’s fine—it’s a healthy and safe dish that he devours without leaving a single crumb. His belly is full! He even eyes the raw veggies, but despite his begging, it’s out of the question, and I have to stop him from grabbing them despite his protests. I’m actually surprised that, given the risks, the nutritionist included them on the menu... I settle the matter by eating them myself! I should be content with that tonight—I was counting on leftovers, so I’ll have to fast like the Teej devotees. Still, it’s great news that in such a short time, Théo has regained such a big appetite. And that’s not all: he’s started talking nonstop again, just like before. He’s fully recovered!
Meanwhile, things take a turn for the worse for Magali and Kelyandre... They’re still having rickshaw troubles... There aren’t any available in the parking lot. I text her that it’s very likely because of the Teej festivities. They walk down the avenue to try to flag one down, but all the vehicles are packed with people in colorful clothes. To make matters worse, Magali is feeling worse and worse. It takes them a good twenty minutes of waving by the roadside before one finally pulls over. It’s almost full, and the driver asks for 100 rupees, even though they should get a shared-ride discount. She’s not feeling well at all, he won’t lower the price, and she doesn’t argue much. All the other passengers are also heading to the Jagdīsh Temple, where the nighttime Teej rituals, which we’re experiencing in parallel instead of participating in, must be in full swing. As they get off near the sacred site, Kelyandre is hungry. They spot the Old Town Café, right across from our hotel—a very touristy and busy spot with a nice rooftop—where Kelyandre orders his favorite stir-fried noodles to go. The wait is long, and the smell of greasy food makes Magali even more nauseous. She can’t take it anymore. Finally, they’re served, and they quickly cross the street. She runs to the bathroom to throw up everything she’s eaten, then curls up under the covers, shivering abnormally from the cold...
Before I was informed of all these adventures, I take care of giving Théo his treatment before bed. In the late-night stream of visitors, I get the nurses, the cleaning staff, and again the stressed-looking guy who asks if I have any complaints. Magali, completely drained, texts me that I should’ve asked for a refund for the hospital staff’s incompetence!
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...
