Not in Kansas Anymore

I know I promised y'all a post about funeral customs next but I'm going to write about everyday life in Mysore instead because I've had a couple of emails from people asking me about it. Besides, I thought it'd be a nice change for all concerned if I didn't write about death and my feelings of fragility -- so instead I'm going to switch back into cultural analyst mode.

Today, the big excitement is that we finally -- I hope -- have a maid again! I know how strange this will sound in Canada but it's impossible to manage in a place like this without someone to come in and do the chores for you. At least, it's impossible for me. And it's impossible for pretty much everyone I know -- of course, there's a class component to this: labour, especially women's labour is incredibly cheap here but it's also the everything-takes-more-effort setup of daily life here. Unbelievable amounts of dust come pouring into the house so it has to be swept at least once, but ideally twice, a day and the floors need to be swabbed to lay the dirt for a while. I haven't seen a dishwasher here, and there's no running hot water so imagine the quantity of dishes that pile up in a family household, with 4 or 6 or 8 people eating three meals a day and drinking numerous rounds of coffee and serving drinks and munchies to all the people who drop by. Also, there are generally no microwaves or ovens or even ranges so everything is cooked on two gas rings that run off calor gas cylinders. My family has the most antiquated washing machine you ever saw, that can only handle being run once a day (if that) because of how much power and water it sucks up -- water is "let out" by the city corporation between midnight and 3 or 4am and gets filled into a tank on top of the house. If your tank runs out during the day, oh well, too bad. I know lots of women who stay up till midnight to fill up additional buckets with water because their water tanks are too small or they're expecting guests who'll need extra water. Add things like bucket baths using hot water that's heated in an (electrified) copper water boiler, power outages at least twice a day, garbage that gets picked up only when the garbagemen feel like it, milk that needs to boiled and cooled before it can be used, and in our case, a family car that's older than ! am.... and is slowly falling apart (I kid you not -- yesterday, the rim on the inside of one door fell off!) and you get the idea of how ramshackle (my) life here is. Everything seems to be held together with string and cello-tape and I can't help worrying that the wheels are about the fall off altogether.

This isn't -- of course -- what everyone experiences in India or even in Mysore. It's possible to live here and at least inside your home or hotel room, not realize that you're not in Kansas anymore. Since the early 90s, a class that I'm going to call the New India has grown up around globalization and the tech and service industries in particular. This is a class that has access to the kinds of disposable income that my grandmother could never have imagined. They are for the most part young and English speaking and have grown into adulthood already entrenched in consumer culture. Apple's IPhone just launched in India, for instance, and it's certainly catering to this demographic. They have expensive (if usually bad) taste, drive new motorbikes or cars, eat out a lot and tend to live in the "Metros." A slightly older class of people who've benefited from globalization are those who've seen their property values go up -- increasingly, globalization has meant industrialization and the further movement of rural populations to urban centres and this new population needs accommodation. At the same time, the New India is reluctant to remain in joint-family living arrangements so there's more demand for smaller, single family living spaces. So apartment buildings -- unusual outside cities such an Bombay even as late as 15 years ago -- are going up everywhere, municipal facilities are failing to keep up with skyrocketing demand and property values in most urban locations have gone up exponentially.

Rest in Peace

So the end is here: my grandmother Kama died a few days ago. She was in a lot of pain and half unconscious for the last few days – and when she could speak, she’d said that she wanted to go – so there are no regrets from her perspective. It’s those of us who are left behind now who have to figure out ways of going on living. I’ve been lucky so far in that I’ve not had to deal with someone this close to me dying… but now I don’t know how to cope. Every morning when I wake up and remember that Kama is dead, that that’s the reason why I’m here in India – well, it hits me all over again. Right now, I can’t see how to reach “normal” (whatever that was) again. How does one cope with death anyway? Is there a route back from here?

It hasn’t helped that it has been chaotic here since, well, it was pretty chaotic when she was in the hospital, too. But death brings with it a frenzy of activity that momentarily takes your mind off the actual fact of having lost someone forever… and that’s what the last few days have been like. There’s the sheer physicality of having to deal with a body – suddenly transformed from a living breathing person with a personality into merely a thing – the minimum shastras (religious rites) that have to be performed, pictures selected for obits and a ceremonial lunch organized for next week to mark her passing.

I’m a heap of relief (that she is not in pain and that we don’t have to see her so), guilt (were we right to wish for a quick end for her?), sadness (because she’s not here anymore) and anger (I can’t explain this one… I just know that I’m angry with the world). You can imagine what it’s like living in close proximity with five other people who are as upset as I am: and the thing about India is that you get no space to yourself – everyone is with you all the time, they’re leaning on you and hanging onto you and touching you when all you want is to be left alone. This is bad enough when you’re on holiday but it’s a million times worse when you’re dealing to deal with emotions. I suppose people derive comfort from each other at times like this but it’s not my way to share my grief with people I don’t know intimately (and just because they happen to be relatives or have known my family for eons does not make them my intimates) – and I don’t know how to tell all the relatives and family friends who insist on visiting and calling and crying and hugging that all I want is some peace and quiet, preferably in a nice dark room somewhere far away from everyone here!

I can't bring myself to write about it yet but my next post will be on the funeral rites – I’ve never been to an Indian funeral before so I found it all fascinating. Maybe I’m truly an academic at heart but thinking about it in terms of how and why the customs are what they are was one way of distancing myself from what was going on.... I’m still not ready to deal with the fact that my grandmother doesn’t exist in any knowable form anymore.

Tragedy and Comedy on Independence Day

Yesterday was Independence Day and was it ever celebrated all over the place! I've got lots to say about nationalism in the New India but that'll have to keep till I can find the videos I want to link to on youtube!

It’s been a week since we arrived in India and it feels like its been forever. Today’s the first day I’ve actually been home and had time to think since we arrived here: I’ve been home (cleaning up the disaster zone this place has become but still home alone and those of you who’ve followed my adventures in India last year know how rare that is!) all day and have realized that this is what purgatory must feel like. Waiting for someone you love to die is horrible but the tragedy of it all is undercut by the low comedy of “life must go on.” When a crisis lasts a day or two, you get by on adrenaline alone – and who cares if you’ve not changed. But this has been over a month and so there’s food to be procured or produced for six, not to mention clean underwear and beds for different people at different times.

We’ve only been here for a week but its been a critical week – I can’t believe how fast the cancer is eating away at her. I know she’d made a special effort to hold on till we got here and for a couple of days after that she didn’t seem to be in too much pain. She talked to us, haltingly perhaps, and certainly responded to us talking to her. In the last few days, though, she’s begun to sink markedly…. She seemed to spend longer and longer periods asleep, which we thought was a good sign but now the sleep is more like a stupor and I’m not sure she’s even aware of us. She’s certainly not responding to conversation or to touch – it’s heartbreaking to see her lying there more or less blankly, though this is, I suppose, better than seeing her restless from pain and in real distress. There were a couple of bad days in between when she was in pain and moaning out loud, which nearly drove me around the bend as I sat there holding her hand murmuring that it would alright when I bloody well knew that it wouldn’t ever be alright for her again.

Of course, it hasn’t all been tragedy though – I’ve been taken for a “real” doctor by one of the real doctors attending to her. Hospitals in India are quite informally run – and given that my mom’s medical standing in Mysore, we’re consulted as to my grandmother’s care to an unbelievable degree. So yesterday was when I became a “real” doctor: I was alone at the hospital and but had been left with instructions as to what to ask the consultant physician who was supposed to be doing his “rounds” that morning. Gramma is in a teaching hospital so consultants arrive for their rounds with a gaggle of respectful medical students and junior doctors in various stages of their careers. So in walks the great man. Nods all around. Then:

Great Man: “How has she been?”
Me: “She’s now asleep, sir, but she’s been in pain all morning and we’re wondering if she should be on medication for it?”
GM: “Yes, yes, what does your mother think?”
Moi: “Well, we talked about giving her Pethidine….” [
GM, nod, nod. “Yes, yes, terminal cancer patient. No point worrying about addiction. Pethdine, huh? Why not morphine?”
Me: “She’s allergic.”
GM: “Hmmm, I see, I see.”
Me: “Perhaps a 50mg dose, but only to be given when she’s actually awake and in pain?” [parroting my mother again].
GM: “Yes, yes, I’ll write it up for the nurses.”
Me: “Thank you, sir, we just want to make sure she doesn’t suffer.”
GM: “Quite right, terminal case but no need for distress. OK, doctor.”
I thought perhaps I’d misheard or that he’d just not realized what he’d said. Until… an hour later, he popped his head into the room (followed by heads of a few of the entourage) to say: “One more thing, doctor, make sure the dose is signed out from the Chief when he’s here – he handles all narcotics personally – so you can administer at night if you need to.”
Me: “Er, sir….”
GM: “That’s it, that’s all I came to say. OK doctor.”
And GM and entourage all back out while I stand there trying not to laugh.

Here and Now

Since there’s no positive change to report, I thought I’d amuse myself by recording a few of the things making the news in Mysore these days: this stuff is all gathered from The Times of India (major Indian newspaper – think Globe and Mail), the Deccan Herald (slightly more regional daily – Halifax Chronicle, perhaps), the Bangalore Mirror (sort of Metro meets Now) and the Star of Mysore (I can’t think of what to compare this to – it’s an earnest local evening paper)…. We seem to subscribe to all of them and these days, as I sit by my grandmother’s side for hours on end, reading a newspaper from cover to cover is one of the few things I can do. So:

India’s richest temple – in Tirupati, which is a famous pilgrimage site – owes back taxes to municipal, local, state and federal governments to the tune of $30 million. The best part about this is that $19 million of this is for “human hair sale.” Read all about the Tirupati temples here!
(I should add that people go to the temple and donate their hair as a penance or out of gratitude or whatever and the temple then sells this…though I’m not sure what all that hair is used for!)

“Indian Viagra” works on eves too.
(I’m not making this one up: it’s a headline from the Deccan Herald. I’m not sure whether to be amused or appalled but since we’re in India, I’ve settled on being annoyed. An eve?! Please.)

Unmarried couples will not be rented rooms in premier hotels in Bangalore, apparently because of “security” concerns in the wake of serial bomb blasts in the city. As a hotel manager put it: “we do not want hankying and pankying in our rooms.”
(There have been a couple of letters protesting this in the Bangalore Mirror, which ran a cartoon wherein a receptionist was admonishing a couple obviously in desperate need of a hotel room – “Yes, you each have your ID and marriage certificates but you need to be married to each other.” Also, I really want to know about the unpremier hotels - is "security" not a issue there?!)

Fusion cuisine has arrived in India – in the form of vodka panipuri and cheese-mango shakes.
(I might be tempted to try the vodka spiked panipuri if I had the chance but a mango shake that has sliver of Amul cheese shaved onto it – urgh! Amul is a local brand name and it makes this (in)famous plasticky cheddar-like cheese.)

And last, this headline comes from today’s Star of Mysore: “Bangalore to get Astrology Mall.”
(Apparently this mall, which is set to open in September, will offer one-stop shopping with soothsayers, astrologers, numerologists, tarot-card readers and palmists all under one roof. Moreover, this is clearly just the beginning – there are plans to open “satellite” malls in other parts of Bangalore shortly.)

That’s all for today. I’ll be back with more in a few days. Email is harder to respond to than to update the blog (because of the slowness of the connection and its frequent outages) but I promise, I’ll get respond to all of your emails soon.

Arrival

I know it’s only been 5 days since we left Toronto but I’m feeling as though several lifetimes have passed. For one thing, arriving in India always hits me like a physical shock – you travel for hours, you’re exhausted from the plane and the airports you’ve passed through, you’re finally there and India hits you in a combination of humidity and smell (exhaust fumes, perspiration, and dust). Not in a bad way, just in a very distinctive way. BUT this time, as we arrived in the brand new Bangalore International Airport, neither the mugginess nor the smell hit us! South India is in the mild throes of the winter monsoon and when we emerged out of the airport at 1:30am, it was into a beautifully cool evening. Even before that though, the airport is one of… the airports of the world: all glass and light, gleaming shiny floors and aircon, plants in tall pots, and for someone who’s been arriving at the old HAL airport in Bangalore for ages, it’s a real shock to the system!

Because this is India, which is only really held together by spiderwebs of friends and relatives, we were met by a family friend and my cousin. We emerged blinking to find my cousin waving his cellphone at us, since he was just on the phone to the hospital, where our arrival was being as carefully monitored as though it were a situation room! Since my darling grandma was awake and waiting, we drove straight there from the airport – this will possibly remain in my memory as one of the best rides I’ve had in India: speeding through the empty streets late late at night creates a certain drama of its own that sustains you through the exhaustion of the past few hours. And anyone who’s been anywhere in India will recognize the rarity of empty streets. Though there were signs even on that drive of the heightened state of tension that the South is in following the bombings in Bangalore a few days ago: our taxi was stopped by sweatered and scarved police officers (it’s 20 degrees – practically freezing, dontcha know?!) who wanted to know who we were and where we were going. The check was rudimentary, involving as it did the noting of the cab’s number and the driver’s name but still… the fact that it happened at all (a first for me) is a reminder of the New India. By the way, the luxury taxi cab – hired for the night, basically and including the return trip from Bangalore to Mysore – cost us a whacking $110. Plus a gratefully received $5 tip for the driver.

So we got to the hospital at 4:30 in the morning – I know, I know – very soap opera but it wasn’t really like that – hospitals in India are still evolving so the fact that my mom and her brother and sister were all with their mother in the hospital at 4:30 am is not that surprising. So we went in, after being warned of what to expect, and visited with my grandma for a while. I can’t begin to articulate how awful it is to see her like this – hooked up to oxygen tubes and what not, her hands and feet swollen, her face folded in and her eyes set in deep dark hollows of misery and exhaustion. There is no drama here – only sadness. I’ve now spent hours sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, trying to figure out what she’s saying when she can mouth a few words, trying to distract her from the pain and discomfort… all of this is just excruciating for her and miserable for us who wait with her. The hospital she’s in here is one of the best in the city but it’s an Indian hospital, which means that she’s in a “Deluxe Private” Room – these rooms have a bed for the patient and an extra bed for an “attendant” as someone is expected to stay with the patient all the time. We’re also expected to provide her food (and ours!) and to monitor the IVs and medicines and just call the nurse when there’s something to be done – like changing the IV. To be fair, my grandmother is getting royal treatment here because my mother used to be a well known doctor in Mysore (20 years ago and that, m’dears, still means something here!) and she knows all the doctors here and so on. In fact, we’ve been given the unheard of privilege of having another “Deluxe Private” room which is currently not needed set aside for our family to use – we take it in turns to nap there, eat takeout food in it and so on. I can’t imagine a setup like this anywhere in Canada! Not the “attendant” allowed – no, required – to stay with the patient nor anything else.

But nonetheless, I hate it. I hate the sense of bareness about this best of the options hospitals (I’ve discovered that I have a lot of faith in the technologies so easily available in hospitals in the West – there’s no such thing as a crash cart here; there are no intercoms or call buttons; the nurses have to call down for the one oxygen meter when they are asked to check oxygen saturation levels (and trust me, this is not a complicated or expensive machine!)… everything feels pared down to the basics, which in general is a good thing because I think medicine in the West is too mechanized and too dependent on technology as opposed to trained diagnosis etc but this… this is a little bit too much bare-foot-doctor for my tastes). More on this theme later, I’m sure, because it’s something I find interesting – after all, I wrote about this in my thesis!

More than anything, though, I hate her helplessness, I hate ours and this sense of just sitting there waiting for death to come and relieve her. It’s so cruel that after all these years of enduring life, she has to go through this. That there is no hope of recovery makes it all the harder to bear for everyone – it’s impossible to not resent this phase when there is no chance that she will get better. “Better” at this point is counted in a good hour here or there.

My “break” at home is over so I’m off to the hospital again. I’ll write more soon. In the meantime, please keep the good vibes (and emails!) coming – they’re my only link to my normal (whatever that is) life in Toronto!

I leave today; I'm packing light, a suitcase and some toiletries....

It's true: I do leave today and I am packing light. I didn't think I'd be returning to India this fall and certainly not to Mysore or with the shadow of my grandmother's illness hanging over me. But some things are beyond prediction or anticipation: we can only respond to things as they happen. I returned last week from New York to find that my imperious, indomitable (and I truly mean that: she was the one who ruled her family -- seven younger sisters and a brother to start with!) grandma is terminally ill; since then, I've been desperate to get on a plane and go to her. There were complications, of course, with visas and tickets but we're all set now. The Brother comes with me and we fly out in a few hours. I'm going back to the blog because it's going to be the easiest way of keeping in touch with y'all over the next few months and because I'm hoping (selfishly) that writing through my experiences in Mysore will help me to deal with them.

In the meantime, I want you to meet my grandmother, Kasturi Sivaswamy. That's her up there. She means the world to me: until I was seven, I (we) lived with her while my mom and dad bounced around the world practicing medicine and doing other doctorly things.

I know it's going to be a hard trip back and nothing like the last one but I'm telling myself that it's only during the hard times that we actually learn to deal with life as it happens and not as we shape it. I've already learnt that it's pretty easy to pack up a life: I'm on leave from SSHRCC, my place is sorted out and I have nothing else to keep me in Toronto. This is both terrifying and manifestly, a good thing right now. Also, I now know how little one actually needs to take on long journeys: "a suitcase and some toiletries," as the song goes.

Send me strength and patience, won't you all? I have a feeling that I'm going to be needing a lot of those two over the next little while.

'Bye, Toronto. At least for now.