Sobering Up With the Darker Side of India

Invincibility. That feeling you get when your plane takes off from your own country and carries you away to someone else’s. You might still be shaking out some nerves but no solo journey abroad is complete without that instant rush of invincibility. It’s just you, your destination, your project or plan, and the feeling of independence and adrenalin mixes to create a perfect cloak of confidence that carries you the rest of the ride there. Whether many realize it or not, this feeling of command over life and our choices usually stays present on and off throughout the journey and it is one of the main reasons we travel, to see exactly what we’re capable of outside of the comfy place we call home. But, for me,  an overnight stint in an Indian hospital sobered my invincibility high and left me in complete awe of not only my own vulnerability, but the vulnerability of India. The saddest part is that it was not even me who was sick. 

When my roommate Claire spiked an alarming fever, turned yellow, and passed out we (Team Navdanya) took her to the hospital without question. She came in and out of consciousness just long enough for us to learn that she had not been vaccinated for anything before coming to India, not even hepatitis. At first, I was in awe of how quickly she received medical attention, but soon I was horrified at just what type of care defined that attention. One after another nurses prodded her microscopic veins with needles whose packages I never saw, and when an infection inflamed its way up her arm, I wondered exactly where those needles came from. There was no soap, there were no antiseptics, the sheets were stained with blood, and the air wreaked of human waste from the street corners below. Finally, under the haze of some antibiotic anti anxiety IV cocktail, Claire fell asleep just as the mosquitos descended through the broken window of her room. I stayed up with the night biters, praying to the Gods that I never followed to keep me out of a hospital for the rest of my stay in India. It was the first time in a long travel time, that I felt completely vulnerable. And I did NOT care for the emotion. 

The world outside of Clair’s “posh” private room, was a different kind of horror all together. The moans of India’s ailing were everywhere, some sprawled out on mats on the floor looked closer to death than the dogs on the street, who’s bone skinny bodies panting and covered in flies did not stand a chance to the harshness of Dehradun’s street life. And the only thing worse than the patients moaning for help in the hospital, and the dead dogs in the gutter, were the disfigured children on the street-corners. One armed, or one eyed, it didn’t matter, not a single one was healthy or looked as if they would survive the year. I forgot about my own vulnerability instantly at the site of them but couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps this is why India moves at such a breakneck pace. If the vickrums weave in and out quickly enough, and the buses honk their horns loudly enough, perhaps they, and their passengers can avoid those who are clinging to life below...