Sharon Goes to the Hospital

The following day we woke early and moved our things down the street, to a slightly pricier, slightly cleaner, hotel. I had contacted the Cross Cultural Solutions in Delhi and arranged to stop by for a visit after which they would take me to the hospital that they took their volunteers.

I took an auto rickshaw to the Cross Cultural Solutions house, where I was greeted by the director, program staff and office staff. Although I was not very hungry, I accepted their offer for lunch and engaged in conversation about the differences between India and the United States. I asked them about their policy on volunteers giving money to people begging on the streets, which they responded they were completely against because of the criminal element and the availability of social services. The director mentioned how they had found it amusing when Californians had made such a big deal about the blackouts when that is something that Indians have learned to deal with on an ongoing daily basis. One of the program staff even offered to pay homage to a picture of me if I would assassinate the president.

After lunch, I was escorted to the hospital, where I met with a doctor who asked me numerous questions about my symptoms and concluded that since I was feeling better, I should simply continue to take the anti-biotics I had started taking in Varanasi and that I should be fine. As I left the hospital, I found myself frustrated at myself for not speaking up and asking to be tested for Typhoid or Dengue, two of the diseases I’d heard most about travelers coming down with in India that were the most concerning. I was feeling better, but I still had not regained my appetite and was still not feeling completely recovered.

When I returned to Paharganj from the cool, sterility of the hospital, the stench hit me like a brick wall. I immediately felt ill and headed straight for bed, vowing to make the trek back to the hospital the following day if I was still not feeling any better.

The following morning, I still was not feeling back to normal and so I made my way back to the hospital, if nothing else, to see what I had had. This time, the doctor agreed to admit me for testing as well as to hook me up to an IV for some much needed re-hydration. I am not a big fan of hospitals, but I was willing to be admitted because I wanted to know exactly what was wrong with me and also because it was much brighter and cleaner than my hotel room. I settled in on my gurney where I spent most of the day sleeping, woken intermittently to be stuck with another needle or to have the bag of saline, that they were pumping into me, refilled.

When afternoon began moving on to evening, I started to get restless to make it back to my hotel. After numerous attempts, I finally flagged down the doctor who seemed surprised at my anxiousness to leave. I explained that I had a train out of Delhi the following morning and was ready to get back to my hotel to pack. She told me that they had planned to keep me over night in order to monitor my condition and to get the test results in the morning. Being stubborn and maybe not the most practical person on the planet, I had already made up my mind to leave and had no intention of staying in a hospital over night. Besides the inside of the hospital, what I had seen so far of Delhi, was limited to Paharganj and the road between there and the hospital, but I had no desire to stick around to see the rest. The next stop on my brief India tour was Darjeeling, what I imagined to be similar to the French Hill Stations in Vietnam, a slow paced, casual city with a beautiful view, and I was anxious to get there. I was feeling much better and I figured if anything else came up, I could deal with it when I returned to Bangladesh.

With these plans in mind, I promised the doctor that I would call for the results when I returned to Bangladesh and returned to my bed to wait out the next two hours that it took for me to be discharged.

The following morning, Mark and I parted ways. He was to catch a plane back to Dhaka that afternoon and I was on the early train to New Jalpaguri, where I would get a jeep to Darjeeling. Luckily I had given myself plenty of time, because when I arrived at the Old Delhi train station and handed a conductor my ticket, he informed me that I was at the wrong station and that my train was leaving from the New Delhi train station. He said that I still had enough time to make it and that I could get a rickshaw driver from the pre-paid rickshaw stand in front of the station. I thanked him and hurriedly made my way out to the rickshaw stand.

When I walked out of the station, I was immediately inundated with offers for rides. I told them that I was looking for the pre-paid rickshaw stand. One of the men said, “Where are you going? I will take you for cheap.” I told him, “Thank you, but I want to get a ride from the prepaid rickshaw stand.” He was insistent and continued to ask where I was going and offering me rides. When I revealed that I was going to the New Delhi Train station, he said he would take me for 500 rupees.

Knowing that this was an exorbitant offer and set on finding the stand, I continued on, assisted, finally, by a man who acquiesced and pointed me in the right direction. As I walked towards the stand, the man who had offered me the ride of 500, came down to 200 and even attempted to physically pull me away when I came within 10 feet of it of a pre-paid ride.

Shaking him off, I walked up to the stand, where I purchased a ride to the New Delhi train station f0r 80 rupees and arrived at the station with time to spare.