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The magnificence of Petra.

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Awestruck describes me!

Most times, high expectations lead to an anticlimactic downfall. I can safely say that a visit to Petra is not one of those. Infact, it surpasses your expectations and quite literally takes your breath away. Whenever I saw pictures of the famous treasury, I assumed that Petra started and ended there. I did not realize that it is an actual city whose ruins are quite well preserved and akin to Hampi. It showcases the glorious civilization of Nabatheans and their mastery in carving out huge monoliths out of rockfaces.

Apart from feasting my eyes on beautiful haunting canyons and gorges, huge stark stone tombs, and the multi hued desert landscapes, it was there that I realized that I was an ignoramus in the history department and a  snob about twenty first century state of the art life style.

The Nabateans seem to have enjoyed the same pleasures that we do as far back the First century BCE on a much grander scale! I can only imagine the sense of awe that Johann Ludwig Burckhardt, the Swiss explorer felt, when he first laid his sights on the magnificence of Petra.

Petra was founded in the first century BCE by an Arabian tribe called the Nabateans, who made Raqmu (an older name for today’s Petra) their capital.

The entrance to Petra is through a two kilometer long trek through a canyon. Apparently the canyon was formed by a geological fault, split by tectonic forces and then later on smoothed by water.  The Nabatheans made canals through these formations for the flow of water into the city. They also built a dam!

Huge boulders, narrow inways.

The treasury or the ‘Al Khazneh’ is undoubtedly one of the best sites of Petra. At the end of the trek, when you are getting slightly tired of seeing endless bends in the canyon, you suddenly get a glimpse of the treasury. And it is massive. There are a lot of stories about why the treasury was built. Some say that it was used by the bandits to store looted treasure, some others believe that it was a mausoleum, a few feel it depict the calendar, some more believe that the Egyptian Pharaoh used it to store his treasure and the last one goes that it was built for its wow value. The Nabateans apparently wanted to stun anyone who entered Petra with their brilliance and grandeur. They sure did succeed on that one.

The first glimpse

There are multiple trails through which one can explore the city, and we chose one which led to the monastery. For this we walked into the city which was home to more than 20000 people. The city starts with multiple tombs. Each family had a tomb where in the dead could be preserved. Like a home for the dead family members!

Tombs, tombs, tombs.

Beyond these are the royal tombs, which are more intricate and carved in detail.

Then on is the royal street with buildings and palaces on both sides (most of which were ruined during the earthquakes).

Then comes the climb to the monastery. Winding stone steps with canyons as far as the eye can see. Each boulder with a character of its own, tall, bent and moulded by natural forces for more than 2000 years. They appear to be silently witnessing our ordeal of huffing and puffing through the climb!

The monastery at the top is the highest point in Petra. A café, a chill breeze and an almost replica of the treasury welcome us to the top. It almost seemed like the ostentaniousness got replaced by piousness as the Nabateans trekked upwards!

After a cup of sweet mint tea, we trek back, taking with us the memories of what we saw, and wondering how we could possibly explain all that we saw to our family and do justice to its beauty.

I remembered reading a quote by Ibn Batuta which goes “Travelling- it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a story teller”. Petra does that to you!

Lose your way to find it!

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On a hot sweltering afternoon, at the end of our trip to Gokarn, my travel weary bones and a near empty growling stomach made me google the nearest food joint. The search coughed up a few names, among which a French sounding “Chez Christophe” showed up as the closest. We put on the GPS and followed the lady obediently only to end up in a small village with a handful of houses. We had lost our way!

Feeling hopeless, but hungry, we got down and walked up to a group of people asking for the restaurant. The “Krishnappanna hotla?, gottu, ille munde hogi, sigatte!” (Oh Krishnappa’s hotel? It’s right beyond here, just keep going) of the skinny man in a lungi made us feel all the more hopeless. Where was the French guy, we wondered. Or had he sold the hotel to an Indian counterpart? Unfortunately, there seemed to be no place around which could serve a near decent meal, so we decided on taking up the man’s offer to go in search of Krishnappa.

We got off the road, and started walking in through the lanes between the thatched roof houses, separated from each other by makeshift bramble walls. On the narrow foot roads where we had to walk single file, we were occasionally mauled by hens and growling dogs who were disturbed out of their afternoon siesta.

The picture just does not do justice to how it actually looked!

Often in the center of the hustle and the bustle of the cities, the silence of the village in the afternoon seemed eerie at first. But then we began to take in the sights. Of the villagers working their way through their chores, contentedly, house after house.

One backyard had a lady who had set up an outdoor makeshift stove which contained a pot full of bubbling fragrant curry, while she on the other side, was cutting up fresh fish to put into the pot. There were a few cats purring on the side, waiting for any stray morsel coming their way. She stopped, surprised to see us, then waved us on, when we asked her about the hotel.

Another house had a small porch lined up with parrots of a vibrant green, which were being fed by a grandfather and his grandson. The grandfather was explaining something to the child, who was excitedly nodding his head.

A sudden spread of green burst forth, between the houses, where a lone farmer was quietly going about his work. Walking through a stretch of field which was ripe with the produce of sweet potatoes, cowpeas, beans and marigolds made for a great experience for the kids.

A blonde guy was lying peacefully on his hammock humming a small tune, in a hut with graffiti painted walls. But strangely, he did not seem out of place in the middle of a typically Indian village. He blended well with the peace it was emanating.

It was a trek to remember. The peace, the quiet and the sense of zen that prevailed, all but made us forget what we were there for. It felt as though we could go on and on. We felt the “ichigyo zammai” that afternoon. This basically means,(in Japanese) finding happiness in concentrating on the small pleasures of life, one at a time. Without distraction. Without the hurry that we might run out of time.

Our pace slowed, we breathed the air more deeply and even the kids quietly walked down the road. Just experiencing. And assimilating the awesome feeling into our beings. For once, I stopped clicking photographs like a woman on a mission, and just looked around.

At the end of the road was a beautiful beach, unspoiled and clean. And finally Krishnappa’s hotel (which was actually Christophe’s café by the way). And that, was an even more pleasurable experience.

The place is a shack which is probably frequented more at night, and hence was completely ours at that time. The floor is covered with mattresses and cushions, which serve as seating. You can sit and stare at the endless expanse of the sea and hear the rhythmic sound of the waves. A wooden swing sways for the breeze as you munch on yum French food.

Borrowed the photograph, but wanted badly to show the swing!

We finally found the right, motorable road to reach the place. But decided to walk back the same way we came. For the pleasure of walking down the road, which taught us the happiness of just being. Sometimes, you have to lose your way to find it!

Thank you Chez Christophe, and thanks GPS lady!

Ratatouille

Mid Life Crisis??

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What do you do when at the ripe old age of thirty seven, you suddenly develop feelings of confusion about the decisions that you have made in your life?? When you develop cravings, of wanting to do so many things, which in your twenties, you believed that there was enough time to do, but now, realize that you don’t. Have. That . Much. Time. After. All. When you realize that you had not bargained that the amount of time you spent in setting up a cozy home, bringing up kids and settling into your career would slowly, imperceptibly, chip away from the huge block of time, that you took for granted. Where you had planned for a grander scheme of things.

When I read things on facebook which say “Instead of wondering when your next vacation is, probably you should set up a life that you do not need escaping from!” and put this under the heading of “Inspirational quotes”, I want to literally throw something at them!

Nowadays,I seem to be always wanting to escape and do something else. I crave for Saturdays so I can fantasize about Sundays. I crave vacations. I crave for quiet time with my book exactly at the same time when my daughter turns on her needy voice. I crave for work when there is less, and crave for time to laze when there is too much work. Basically, I seem to be in ‘always wanting to escape from here mode’!My normality comes from thinking that this feeling of wanting to do something else and something more, all the time, is what everyone feels and hence, also comes under the heading of what normal should be.

If that sounds strange and funny, coming from a psychiatrist,so be it. I idle browsed  the ever helpful google and found a name for it. Mid life crisis. Assuming that I will die at 74, its just about the right time to develop one. Thank you google, for making me a part of a big cult of people who are, to put it simply, confused. And trying to find some way out of it!

And so, I decided that when in confusion, the best way out was full scale inertia. From hopping from one task to another maniacally, I went to vegetate mode. Not completely. But just doing the basic amount of work that I need to do, and then exist. Hence, the lack of blog posts. Because I am willing myself to slowly clear the confusion that exists in my mind. So much confusions that I was even finding myself making to do lists in my dreams!

Till inspiration finds me, or me it,  my grand plan to stay sane,is to wake up, work and just be. And if some important work comes in between, just do it. Or a summer coming up, just plan a vacation and be done with it. Or if there is a request for a talk, just take it. Or a blog post brimming up into my conscious, just write it. A recipe waiting to be tried, just cook it. A lovely unputdownable book, just read it. Some fun time with the kids, just have it. A new hobby, just try it. An interesting case, just discuss it….Aaagrhhh..I’m back to square one!!

Doctor Diaries.

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There are certain life experiences which come to us, courtesy our professions. Some of them make good dinner table conversations, some put a smile on our face years after they occur and some make us feel a deep pain inside. As doctors,  we see many incidents which have the power to move us beyond what we thought was possible. And such incidents make us richer, wiser and sometimes more cautious. I have always wanted to share a few of my experiences as a doctor first, a psychiatrist next, about how we see the good, the bad, the ugly and the hilarious as a part of our everyday life in the hospital. Hence ,the doctor diaries.

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Of when my idealism died.

Off late, medical professionals  have been viewed more with suspicion and wariness than respect and love. We often hear stories about how doctor so and so ripped off a poor patient, or performed an unnecessary surgery or followed some unethical practice.

As much as I know of most people in our profession, they seem hard working to such an extent that they have no time to even defend themselves in times of crisis. In a day and age, where most media bytes  go to a person who voices the highest decibel levels, we seem to have missed the bus by a mile. A lot of us are excellent clinicians, but poor communicators. Mostly, not our fault. We were never taught that our practice, would one day, turn out to be a war zone with land mines, which we had to gingerly tread through. Do not get me wrong. It is not everyday that we go to work like scared rabbits. We enjoy what we do, and how we do it. But on occasion, fear does seep into our bones. This was one such time.

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon broken by an earth shattering cry, that would have woken the dead. All of us in the surrounding vicinity came out on the roads to see what had happened. What we saw was not a pretty sight. There were two people who had accidentally got electrocuted, lying on the road literally fuming at the mouth. There was this huge crowd gathered around. The stench of burnt flesh was overpowering. I live just across from the hospital that I work in. By the time I made my way through the crowd, I saw that two of our hospital staff had already lifted the victims bodily,and put them into an auto rickshaw.They drove on to a tertiary care center five minutes away for ICU care. The whole episode must have taken around five to seven minutes at most. I was impressed by the immediate action taken by our orderlies and was on my way to praise them, when I was in for a rude shock.

One of the people from the crowd asked us why we had not taken care of the patient. They started accusing us of poor first aid. We appeared confused at first. They must have taken it as a sign of weakness or guilt.

The cause for our confusion, was the fact that, apart from having a time machine to do the needful, we had been as fast as we humanly could. Two of our staff had rushed to find autos on a deserted road to ferry the patients, while two others had helped them into the vehicle and gone to the hospital with them. According to us, we had done all we could and more.Apparently not.

According to the leader of the mob, we needed to check the pulse of the patient before we put him into the auto. The other claimed that we should have done first aid inside our hospital premises before shifting him to an ICU.

We tried reasoning out that time was of utmost importance. That there was no need to check the pulse when the patient looked alive and was breathing. And we shifted him to a tertiary care center only because we did not, as a facility catering to mental illness, have an ICU facility and ventilator support.

Seemingly, all our explanations fell on deaf ears. The crowd kept chanting that we should have checked the pulse. On one level, I knew that they were just out to create a scene. Maybe the shock of seeing a person burn was too much to take. Maybe, they had no idea what to do in case of such a situation.

But on another level, we were scared. Upset that our good intentions were being slandered unnecessarily. Scared that they may abuse us physically.Are really really worried as to why understanding such a simple explanation seemed impossible to them.

Anyway, after a while, for lack of any other logical form of argument apart from the “pulse”, the crowd dispersed. But the hurt remained. That we, (especially our hospital staff who courageously helped the victims without a thought that they may have got electrocuted themselves too) were considered villains even after selflessly doing our best.

It did not matter that half the crowd was totally drunk, and had not moved a muscle to help all through the episode.What did matter, was that a scene was created. And that we looked like the bad people.

In the pat two years, in the small city that I live in, I have seen at least  four hospitals getting ransacked and damaged for some alleged negligence on the part of a doctor, which has later on been disproved. I have participated in rallies held to protect the rights of doctors. The district administration has given us a list of laws and provisions to help us protect ourselves. We now have cctv’s in our hospitals.Despite all of these, the sense of disillusionment remains.

Sort of like, when you have actually done your homework, but forgotten the book at home. The teacher does not believe you, but you want to be believed oh so badly. Standing in front of the class looking like the culprit pains you bad. The pain, that neither your teacher or your friends had the good sense to believe you.Submitting the homework book next day does not really ease your pain. The damage has been done!

And so also in this case.Life  moved on. Work resumed the next day. But every time I pass by the place on the road, I feel a physical pain deep inside me. One for the victim, who was a young man with small children. Two, for my idealism, which died a more cruel death that day.