Hernia, bat-o vina..

De cativa ani de zile ma chinuie durerile de spate. Am tot evitat sa ma duc la doctor dar in ultimele luni s-au inmultit momentele de criza in care raman la pat cu spatele blocat si cu dureri ingrozitoare. Un lucru simplu, cum ar fi mersul la baie, devine o sarcina infernala. Cu greu reusesc sa ma cobor din pat si sa ajung la wc. Imi vine sa plang de durere. Ultima oara am stat la pat 5 zile pan am reusit cat de cat sa functionez relativ normal si am putut sa merg din nou la serviciu. Am hotarat intr-un final ca e cazul sa merg la doctor. Me dicul de familie m-a trimis sa fac un RMN, cu suspiciune de hernie de disc. Ca sa il fac far aplata, de fapt redus, nu far aplata, trebuia sa mai astept inca cel putin 4 saptamani. Asa e la noi, platesti asigurari de sanatate pentru nimi sau pentru niste servicii care de multe ori sunt de calitate proasta, iar conditiile de prin spitale sunt mizerabile. La toate astea adaugam si spaga fara de care nu se uita nimeni la tine, nici daca te zvarcolesti in chinuri. In fine, am hotarat sa fac RMN-ul la privat. Daca tot ma urnisem nu am mai stat inca 4 saptamani. Suspiciunea s-a confirmat : hernie de disc. Una destul de urata, cu recomandare de interventie chirurgicala. M-am intors din nou la problema conditiilor mizere de prin spitale si la sila mea de a intra in orice fel de contact cu sistemul medical din Romania. 

Dupa ce am studiat problema si m-am documentat vreo 2 saptamani, m-am hotarat sa ma operez in Ungaria. Tinand cont de banii pe care trebuia sa ii dau pe la noi prin spitale la chirurgi, la anestezist, la asistente etc am ajuns la concluzia ca nu este mult mai scump sa ma operez in Ungaria dar in niste conditii mult mai bune. Singura problema era cu drumul pana acolo. Mai ales la intoarcere cand o sa fiu operat. Am luat legatura cu clinica din afara, unde mi s-au solicitat documentele medicale in limba engleza sau maghiara. Pentru traduceri acte medicale am gasit dupa indelungi cautari un birou langa liceul Hasdeu, destul de aproape de locuinta mea. E un domeniu greu la care se pare ca nu se incumeta prea multi traducatori. Am tradus in engleza interpretarea RMN-ului, recomandarea chirurgului din Romania precum si un set de analize de sange pe care mi le solicitasera cei de la clinica. Totul a fost ok si acum astept programarea pentru operatie. 

A Wedding

Yesterday I went to the nikah, Muslim wedding ceremony, of my neighbour's son. It was held at a community hall around the corner from my house, so I walked. As it turned out, I sat for an hour and nothing happened at all, and the women around me spoke only Malayalam, which I do not. And then there was a huge cloudburst, and Ramesh -- who does not attend any ceremony -- decided that I should be saved from getting soaked. He drove over, I handed my gift to a relative and my good wishes to someone else -- no sign of bride or groom -- and went back home. I missed out on the mutton biryani which was sure to have followed ... eventually ... but it was lovely to drive home through rain. Which stopped the minute we entered the gate.

I have only attended one nikah, in Lahore, Pakistan, when an American Urdu student married a young Pakistani man. So I'll describe that. The names have been changed to protect the bad-tempered:

Mansur's family had accepted Mary, at least outwardly. They had accepted that she brought no dowry -- possibly her American passport was enough -- and they were ready to stand in for her own family in preparing her for the wedding. But they also expected her to act the part.

On the wedding day Mary was in a bad mood. She resented being treated like a doll, having to pretend to be a shy young stranger afraid to raise her eyes before her husband's family. She was being dressed up, and her face slathered with makeup -- Pakistani brides wore more makeup and more jewellry than other people, and continued to wear elaborate clothes for weeks after the wedding. Mansur's sister and two sisters-in-law surrounded Mary where she sat, secluded in a back room, and tried to put on the pink face, the red lips, the black-rimmed eyes, and to give her their own jewellry to wear. It was inconceivable that she would want to look ordinary on her wedding day. But she kept pushing their hands away, and when they were finished she scrubbed it all off.

The men of Mansur's family were traditionally embroiderers. Only Mansur was educated and had left the trade. A friend of Mary's, living in India, had sent her some Benares silk, and she gave it to the family to be embroidered and made into a wedding costume. When it was ready, a few days before the wedding, she found that they had embroidered it in flashy, clashing colours. She refused to wear it. It was too late to start over, and she didn't have the collection of ornate dresses that are part of a traditional dowry. So she bought more silk, had it tailored very simply, and allowed the family to provide the red, embroidered veil.

The family was unable to find anyone to perform the marriage unless Mary converted to Islam. She agreed reluctantly to do so. But when it was done everyone she met, except Mansur, wanted to reassure him or herself that Mary had really undergone a revolution of faith. They would look at her anxiously, and question her about Islam. When the mullah came to perform the marriage he went into the back room where she sat and went through the whole thing again. She was enraged. It was as much as she could do to be polite to him.

Finally, Mary in the back room, and Mansur in the main room with the guests, signed the nikah-nama, the wedding contract. Mansur wore a garland of money and looked happy. Everyone ate a meal and posed for photographs. Mary sulked in the back. Later that night, when they were finally allowed to be together and alone, they set up a camera and took a picture of themselves. In the photograph Mary looked happy for the first time in a week.

Anupam Kher

The actor Anupam Kher interviewed himself on NDTV 24X7, a news channel, on Sunday night. He said that once his car was stopped at an intersection in Bombay, waiting for the light to change, and a little girl came over to beg. She laid her cheek against the window, to feel the coolness from the air-conditioner inside. Then she forgot to beg, and fell asleep, leaning against the car. He said, "It made me cry. I'll never forget that image."


I've discovered a well-written blog here in my adopted city: Coffee House. (We of Tamil Nadu love our coffee. It's the best in the world. If any Starbucks customer drank Kumbakonam 'degree' coffee from even the cheapest place here, he / she would faint with pleasure.)

p.s.: I'm moving a comment from the erudite Language Hat here -- something I wondered about, but never knew:

In case anyone else is wondering what "degree coffee" is, here's an explanation (from http://forumhub.com/southfood/28317.16.40.38.html):

Degree Coffee: There is a device that measures the density of milk. It looks like a tiny thermometer floating inside an eye-dropper (or ink filler). Milk with certified density is called degree milk and the coffee made with it is called the degree coffee. Since it looks like a thermometer and thermometer measures in degrees, people thought the quality of milk is also measured in "degrees".

Sadly the sanitary inspectors of TN no longer carry these manometers anymore and spot check the milk density in restaraunts, and very few people are even aware that there exists a device that can measure the density of milk using just a few drops of the sample.

Buddha Poornima

Today is the birthday of Gautama Buddha, which is celebrated on the full moon in the month of Vaishakh. Here are two poems in his praise from Sanskrit Poetry From Vidyakara's Treasury, translated by Daniel H. H. Ingalls:


May that victorious moment of the Buddha save you
when the soldier Mara, weapons rendered impotent,
screwed up his courage to that pitch
where, angry, he would swallow up the sacred head,
but then within a jewel of the wondrous crown
did see his own wide-open-mouthed reflection,
at sight of which his courage failed.

--Sri Pasavarman


For whom the thousand shining eyes
of Indra falling at his lotus feet,
fulfill the rite of offering
a wreath of dark blue waterlilies;
for whom the rays of wondrous light
from diadems of prostrate gods
compose a new and saintly robe; may he,
the Sakya Saint, protect you.

--Vasukalpa

Paanwala

Someone I know went to Bombay for a visit, and reported back:

Everyone in Bombay goes out for dinner. Then they go to Muchhad (pron. MOOCH-ard) Paanwala and eat paan, he has his own website, he sits all day in dhoti with a so-big moustache. Then the whole city goes bowling, or they play billiards. They’re all talking on their cell phones, from the age of eleven onward. Then they go to bed. Bombay is like that.


Yesterday I found the website of Muchhad Paanwala, which means Mustachioed Paan-maker. He is framed in this picture by a paan leaf. And he does indeed have a so-big moustache:


His father Shyam Charan Tiwari established the shop thirty years ago. The shop was named Muchhad because his father Shyam Charan Tiwari had mustache so big and long that it touched his ears. And now it's become a family tradition, all the four brothers have long mustache...

They believe and treat their customers like God. They keep personal and family like relations with their customers and believe in giving the best service to them. And all the ingredients that they use are very pure and genuine without any mixing...


Paan is a small packet made of a special leaf, wrapped around various ingredients – according to your taste -- and chewed. It is supposed to be good for digestion. The smell of gulkand, a rose jam which is an ingredient in sweet paan, is one of the most characteristic smells of India for me. The marks of paan-reddened spit on walls and footpaths are a common sight in the North.


The thirteenth century manual for dancers, Abhinayadarpanam, “Mirror of Gesture,” includes a graceful gesture for folding a paan leaf and offering it.

The accessories of paan can be beautiful: betel nut cutters,


and paandaans – the compartmented boxes in which paan is kept:


The amazing book Lucknow: The Last Phase of an Oriental Culture describes the ornate decadence of Lucknow just before its overthrow as a result of the 1857 Indian Mutiny. There are sections on Lucknow's diversions: poetry, story-telling, bird- and animal-fighting, pigeon-flying, kite-flying, music, dance, food, forms of headwear... and the eating of paan.

About the paandaan the author writes:

... In the boxes are two metal cups to contain kathha and lime, and three smaller, equal-sized receptacles for cut nuts of various kinds. All of these are arranged in a circle, in the middle of which is another small container to hold cardamoms or cloves... There are tiny spoons for the kathha and lime... Placed over all these containers is a large tray... in which raw betel leaves are placed, wrapped in a damp cloth....

The size [of the paandaan] began to increase until it came to weigh as much as twenty to forty pounds. At the same time it became necessary for ladies to take it with them wherever they went. Just as ‘the larger the turban, the greater the learning,’ so the larger the betel box, the greater was the status and grandeur of the lady. Eventually the betel box took up all the space in the palanquin and there was no room for the lady...


When we buy paan nowadays, we either take it from the hands of the paanwala directly, or have it wrapped in leaves or aluminum foil. That way, there's still plenty of room in the palanquin.