Safe but saddened

My sister Lani and I were sitting in a seaside restaurant on the southwestern coast of India in a historic town called Fort Kochin. As I spread my soft boiled eggs over my toast and drank my chai, we looked over at the water.

"Hey, Rafi," she said. "The water's moving really quickly, isn't it?"

It was true, there was no doubt that the water was moving more quickly than usual, and seemed unusually high too. Our service at breakfast that Sunday morning was nonexistent as all of the waiters in the empty restaurant were looking at the water in a startled sort of way. There was nothing frightening happening. No waves, no flooding. Just the water, rushing by. It almost seemed like it was running from something, with large bunches of seaweed speeding on in its midst.

Later in the day, as we were touring around some of Kochin's quiet streets and historic sites, we were informed by the proprietor of the store we were in that there was an earthquake that morning in the Indian ocean. "But no problem!", he said. "Middle of ocean! No one hurt!", he added a smile.

We heard other local reports after that. The famous Chinese fishing nets of Kochin, which when raised hang a good five or six feet above the water, had small waves rushing over them. Boardwalks and docks got a needed washing. It all seemed so innocuous. It was easy to marvel at the crowds of locals gathered standing on the docks, watching the quick waters and the choppy waves.

It started to seem more serious when the harbor became filled with massive ships that were seeking shelter from the turbulent seas.

Later on that day we started to hear the numbers, a phenomenon that from that point on brought the whole situation out of a local lens and put it into terrifying international focus. 1,000 in India. 1,500 Sri Lanka. Etcetera. At first we were saddened at what we thought was a minor natural disaster, and part of me even just marveled at the idea of a tsunami. Any sense of wonder and awe that existed on that first day in Kochin has been quickly dissipated and replaced with horror.

At first I didn't see anything. It was just those numbers. The first night the total was at 3,000. Then 8,000. 13,000. 25. 55. At one hundred and twenty thousand yesterday I began to fail to comprehend the magnitude of the disaster, and my heart has been aching at the loss of these people that I've never met. I started to allow myself more exposure to the news, seeing the pictures and the destruction, hearing more numbers, constant numbers, watching computer simulations of the event that begin at the earthquake epicenter and show quarter inch curved lines move across hundreds and thousands of miles taking on different colors as they hit land.

I feel lucky that I and everyone I know here in India are safe and healthy, and that even though I was travelling much farther south than my usual routine in Bombay I found myself unharmed. I hope that this can be taken by everyone in the world as an opportunity to give help to a region that will be recovering from this for decades. If anyone reading this doesn't know how or where to give, my organization, American Jewish World Service, is providing relief and is accepting and funneling aid to where it's needed. I send my love to all my family and friends out there, and am wishing everyone a happy and healthy new year.

Indian stomach sickness strikes again!

I wake with a start, my alarm bleating out its amelodic notes. I try to reach over and slam the snooze button, but I find myself in an awkward position. My head is on the pillow, but my body is parallel to the head of the bed. It's not the first time I've woken up in this same nonsensical pose. My wall of windows faces East so that the dawn sun scorches my feet. I've somehow taken to moving during my sleep to become an odd heap at the head of my bed. For some reason I refuse to close my curtains, there's something about waking up with the morning sun, scorched feet or not, that I find essential to my well-being here in Bombay.

My alarm eventually silences itself. I swing out of bed and into the shower. It's cold, of course, but I'm not going to argue with the lack of water heaters in this country. At least not until it starts showing any signs of cooling down, which hasn't happened yet. This is the warmest November of my life, consistently a sweltering ninety five degrees at peak sun.

After a quick shower and shave, it's time for my Muesli. Yes, my flatmate Zach and I are obsessed with this rolled oat cereal medley of Swiss origin, it seriously gets you through the day. Laugh all you want.

I finish my cereal, slurp my milk, and start to head out the door. A little bit of nausea creeps up on me, but I hardly take notice; funky stomachs are more than commonplace in India, and they have a tendency to strike in the morning and fizzle out as the day goes on.

I'm sitting on the bus on the way to the train station, still accompanied by my morning nausea. I rule out the possibility of pregnancy and try to think back to what I'd eaten the day before. I come up empty, but trying to figure out the roots of stomach aches in India is an effort in futility. In the end, you're still going to be ‘paining’, as the Indians say.

I hop off the bus, but feel my energy waning. I wade through the sea of people in front of the train station and take a look at the ticket line. It's snaking around the block with no end it sight, and I'm thankful for my monthly train pass. At two US dollars it might be the best deal in town.

By the time I make it to the platform my stomach has done eight somersaults, and I'm holding my sides. Bandra station has the advantage of having some trains originate on its tracks, and I'm thankful for a second time. Trying to find a seat on a Bombay train is yet another effort in futility; it's a luxury that one pretty much only gets on a fresh train. I step onto an empty car for the second leg of my commute downtown, grab a seat at a window, and close my eyes.

Over the course of my forty five minute ride I'm oblivious to everything around me. By the time the train pulls into my stop at Churchgate station I'm completely out of it, and an Indian man taps me to let me know it's the last stop.

I hobble off the train and begin my walk to work. It's close, leaving me thankful for the third time in one morning. On account of my stomach, I decide to forgo my usual morning coconut. It’s one of those daily routines that consistently makes me happy. People not only slow down but stop entirely to wait for the coconut walla to slice open the top of these large green fruits, their water dripping down the sides. They stand in front of the coconut stand drinking the sweet water till the shell is hollow. Something about the whole phenomenon warms my heart, and today I look back somewhat yearningly at the stand after I pass it and walk into the college where my NGO is housed.

I work my way up the stairs to the library where my organization has its sole computer. I sit down and attempt to continue some research I've been doing on NGO's working in the Jammu and Kashmir region, but I can't concentrate for the life of me. The Indian stomach sickness is famous for accompanying its aches with a serious dose of delirium, and it's hitting me hard. Head reeling and body aching, I decide that it would be a fine idea to find a quiet corner of the library and put my head down. I shut my eyes lose consciousness before I know it.

I'm awoken with a start again, and this time it's the librarian bleating instead of my alarm clock. I have a couple of moments where I don't know where I am or who's talking to me. I get the message quick though, I can't sleep in the library. I tell her that I'm sick, but I'm not getting any sympathy. Through my foggy consciousness I decide that it's time to go home.

My stomach isn't in the mood to cooperate though, and I soon find myself running to the bathroom to watch my muesli smack violently against the sides of an Asian toilet. Unfortunately, that's not the only thing it smacks against. The lack of standing water at the bottom of Asian toilets means that the splatter effect is high, and the bottom of my jeans become speckled fast. My patience for illness begins to wear thin, but I don't have enough energy to be bitter. I dump a couple of buckets of water to clean up the mess.

I let my coworkers know that I'm sick and head back to the train station, not looking forward to the ride home. Commuting here takes a good bit of energy when you're 100%, and when you're at fifty it's no fun. As I walk to the station I pass by the usual plethora of street stalls, hawkers and beggars, but today I’m in no mood. I usually try to respond to vendors with patience and panhandlers with compassion, and today look to my reserves but come up empty. It’s not a good feeling.

I board my train back to Bandra and through my delirium think of my bed. All I want right now is to be home. Maybe more specifically, I don’t want to be dealing with Bombay in all its glory.

My trip back home is relatively uneventful. I wade back though the crowd of people outside the station, and marvel at the line that’s still snaking its way around the block. It’s amazing that even in the early afternoon the density of people in this city barely changes.

I hail an auto rickshaw, the small vehicles resembling bumblebees with their black and yellow exteriors and buzzing engines that dominate the roads of North Bombay, and within a couple of minutes I’m home.

Zach barely has time to ask me why I’m home early before I pass out on my bed. I’m out for a long time, but not out cold. I wake up every couple of hours and, still in a haze, assess my symptoms. As night approaches my stomach ache and delirium wane only to be replaced by a fever and a splitting headache. I get out of bed for a bit, have some plain pasta, and head back to sleep once again.

I wake up in the morning and I’m amazed. No fever. No headache. No stomach ache and no delirium. It seems that Bombay hit me like a tornado, hard and fast but then gone before I knew it. I’m appreciative and happy as I head for the door and towards the bus.

India teaches me a lot, my lesson this week was to try not to take for granted my health and to realize how connected to my well being on the whole it really is.