andamu

"Aaargh!"
The walls in the staff quarters are quite thick, so I doubt that my scream woke the neighbors. The reverberations through the building as I hopped on one leg in the dark to the door to shut up the insistent bell is another matter altogether.

Sliding back the bar and opening the door a sliver, I snake my arm outside to take the sachet of milk from the delivery guy, all the while cursing ... well, a whole list of things.

• Our neglect to hook the jug on the sliding bolt on the outside of the front door last night.
  
• Our lack of a bedside lamp which meant that I ran in the dark to get the door.
  
• The mosquitoes that made placing the coil necessary in the first place.
  
• The sharpness of the thin metal coil stand that sliced into the soft part of my foot when I came down on it.
  
• The neigborhood cats whose greedy, impolite tearing into the milk sachets made it necessary to provide a bag or jug or something into which the delivery guy can place the milk out of reach.
  
• And the delivery guy himself for coming before dawn, and for so insistently ringing the bell instead of just giving up and putting the milk on the floor.
  

Taking the bucket bath that morning was an awkward production. In summer -- or even in winter during the midday hours -- I would give anything for some cool water, but the only time the water from the tank on the roof of the apartment block is cold is on winter mornings.

So first I have to boil the large pot with water on the gas ring, then pour it into the bucket -- careful not to scald myself -- then drag the bucket back to the bathroom. Carefully add tap water -- not too much or it would be too cold for comfort -- and then judge how much of the lukewarm water I could pour over my soapy body by the mugful and how much to leave mpo for his bath or, if the order is reversed, hope that he leaves me enough to complete my bath.

On usual days, this is a matter-of-fact business and, if we thought about it at all it was with thanks that we had this much of comfort compared to the better part of a billion people for whom this would seem like heaven. Today though it is an ordeal since I am hopping on one leg, dripping blood (I don't want to wipe at the cut without thoroughly washing first for fear of wiping dirt into the wound); I won't let mpo manoeuvre the heavy pot of boiling water, especially since it is a traditional vessel without handles so that the entire weight has to be handled with tongs.

Afterwards, the wound now clean, getting dressed provides its own challenges. The safety pins are out of reach from the point where I stood to wrap my sari, and when I hop over to the pins, my pleats pop out from where they were tucked into the petticoat's waist and I end up with a colorful six yard tangle around my feet.

Since I'm the only driver for our Bajaj Classic (a Vespa clone), mpo offers to walk to the campus gate to call an autorickshaw to take us to the campus clinic, but I insist I am capable of driving. After seven attempts at kickstarting the aging and temperamental scooter with the wrong foot on this (relatively) chilly morning, I drive with my leg more or less straight and only my heel making contact on the footboard, like a wannabe goonda (or a Harley in the States), chappal flapping gently in the breeze.

So yes doctor, I know exactly when I had my last tetanus shot, and even where:
IIT Madras,
Adyar, Chennai,
India, January 1999

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If you don't know what a mosquito coil is, or having difficulty visualizing the stand, the images at these sites might help: here and here.