Sunstroke is Srisailam

When I first arrived at my new families house with Goldy, Reena's younger brother, I had to wait out on the porch while Sweety, Reena's older sister, performed her house guest pooja that involved enveloping me in a sacred scent and putting a dot of red kumkum paste between my eye brows. Then I was greeted warmly with a hug and a kiss on the neck from Reena's mother before being escorted into their cozy home on a more quiet side of town. I'm absolutely ecstatic that Reena's mother is a hugger. The last time I had a hug was when she hugged me at the Rajasthani anniversary bash, before that i was on Texas soil at the airport with my mom. I miss hugs.

Within my first five minutes of my arrival was invited to accompany sweety, her oldest brother, and her aunt and uncle on a pilgrimage to Srisailam, which they said it was only a four hour bus ride from Hyderabad. Honestly, I was more in the mood to relax, but as a general rule I try not to decline too many pilgrimages.

"Sweety! Sweety!" The sound filled the room, echoing off the early morning walls. I groaned, waking up from an incomplete sleep to see Reena's father at the doorway of the bedroom. "Sweety! Sweety!", he called out again with his hoarse voice until Sweety rolled out of bed to do her morning pooja and make the family breakfast. I never knew the word "Sweety" could sound so harsh until being woken up at five a.m. by its sound racketing off the walls, signalling the start of our long day.

The eight hour bus ride to Srisailam was an eventful one. Unable to shut my window because of the intense heat, I had to endure being sprayed in the face with tobacco spit from the man in the row in front of me. In a small village I had to pay 2 rs. to use a "toilet" in the middle of this pasture passed cows, pigs, and goats that consisted of a cement floor with a little ditch, three walls, and a door. It was squatting on this sewage coated floor that I learn that I started my period totally unprepared. If there is one disadvantage to no toilet paper living it is the lack of warning one has in regards to their menstrual timing. I stuffed a bandanna in my undies and made my way back to the bus just in time to head further south and get tobacco spit in my eye. We passed through one of India's tiger reserves, a bare national forest, and a small village on the side of Andrah Pradesh's main water source where people were floating on their woven bamboo rafts. I was feeling weak and tired, and unaware of the illness that was slowly taking over me, I attributed my lethargy to my period.

I was unimpressed by the 600 year old temple. We waited in a crowded line to make our way through the famous temple that was violated with plastic bamboo trees, neon signs, vindictive staff, and tacky tash cans. I was so completely uninspired and my patience was growing thing. I was relieved with I was allowed to go back to the dinky hotel and have some alone time when the family wanted to go through the temple a second and third time. I tried writing, but i couldn't gather the mental concentration. I tried doing yoga but couldn't even move my feet. I couldn't move at all. I just laid there, succumbing to my exhaustion, unable to read, or move, or really even think. I drifted into a deep deep sleep.

The following morning it was difficult for me to take Sweety scolding me for going to Temple while menstruating. I tried explaining to her that I had no idea that women were not allowed in temples when menstruating, not even allowed to be touched for that matter, but there was a definite language barrier. "Think, Casey. Think about things" she told me, adding to my frustration. I know she can't choose her words because she knows such little English, but it felt condescending .I felt belittled and shamed, and with my rising temperature I was unable to remain unaffected The event pierced my already dwindling morale. I knew I was in trouble when an hour before our departure I had intense spells of diarrhea. I was in tears, incapable of communicating to anyone I was with, and Sweety was being hostile, still angry at my menstrual heedlessness.

The family seemed both confused and irritated at my outward display of emotions. Their irritation made me sadder and angrier. I boarded the bus and braved the eight hour bus ride ahead of me. I didn't have much choice. My fever rose with our mileage, and I became too weak to even shift my body. All my strength went to holding my bowels, the pressure of which did ease slightly during the trip back to Hyderabad. I vaguely remember coming to at a pit stop to an old beggar woman poking me trying to coax me into giving her money. Unable to move, I just laid in my seat on the bus, clutching my bag tight to my chest while the woman, her grey hair matted and disheveled like a mad scientist, kept poking my arm with the intensity of a beggar. By the end of our bus ride, I'd lost all color in my face, there were intense, dark marks circling my shrunken eyes, and my lips were cracked, parts of them bleeding from lack of moisture.

When in Hyderabad, we jumped off the bus at a busy intersection to signal an auto. We had to wait many minutes in the hot sun and polluted air before finding an auto and getting lost on our way home. The sun felt like a weight I had to carry around on my back. When we finally made it home, I made my way upstairs to relieve myself and pour some cold water on my skin. The water felt hot on my feverish skin. I could have melted a freezer. I crawled into bed and woke up an hour later to a doctor sitting next to me with his traveling case.

I couldn't stop crying. It was the fever. I couldn't communicate with the doctor at all, which made me cry even harder. Every time I spoke, he would laugh, and again with the tears. I longed for comfort. More than anything I wanted to feel my mother's cool soft hand on my forehead and hear her comforting words, and maybe even share a laugh over my fever caused hysteria. I was scared and lonely, and I could not stop crying. Every part of my body ached. My head was pounding, my arms felt like there were bugs crawling under the layers of my skin, my eyeballs felt like they were bursting. The heat was radiating off my skin and coming back to me at twice as much force. I was so intensely hot, but would often be controlled by short intense bouts of chills that took control of my body like an epileptic fit. I drifted into a terrified sleep, certain I would wake up blind, or paralyzed, or not at all. I was completely ridiculous.

I had the unfortunate combination of what the doctor called a "sun stroke", an upper respiratory infection, and traveller's diarrhea. Most people who travel to an Indian city from abroad develop an upper respiratory infection because of the polluted air here. I've been fighting one for two weeks, but it was manageable, and I was improving. From what I gathered from the physician via Sona and Goldy is that the "sun stroke", as if that alone isn't bad enough, shot my immune system, causing the respiratory infection to thrive. I got traveller's diarrhea from consuming contaminated food.

The beautiful thing about being so sick is the overwhelming excitement I have for life now that the fever is easing, loosening its grip on my rapidly redeeming spirit. My mind is growing restless; hyper active like a skinny ten year old boy with ADHD, its running laps around my sleepy limbs. I went on a walk in my new neighborhood to buy limes and attempt to zap my body out of its stupor. Wandering around this quaint Indian neighborhood, trying to find my way back to our bright green house near the ZamZam Dairy Dealer, I got tangled up in a huge gang of cows that were freely wandering around themselves, as if to find their own green dwelling place. With complete serenity, I stood tangled with the bulls, being passionately in love with the moment and looking up to see that they had led me safely home. Farewell, my brothers! Enjoy your wandering.