Tales From The Taj and Beyond

“You can’t go to India and not see the Taj Mahal.” “It’s only four hours -- how could you not?” “It’s magical, you’ll see.” “This is a once in a lifetime chance.” Everyone has something to say about this and although I was hesitant because of the long car ride, lots of walking and being away from doctors, they were right. “How could I not go to one of the Seven Wonders of the World (although I think it was actually added as an extra)?”

With gentle cheerleading from my parents, we finally decide to go beyond the borders of Delhi and head for Agra. It is home to the beloved, doted over, embellished, spiritually magnetic mausoleum that Shah Jahan, the emperor during Mughal's period of greatest prosperity, built for his “favorite” wife. No, I’m not making the “favorite” thing up. It’s actually in the literature. When I hear the story, I immediately snub my nose at whoever started this whole “favorite wife” thing. But, I then learn it was built for her while Jahan was grief stricken over her death during the birth of their 14th child. I soon feel remorse pour over me as any woman who had that many children, even if she never did the dishes and blew all their money on expensive clothing, deserves to be the “favorite.” By the way, she was the third AND the “favorite.” She must have done a lot of things right.

Tipsy Taj

Taj and reflecting pool

The ride to Agra was rough and rugged, like all journeys here are. Our English speaking driver, Raj, chats about life, politics and family most of the way. He’s well educated but unless you are able to pay someone in this country, he explains that you cannot get a good job. If only he could somehow buy his own car, he says he'd be rich. But, with the tiny (and I mean tiny) salary he gets, there is just no way to get ahead. It's too bad as he is smart and ambitious. America truly is the land of opportunity. When Raj mentions something about President Bush in a separate conversation, he adds, “For India, we do not like him.” He laughs when we tell him we don’t like him for the U.S. either. As we pass the government official’s mansions (that look like they are located in the Beverly Hills of Delhi), he non-chalantly points them out as the homes of the “corruption leaders.”

I absorb the sights and sounds from the window in awe, camera in hand trying to capture the things that always fly by too quickly. The key in India to avoiding getting car sick is to look out the window – the side one, always. If you look through the front, you will want to jump out and walk, because you will feel sure you’ll never it make it to your destination alive. You are destined to come face to face with s-l-o-w-l-y crossing cows on the road in which your driver will swerve around; other cars cutting off opposing traffic (by driving head on, on your side); people running in front of your taxi to sell you a calendar you can’t even read because it’s in Hindi; a carrot cart manuevering through heavy traffic that you know you aren't supposed to eat from (but, yum!); and a host of other absurdities teetering on the border of crazy and unbelievable. If you ever visit this hectic amazing country, all you need to remember while traveling is the two magic words -- side window.

Laundry drying in bushes

Carrot cart weaving in and out of traffic

Brave souls on the road with buses and cars

I feel somewhat safe in Delhi, already knowing how, when and where to navigate. So, venturing outside of the big city gave me that new, roaming feeling again (the one that the Virgo in me fights like the plague). The festive colors I’ve become spoiled by extend beyond Delhi’s borders in forms I never would imagine. Some towns seem they are made of nothing but trash. It appears that a bomb has exploded, scattering a sea of what looks like rainbow candy wrappers. People are drinking from muddy puddles of water. They live in huts built with mud and sugar cane. Kids are playing naked. I laugh to myself all along the way as this common scene of poverty is coupled with something so ironic, you have to look twice….or more. These people have no money to eat and are drinking and bathing in the same filthy water, but their goats are decked out in sweaters and bells. It would be the mother of all Mastercard commercials.

Bottled drinking water: $3 a case
Enough rice to last a week: $6
Making your goat’s wardrobe a priority: PRICELESS

We arrived at the Taj just in time to take pictures during several phases of the sunset in its last hour before dusk. The driver parked in a lot and from there we could take a bus, a covered cart pulled by a camel, or a horse and buggy to the gate. I quickly jumped on the idea of the camel but once we loaded onto its rickety-wheeled cart, my stomach sank. I looked over to see the camel’s broken nose from a botched piercing job. His poor schnoz had a rope strung through it as a leash. I had a rush of guilt and I felt tears well up from what seemed like my gut.

I do admit lately being hypersensitive to…..well…..everything. It seems I have an extra soft spot for animals especially now. I have been co-habitating with a rat in my room and letting him eat my crackers while I am kept awake because the thought of harming him is too much to bear, but my sleepless nights have to stop. I later talk to Dr. Ashish about these exaggerated emotions, and he confirms with me that it’s not uncommon. I almost cry (surprise, surprise!) at his reassurance. I had heard from another patient that stem cells may be accepted differently in women because of all their hormones (FINALLY, they come in handy) and I’m starting to see why it makes sense. It feels as if some deep inner womanly source I’ve never felt has been triggered and now I’m left to survive in this ebb and flow of raw emotion. I am like a pregnant woman ready to produce enough tears at any given time to bathe a village of children if need be. I better get used to it. I’m only at the end of week two and if the development of my little cells follow that of a fetus like they say, I better buy stock in Kleenex.

I carry the camel guilt all the way to the entrance of the Taj and through the gates. It subsides but never really leaves me. The rush to the first entry way is like Disneyland -- everyone crammed in line to get to the front first, only to go nowhere really fast. Men in one line and women in another, we are patted down. Once declared weapon-or-whatever-free, we flood in the gates and the race began for photo opportunities. We had a tour guide which was part of the package and he showed us where to get the best shots and when.

Peek-a-boo Taj at sunset from inside another building

The guide gave us a detailed history (oh my, the details) of what we saw every step of the way. I am a sucker for simplicity. At the expense of sounding chauvinistic, my brain works more like a man’s than a woman’s. I don’t need to hear an explicit account of what has gone on when. Just tell me how it started and ended and it will be plenty.

We wandered around for quite awhile, although were didn’t actually go inside the Taj Mahal building itself. The crowds were like herds of sheep, only less polite. Our guide told us that with my white skin (which is a hot commodity here), it’s best not to be around all those people in such tight quarters where a woman could be groped. Before the sound “gro” even came out of his mouth, I was sold on cutting the tour short. The whole thing would have been a bit less holy and peaceful if I had to fight off predators while examining the beautiful marble. Can’t these people find a more appropriate place to do this (if there is such a thing)? Like a back alley? It just seems wrong on way too many karmic levels to find victims in a tomb.

I am pleased to report that I walked around like I champ with as much energy as I hoped for and less pain than expected.

We stayed at a hotel nearby for the night and when I woke up, I expected swollen knees and unhappy limbs. But, I was no worse off than the day before (which wasn’t perfect, but that’s still a huge thing for me). Usually, if I exert myself, I feel it in every inch of my limbs.

So....I saw the Taj, I marveled at its size, its beauty and all the people who flock to it. I took enough pictures for anyone who wants to borrow them so they can say they’ve been too.

In true Amy style, I was more enthralled with the people, the little parrot I saw perched in a tree, and the life we saw on the car rides there and back (pigs, donkeys running amuck, and families of four on the same motorcycle). But, I will say one thing -- there aren’t many kids in the world who can say they did something like that with their parents and loved every minute of it. There are hidden blessings in everything. Having to travel halfway around the world for something as sad as being sick makes seeing something so grand that much better.

I’m thankful for my journey but glad to be back in the comforts (mostly) of my hospital room. My balance was a little off today in physio which upset me, but I remembered shortly after that I had taken another malaria pill last night and dizziness (along with a few other not so pleasant things) is a common side effect. So, I’m feeling better about that.

I talked to Dr. Ashish at length today about the different methods of administering stem cells. When I see him coming, I always wish I had a notebook. My head is too full to grasp all the things he tells me which I so desperately want to remember to share with you. I feel comfortable and confident with my combination of IV and intramuscular injections. The paralysis patients are getting stem cells injected into their spine through lumbar punctures to direct them more toward the injury site. But, since figuratively speaking, my whole body is an injury site, I am thrilled to not have to have any surgery, and still get the stem cells reaching where they need to. When I get my IV, I picture the cells circulating through my whole body making everything bright and healthy.

Many patients who are paralyzed are gaining some motor function (the ability to act and move) before any sensory improvement (ability to feel). This means they are seeing changes like being able to wiggle a toe without actually feeling that movement happening. I think of it like a baby. At several months old, they are flailing their arms and legs, using muscle and nerves and their brains which make that happen, but they have no awareness of the control. In my own mind, it makes perfect sense to me that this could be happening to an adult who because of an injury, is starting from new. Great healers and world teachers have been saying for years that healing takes place from the inside out. I feel like this is precisely the work that is happening here. Holiday fireworks have just started outside my window but the air is so dense that i cannot see them. It's an ironic reminder for the patients here at Nutech, but also one we should all consider -- great things happen behind the scenes of our lives, often long before they become clear enough for our eyes to catch up.

As the clock just ticked past midnight, it is Christmas one day earlier here than it is at home for me. My strength is improving, my will still strong and hope blossoms all around me. After being in India for just two weeks, a 19-year-old from Australia, has just started to move one of his legs for the first time since his accident two years ago. If that’s not a Christmas miracle to light up the hospital, I’m not sure what is.

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About Amy B. Scher

A passionate author, pioneering patient, and sassy spirit with just enough sweetness to get me by, I live by my self-created motto: when life kicks your ass, kick back.Amy B. Scher's profile Amy B. Scher's blog