AWAKENINGS

Human Embryonic Stem Cell Therapy Restores Hope for Amanda

Silly Delhi Stories to Entertain

Only in India…

…would a sign read, “Enter in the Backside.”

Our taxi that we hired for four hours arrived freshly cleaned with sopping WET seats.  This we discovered after we settled into our seats. Our driver Rampaul was extremely proud that his car was clean, smiling and pointing to the spotless covers.  Mum and I have learned, when in India, go with the flow.  We chose to sit on newspapers and towels to ensure our bums stayed dry. My hands became sticky.  My beige colored pants now have a hint of newspaper print plastered on the rear end.  Only in India!

After taking a leisurely stroll around Lodi Gardens on a Sunday afternoon, I tried to exit the park by squeezing through the four-pronged turn-style at the parking lot.  An Indian man hurried over and quickly lifted the entire frame off the hinges so I could push through with ease.  Only in India!

A storefront with peeling paint and a shoddy appearance displayed a sign that read:  Qwality Corner.

Mum and I ordered a delicious South Indian meal from outside the hospital.  The entire dinner including sweet lime sodas was packaged in little balloon-like plastic bags tied at the top with rubber bands.  I cut open a bag of soupy Sambah, which spurted up and out volcanoing the contents into my lap.  I poured what was left into a bowl, ripped off my pants and at that precise moment a nurse knocked on the door.

She called, “Amanda, Blood Pressure?  Stem Cells?”

“Ek minit,” I replied, “I’m naked!”  Tonight the stem cells had to wait for dessert.  I was in one curried mess.  The floor was orange, my wheels sticky, and my legs red hot but oh, I smelled great!  Sambah is one of the most delicious soups, that accompanies my all-time favorite South Indian main course:  a coconut rava masala dosa.  I was ravenous.  I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.  I had fasted the entire day for a deep spinal muscle procedure.   The floor, my pants, my sticky wheels, the nurse and even the stem cells had to wait.  Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, my taste buds were salivating for the dosa. 

I carefully slid the dosa out of the plastic bag on to a plate that sat balanced on my naked thighs.  The only utensils we had left were spoons.  Our forks had mysteriously disappeared.  “Mmmmmm. This is the best!”  I exclaimed to Mum.  With gusto, I dug into my dosa pancake, cutting through to the yummy veggie-filled center with a blunt edge.  Bam–another explosion!  My spoon broke in half flipping the dosa and hurling it through the air, then landing upside-down on the floor. 

Within seconds, Mum jumped up from her seat, scooped up the remains in her bare hands and flipped the pancake back on to my plate commenting, “Here, eat this—the bottom part didn’t touch the floor.”

After four visits to India and living in Delhi for a cumulative total of 23 weeks, my appetite for the yellow-orange sticky spicy stuff has grown, yet my finesse with eating curry has sadly and embarrassingly declined.  Only in India!

Only in India…am I able to receive human embryonic stem cells!

 

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