The Doctor is: IN

Summary: “Fiddle dee dee, that will require a tetanus shot.” (Homer J. Simpson)

In terms of efficiency, India seems to be binary: speed of light or slower than a slug.

Upon reaching a locked gate one evening, Anna decides to ceremoniously climb over as one of her last hoorahs, and Elizabeth and I follow. It’s an easy climb, with footholds and handholds in all the right places. Swinging my foot over the top, my foot grazed the sharp tip and I felt a slight, but sharp, pain. Ignoring it, I hopped down.

Glancing over at the wall, we see a spot of red. “Looks like blood,” I comment. “Nah, it’s probably just paint,” one of the girls reply. Lo’ and behold, turns out it was blood. My blood.

I’m sure the wound will heal and forget about it, but the word “tetanus” kept coming up in conversation. I can’t recall when I had my last tetanus shot, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that long ago. After all, I had had a series of vaccinations before my previous India trip two years ago. One friend convinces me that if I can’t remember, it ‘s been too long. Sure enough, records say it was just over a decade ago.

In my mind, I weigh the pros and cons of getting a tetanus shot (a) before I leave for Nepal in a few days, (b) when I get back from Nepal, and (c) when I get back to the States. For everyone’s peace of mind, I go with option (a).

Apparently tetanus is very common here, as are tetanus shots. I walk into the office of one of many doctors in the neighborhood, and instantly feel claustrophobic. (The entire office, partitioned into a waiting area, the doctor’s desk, and the assistant’s station, is smaller than my room in SF.) Our conversation, as I experienced it, was as follows:

"Hello. I want to get a tetanus shot."
[Confused.]
"Te-ta-nus shot chahie." ["Te-ta-nus shot I want."]
"Kaun se?" ["Which?"]
"Vaccine. Shot." [Imitate a drug addict shooting up.]
"Sit." [Still confused.]
"Tetanus. Rusted nails. Shot."
"Tetanus shot!" [Spoken by the assistant in the “back.”]
"Ji!" ["Yes!"]
[Assistant opens package containing syringe, takes out a vial, prepares shot. Doctor wipes syringe with a piece of a cotton ball pre-soaked in alcohol, wipes an area on my arm, and shoots some liquid from the syringe.]
[Getting nervous.] "Tetanus, right? T-e-t-a-n-u-s."
"Tetanus." [Head bobble.]
"Can I read the package? The box?" [Hand gestures to indicate reading.]
"Haa...." [Hands over vial. Vial reads: “Tetanus toxoid....”]
[Still uncomfortable.] "Tikh hai."
[Gives shot. Leans back, pauses, looks at me.] "Okay?"
"Okay."
"50 rupees."
"Tikh hai. Thank you." [Pay. Point at blood still oozing out. Ask for something to stop the bleeding, receive another cotton piece. Exit.]

I was in and out within five minutes (half of which was waiting time).

As I walked back across the street, the ridiculousness of my experience struck me and I burst into uncontrollable laugher. In my mind, I was imagining a parallel universe in the U.S., where a Band-Aid and even a lollipop wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary.