<p>I was going full steam, travelling in autos, buses, planes and trains and supporting the transport industry singlehandedly when the blow struck, or rather the bump hit my spine. From then on it was an all systems breakdown.<br /><br /></p>.<p>Tests of parts of my body I did not know existed, blood taken for A to Z investigations, and yet the pains persisted. Finally, the orthopedic surgeon pronounced the sentence. Almost all my bones were withering away. MRI, BMD and other acronyms were in store, apparently. If you have read Dante’s “Inferno” you will echo his line – “Abandon hope all ye who enter here” – as you are slowly thrummed into the MRI cave.<br /><br /> The path to hell is paved with rocks it would seem. Seven grinders and seven welders would not be able to match the horrendous noises that follow. You have ear muffs on but they barely protect you. Through all this you are slowly being moved into and out of the machine. May be, they are grinding and welding my bones together, I suggest hopefully. No such luck, says the doctor holding back a grin. So it was all sound and fury signifying next to nothing. All you get after this painless but unforgettable experience is a document saying your canal is open (which one, you wonder) and that your bones are ossified or in medical terminology, osteoporised. <br /><br />Next call is to the BMD centre. For the uninitiated, that is a Bone Mineral Density Test. That is another machine you lie under. I wonder why you have to lie down for so many medical explorations. Does it heighten the sense of power for those who are looking down at you? <br />The day of judgement arrives. I am not asked to stand as the sentence is pronounced. <br /><br />Simple imprisonment at home for one year. No buses, no autos and certainly not on bumpy roads. Only smooth cars on smoother roads. Where is this utopia, I ask weakly? But the doctor moves on inexorably. Lashings of calcium and protein every day, and plenty of walking, he says. <br /><br />But there are some rays of sunshine, I find, as I walk. The airport cabbie has asked after me. “Madam is not travelling these days, saar?” There is my new-found awareness of cars. Earlier a car was a car. Now I can tell which are the super speciality ones. I can also be of great help to the BBMP in telling them which roads are in dire disrepair.<br /><br /> Then again, I have discovered small bylanes and alleys in my neighbourhood on my daily walks. To see the tiny shops, even tinier homes and the energy the inmates bring to their daily and routine lives, strips bare all my posturings.<br /><br />But look out! One of these days you might be caught by a manic walker with a chalky face who holds you with her “skinny hand and glittering eye” like the ancient mariner in Coleridge’s poem, and proceeds to tell you her bare bones story. Hopefully, like the wedding guest in that poem, you will go home a sadder and a wiser person!</p>
<p>I was going full steam, travelling in autos, buses, planes and trains and supporting the transport industry singlehandedly when the blow struck, or rather the bump hit my spine. From then on it was an all systems breakdown.<br /><br /></p>.<p>Tests of parts of my body I did not know existed, blood taken for A to Z investigations, and yet the pains persisted. Finally, the orthopedic surgeon pronounced the sentence. Almost all my bones were withering away. MRI, BMD and other acronyms were in store, apparently. If you have read Dante’s “Inferno” you will echo his line – “Abandon hope all ye who enter here” – as you are slowly thrummed into the MRI cave.<br /><br /> The path to hell is paved with rocks it would seem. Seven grinders and seven welders would not be able to match the horrendous noises that follow. You have ear muffs on but they barely protect you. Through all this you are slowly being moved into and out of the machine. May be, they are grinding and welding my bones together, I suggest hopefully. No such luck, says the doctor holding back a grin. So it was all sound and fury signifying next to nothing. All you get after this painless but unforgettable experience is a document saying your canal is open (which one, you wonder) and that your bones are ossified or in medical terminology, osteoporised. <br /><br />Next call is to the BMD centre. For the uninitiated, that is a Bone Mineral Density Test. That is another machine you lie under. I wonder why you have to lie down for so many medical explorations. Does it heighten the sense of power for those who are looking down at you? <br />The day of judgement arrives. I am not asked to stand as the sentence is pronounced. <br /><br />Simple imprisonment at home for one year. No buses, no autos and certainly not on bumpy roads. Only smooth cars on smoother roads. Where is this utopia, I ask weakly? But the doctor moves on inexorably. Lashings of calcium and protein every day, and plenty of walking, he says. <br /><br />But there are some rays of sunshine, I find, as I walk. The airport cabbie has asked after me. “Madam is not travelling these days, saar?” There is my new-found awareness of cars. Earlier a car was a car. Now I can tell which are the super speciality ones. I can also be of great help to the BBMP in telling them which roads are in dire disrepair.<br /><br /> Then again, I have discovered small bylanes and alleys in my neighbourhood on my daily walks. To see the tiny shops, even tinier homes and the energy the inmates bring to their daily and routine lives, strips bare all my posturings.<br /><br />But look out! One of these days you might be caught by a manic walker with a chalky face who holds you with her “skinny hand and glittering eye” like the ancient mariner in Coleridge’s poem, and proceeds to tell you her bare bones story. Hopefully, like the wedding guest in that poem, you will go home a sadder and a wiser person!</p>
