No Sleep for the Jet-Lagged

A note of explanation: this piece was written in Kalol, a town outside Ahmedabad ... at the crack of dawn.


It’s five o’clock. As in 5 am. As in the ungodly hour of 5 am. I sat up with a start. Someone was outside my window, torturing an animal. The awful caterwauling was accompanied by some severe, rabid beating of the drums. Was it part of some Indian ritualistic tradition? It took a few minutes for me to surface from the jetlagged torpor I had fallen into well past midnight.

As reality swam into focus, I realized it was a chorus of devotees singing praises to their Almighty. Just how many atonal groupies were out there in the procession? And why had they chosen this ungodly (pun intended) hour of the day to profess their faith? Don’t get me wrong…everyone is welcome to pray and extol the divine qualities of their chosen deity…but do they have to do it at the top of their voices right past my window and at the crack of dawn? Do I sing Om Mani Padme Hum outside their doors – although admittedly, the way I sing, I could not find a purer form of torture.

Upon making some inquiries, I discovered that this happens every single day. Every week. Every year. And what is really inconceivable is that no one has killed them (as yet). But of course, it is not surprising, this being God-fearing India. Were this to transpire in the United States, do not doubt that we have enough NRA-card carrying members to put a bullet, or several, to end their early morning ritual once and for all. Personally, I was ready to put my fear of karmic retribution on hold, and prepared to make them cease and desist this cacophonous din, never mind if it involved mass murder ending in a stint making license plates.

My cousin was appalled when I relayed this to him. “What are you saying, boss?” he shrieked. “This is our Hindu religion and they are singing about God, yaar!” I didn’t have the heart to bust his bubble by telling him that Chocolate is my religion, but at 5 am I would turn down even a good bar of Lindt. You better believe that between the hours of ten pm and eight am, the only god I believe in in Morpheus.




Now when I travel, there is a lot I can handle. The pre-vacation stress of packing. Closing the house. Holding the mail. Cleaning out the fridge. Paying the bills. Stopping the paper. And then flying in a steel coffin filled with babies who cry the entire twenty-six hours. When I finally arrive, I can even tolerate the oppressive heat, the omnipresent dust and the pervasive smell of urine and body odor. My simple request is for a bed to lay down my weary, jet-lagged head in a horizontal position. In peace.

The next few days, it was the same thing. I was woken up by the clanging of various instruments and shrill voices. Putting the pillow over my head did not help. Burrowing into the mattress did not either. Hurling some epithets in their direction somewhat stopped the arteries from popping in my head. Fortunately for them, the windows were closed or I would have hurled something from the kitchen – more to the tune of a cleaver than a pan. When the procession passed, I would thrash around in bed, and toss and turn, blood curdling and churning at boiling point, until finally I would take a Restyl or two and pass out.

A side note about Restyl, available in India, over the counter, its key ingredient being alprazolam, sold under prescription as Xanax in the States. Is it generic, is it a knock-off, is it a placebo? I don’t care, it alleviated the early-morning homicidal urges and made me fall asleep. Every trip to India, I replenish my supply, the incongruity again confusing my friends, because of my refusal to take any medicine, even Tylenol. I use it only when I travel, as lack of sleep turns me into a person possessed, and ready to take up arms to defend my right to get some shuteye.

The group that wanted to share their joy in God was the Swami Narayans. Apparently not to be outdone, the Sardarjis had also started their own parade on their march to the local gurudwara. In deference to this turbaned race, they play the dhol a whole lot better, I guess from having had enough practice bhangra-ing the second someone shouts “Ballé! Ballé!” As yet, the Muslims, Parsis, Jains, and five thousand other religious denominations had not entered the arena, but give them time, give them time… I will just buy more Restyl…and bullets.

Now excuse me, I have to go to bed. I have a wake-up call at 5 am.