Detour back to Life E-Book

Harald Meier

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 521

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Torn from his life by the supposedly fatal diagnosis of acute leukaemia, the author finds himself in intensive care. This was followed by months of chemotherapy and years of outpatient follow-up. As a turning point, he quickly realises that this is also a part of his life. He takes steps to make the most of the short time he has left. Along with the ups and downs of cancer treatment, he also sees funny things, has wonderful experiences and makes new friends. During his follow-up treatment, he starts making notes about this time. And then, by chance, he finds his personal retreat for three months on a small mountain farm in the lower Himalayas. Here he combines his experiences and impressions from the past illness with everyday life in Darjeeling. Is this the end of his leukaemia story?

Leseprobe

To my children

Fabian, Sarah-Lena and Simon

and in memory to my friends

Peter and Rainer

Table of Contents

A word beforehand …

Postscript, and thank you all

Off to Darjeeling

Before the New Truth

My New Truth

The Himalaya Highlands

First Days in a new Home

Hospital Intensive Care

Trapped in my Body

Lower Echhey Village Life

Home away from Home

My Chemo Life Cycle

Follow-up Treatment

Goodbye, and see you again

Everlasting Memories

Years Follow-up Treatment

The Truth remains

… Darjeeling Village Life too

… and a word afterwards

A word beforehand ...

The idea for the book came at short notice. At the age of 61, I was diagnosed with Acute Leukaemia, also known as blood cancer. Untreated, it means to die within a few weeks. Today, after months in hospital, years follow-up treatment, weeks rehabilitation I am now considered as medically cured.

Of course, you can't let go of this break. But, there were also funny and sometimes beautiful experiences, friendships with people with a common destiny, even it was only for a few days, weeks or months. So, my attitude to life has changed from the ground up.

After I had been stabilized in the clinic intensive care unit and had overcome the initial shock, I was transferred to what I now call the normal leukaemia ward. There, despite limited physical and spatial possibilities, I then began to become active. Not only professionally, because there was a lot to organize for my students in the middle of the semester. But also for me personally, I accepted this supposedly last short period of life as an important part of my life.

At that time, I neither knew nor could I have imagined that I would be virtually isolated in a hospital for many months, followed by years follow-up treatment. Like probably most people in such a situation, I searched for information, including pseudo-knowledgeable internet blogs, where someone knows someone who knows someone who has heard from someone ... And my questions directly to my medical care were answered in a friendly but, for me, evasive manner.

Today I know, unconsciously I only was looking for a percentage of how likely it is to die or to survive. Even though most people still associate leukaemia with imminent death, unspeakable pain, fear and loss. But over time I gradually began to see more funny, positive and also interesting things.

Whether or not my impressions are published is a minor matter for the time being, it's first and foremost about my family, for myself, and for my friends. But perhaps it will also help others to understand and encourage me.

I don't want to relativize this terrible disease, nor do I wish it on people I personally don't like.

When I was able to return to India one year ago – for years I had done monitoring work in development cooperation projects – I sat over tea at a small self-sufficient mountain farm in the highlands, the so-called Lower Himalayas, for us known as Darjeeling with their famous tea. In November, the climate was very pleasant for me as a European, in contrast to the hot and humid lowlands in India.

And then there was My Room; bed, table, chair, and on a door outside a sign: Western Toilet. All this in the midst of a huge green vegetable garden with terraced rice fields and an indescribable view of the Darjeeling and Himalayan image we know. At that moment, I knew that I want to live here for a while.

After exactly one year, I am now here for three months. And in the days before my trip began, I had the idea of linking the experience of my leukaemia with diary-like impressions here. Will it be the end of leukaemia for me?

Harald Meier

Bonn/Lower Echhey, April 2024

P.S. An English friend, I asked about their punctuation: ‘If you're German and think you have to put a comma, just leave it.

Postscript, and thank you all

Everyone has certainly heard ‘beetroot helps with cancer’ from someone who have heard it from others, etc., or as journalistic half-knowledge or esoteric self-medication. Yes, it is true that some things help, such as transcending dance as well. It helps to forget the cancer for moments and to enjoy dancing, but does not stop a biological development of cancer.

Despite a century of research, there is no evidence for the so-called Alternative Therapies. Many of my fellow patients who, in desperation, saw such pseudo-therapies as their supposedly saving straw, also lay next to me; in most cases, it was then too late for them.

Of course, medical terms overwhelm me. Even hearing them repeatedly and writing them correctly doesn't mean I understand and use them correctly. Also, with a little more knowledge now, I can only describe my perceptions. I have certainly forgotten or suppressed some things. Or I don't want to write it for personal reasons, and also to avoid embarrassing others or myself. But I try to be honest and realistic.

Please forgive me if I mislabel or misinterpret something medically from my subjective patient perspective; the same applies, for example, to the culture and religion in India, for which I have great respect.

Thank you to all of you, Fabian, Sarah-Lena and Simon, Dr Joest, Professor Dr Brossart, Dr Schwab and Ms Lerbs, Ms Martini, Sujoy with Sarah and Suniti, Mr Ziegler, Mr (†) and Ms Griem, Ms Knobel and Jutta, Torsten, Martina and Barbara, Rainer (†), Erika, Professor Muck, Professor Lemke, Judith, Peter (†) with Ute and Hannah, Anke, Petra and Andrea, Uli and Linda, Manju, Giri-Raj and Prashant, the people of Lower Echhey ... and one always forgets to thank someone; thank you to all the helping hands in the families, neighbourhood and organisations and your thinking of me even in silence.

Off to Darjeeling Before the New Truth

You have been given a second life, never forget that.

What do you want to do with it now?

One of my specialist doctors

Off to Darjeeling

What can I expect?

For over 10 years, I have regularly travelled to India for a few days to certify start-up training. People in precarious living conditions such as SHGs (self-help groups), small farmers in rural regions, or young people as former child labourers, they learn how to stabilize and improve their income situation or to become self-employed; because they have no chance on the labour market without training or there is simply no chance of earning a decent income without training.

Exactly one year before the end of my follow-up treatment, I visited two cooperatives made up of women SHGs in the far north of West Bengal in the Lower Himalayas, known to us as Darjeeling. All of them have a kitchen garden with a cow and calf, a couple of goats or chickens, small fields as rice terraces or they work as tea pickers each day six hours for an average a bit more than 2 USD a day. Their husbands are small-scale self-sufficient farmers or sometimes also work in the tea garden, as seasonal workers or as day labourers on building sites in the surrounding area. This is how they try to earn a living and send their children to school.

In one project, where we had lunch and we sat together over tea afterwards, they had just furnished two rooms as guest rooms; bed, table and a chair. And they had already added a western WC as well as a hot shower.

I immediately realised, I wanted to spend some time here. That's what I need next year after retirement; far away from it all, surrounded by nature, reading, writing; let my mind and thoughts roam, as we say. And the climate here in the highlands is so pleasant. It is not this humid and often unbearable heat we Europeans experience in India. It is relatively dry, with a maximum temperature of 24°C. During the day there is always a cool breeze coming up from the cold valley river, pleasantly cool (for me) in the evening and at night.

I spontaneously asked if they would rent out the room for a few weeks or even months? They had not even thought about how they wanted to market it in future; and for Home Staying they would need a specific permission. So, they just invited me as a friend to stay for some time, that they learn about having such kind of guests. I took photos and kept in touch via my colleague and friend in Kolkata who had introduced SHGs in skill- and start-up training programmes here.

Then, of course, I read a lot about West Bengal with 92 million people; a mid-sized federal state with a significantly larger population than my home country Germany. And about the changing history of the Darjeeling region here in northeastern India, bordering Nepal, China and Bhutan. Also about he arbitrarily drawn borders by the British colonial rulers, their partitioning and annexation of territories and violent deportations, regardless ethnicities, religions and historical regional affiliations; although Hindus, Christians, Muslims and other religions had lived together peacefully here for centuries.

Nepali is still spoken regionally today. The family ties, grown over the centuries, are more important than a national passport.

During my growing dream of spending my Time-Out there I started a to-do list. Step by step, I added or deleted something during my daily afternoon coffee. And the books I was reading about the region and its history became more, as well as books I wanted to take with me to read. As a matter of principle and as a long-time author – mainly business books – I no longer want to get used to e-books. Also I wanted to be completely without the internet, social media & co.; that would only distract me from thinking, writing and relaxing.

I wanted to live spartanly and wasn't afraid of it, because I had already lived in North Africa during my civilian service, and later again and again, writing by the sea or in the mountains; improvising every day is a satisfying challenge for me.

Probably unconsciously – here in anticipation, as I later realised – I was somehow missing the loneliness and monotony of the hospital room during the leukaemia, which motivated me to be creative and to confront myself.

Despite two 23-kg baggage allowances on an international flight, I managed to get by with just one large travel bag and a small backpack cabin luggage. That with a gift for my Kolkata friends and my new hosts. Later, this proved to be helpful on the one hand, but also challenging. Because on the domestic flight Kolkata–Shiliguri, north of West Bengal, which had to be booked separately a few days later, only one 15-kg check-in luggage was allowed in addition to a 7-kg cabin baggage.

I think about the travelling route and time. First a short walk to the local train station, then by train along the river Rhein with a change to Frankfurt airport. An evening flight to Delhi with a four and a half hour shorter night as the time difference flying towards the sun. After a few hours' layover there, a two-hours connecting flight to Kolkata. No problem, I've done that before several times. And I love arriving slowly. If there was the option of a days-long train journey, I would seriously consider it. In Kolkata they will pick me up at the airport as usual, and I wouldn't have to defend a mass incessant taxi recruiters. Then another two hours through an unbelievable maze of buses and cars, rickshaws and these tuk-tuks, the 3-wheeled semi-open auto-rickshaws as taxis, to the centre of Kolkata; a mega-city with over 15 million people. My home town, the city of Bonn, with around 400,000 inhabitants would be just a small town district.

My Indian-German friends Sujoy & Sarah have already renovated an old townhouse with a roof terrace, including the traditional old ceiling fans and modern air conditioning; otherwise the hot and humid climate would be unbearable for me.

Kolkata, this city always fascinates me; it is so different from Delhi or Mumbai. Bengalis feel themselves much more people with great intellectual, cultural and political tradition. Kolkata used to be the capital of India until it became, as the name suggests in the western world, New Delhi.

After three days I will go into my solitude; a guest room at a small farm in a rural village, scattered on a mountainside without a centre. And I will not understand the language. At first I thought it is Bengali as the language of the federal state of West Bengal. But it later turned out to be a completely different language with Nepali. And who will speak English? During the short visit a year ago, we had the local project manager with us as a trip manager and of course as translators.

And finally, I think, will it feel the same there as it did five years ago during my many months in the university hospital? There, my radius was mostly limited to the nearly isolated hospital room and occasionally shuffling up and down the corridor at night when there was no other people.

A long Thursday

My flight is scheduled for the evening. Of course, I'm at the airport far too early. But why should I sit around at home for half a day? And I haven't slept half the night anyway.

While waiting at the check-in, I meet an Indian professor; she is a regular visitor to Germany and has worked in my neighbour town Cologne for some time. Check-in goes smoothly and I manage to upgrade my booked aisle seat to the last available seat in the emergency exit. Great, I have more legroom and can always stand up and stretch my feet without disturbing the person sitting next to me.

Shortly before the boarding announced on the display board, it is already very loud around me. The flight seems to be fully booked. Many Indians, and especially Bengalis, are flying to visit their parents or to go home; their days-long highest religious and social event Durga Puja takes place.

Indian culture generally communicates louder and always laughs a lot; I like that. Babies sleep or cry and small children whinge when they are overtired or from the chaos around them. Others happily roll their parents' suitcases back and forth, preferably far away from their parents. Nuns pray, two Buddhist monks write on their laptops, travel groups in trekking outfits discuss, young white European women and even a few men play it cool in supposedly Indian artefacts.

They probably want to go to Puna and Goa. At worst, when they arrive, they’ll be wearing European-style off-the-shoulder and body-hugging leggings. No Indian woman would do something like that, my Indian friend once said on a flight together. He is very competent in Indian history and culture. Married to a German, they have been commuting between their homes in Kolkata and Stuttgart for many years. Indians make jokes about it, my friend said, these women usually don't even know what the many forehead signs mean. Even the Tika as a small red mark between the brows would not always and everywhere mean married. Depending on the religion, ethnicity and situation, it would also have a different meaning. Not even he knows all this for whole of India. That also applies to the traditional clothing and jewellery. Compared to Germany, he added, like we tourists here wearing Lederhose & Dirndl, your old-fashioned and for regions limited trousers and dresses on historic festivals.

The flight, or rather boarding, is delayed every quarter of an hour, even though the plane is already at the gangway. Business people are now on the phone, young people are excited on their social media, and parents look annoyed. A few, probably Indian students or engineers and IT professionals, quickly grab a last German beer.

Finally, the boarding call comes. A queue immediately forms for boarding. I make small talk with an Indian chemist, he just came from a conference in Germany. Suddenly it gets restless and I hear the first excited shouts. The plane can't take off, a spare part is needed, which is due to arrive here the next day on the daily scheduled flight from Delhi.

I ask myself, don’t the aircraft manufacturers store spare parts in Europe for the thousands of flights every day? Or German Lufthansa with Frankfurt as central hub and Air India as the Star Alliance partner? Because many passengers have Lufthansa tickets in the shared flight as it turns out later.

Buses to hotels are reserved outside, we can download an app in our mobile phone for a food voucher with delivery service. Of course I don't do that, I won't be stuffing my face with fast food in a hotel room at almost midnight.

Half an hour later, I arrive with many others at a so-called 4-star hotel belonging to an internationally renowned hotel group. But this doesn't mean anything. The room looks appealing on the surface, but there's many hair in the bathroom and in the shower, and the desk and side table must have been wiped clean a week ago? But never mind, it's the international book fair and Frankfurt is fully booked, so they excuse everything, as we later realise.

... and Friday, Saturday, Sunday

Now, supposed to be in Delhi changing to Kolkata, I am taking hotel breakfast still in Frankfurt. The breakfast buffet is great and everyone seems to be in a good mood. I join a table with people I know from the check-in queue and the bus to the hotel that night. We’ll become a team (anticipating here). A young Indian women studying her Master in Germany, a Mexican, she is a cocoa importer, and later the Indian professor joins us as well.

The latest information was to take the same flight in the evening; our plane would then fly parallel to the daily scheduled flight. And we can leave everything in the room during the day and stay in the hotel, the food will be delivered by Air India. That sounds professional, and we concluded that Air India is not responsible for a technical defect. Our checked baggage from last night is already on the plane.

So we share a taxi to the airport to see if everything is okey. Of course, as their quasi-German host here now, I pay the almost 40 Euro and kindly reject all attempts by our team to participate.

A new check-in is now necessary at the airport. It is the same plane, but there is a new flight number for the new day; the former flight number is the daily scheduled flight. We are given the same boarding time, but with now a different gate. The normal scheduled flight is of course at the daily gate; everything sounds logical. We are told to drive to the hotel, where we will have lunch and an afternoon snack.

We hear from other passengers stranded like us that they have tried to re-book. For them business class, there had been quick rebookings to other airlines the evening before and even now. Of course, this was not the case for us in economy class. And even not the ones with a Lufthansa ticket, they were also asked to contact Air India. This is of course a trick to get rid of them as a problem in the first place; Lufthansa doesn’t feel responsible. This confirms not only my impression, their service has become worse and worse over the years and a lot of Small Print in ticket booking excludes a lot.

Our flight is now shown on the large display board with the new flight number, but still as ‘delayed’ flight time; so, no right to re-book.

More and more, we realise among ourselves that there are different and contradictory statements. Lufthansa doesn't bother to provide information. That would be the minimum of customer friendliness, says a disgruntled passenger with a Lufthansa ticket. Okey, right hand in Star Alliance obviously doesn't know what left hand is doing.

Like me many try to contact Air India office Frankfurt, but we are always ending up in an announcement loop. Then someone got indirect contact via a lady form the central airport information desk. With her for sure different number she immediately got Air India on the line. She presses getting louder, and it is promised someone will immediately come to the airport info desk; where we are now standing with about 30 passengers.

Another group, we had split up, has gathered at the check-in, which is due to open at 5 p.m. Maybe someone will show up before then? Still after two hours, there is nobody from Air India. The helpful, friendly lady at the information desk tells us laconically this happens more often with them.

We discuss what this chaos means for the individual. One family had given their son a 5-day trip to visit the Taj Mahal as a graduation present; their group, which was supposed to meet in Delhi, was now gone. The same applies to two sporty-looking older men, now have missed an onward flight to Kathmandu for a Himalayas hiking tour; probably despite having already planned a buffer day, as following flights there are usually fully booked well in advance ... and so on.

Young parents with babies and small children have been unable to access their baggage, which has been on the plane since yesterday. But business class passengers were able to re-book or continue their flight on their own, they have been able to collect their luggage in a special room since yesterday evening. Air India and Lufthansa, together with other Star Alliance partners, boast about their so-called CSR, Corporate Social Responsibility, as being family- & child-friendly; but obviously not for the economy class.

I myself am relatively relaxed, as it doesn't really matter when I’ll arrive. That's what I think at first, because after all I have three months ahead of me; a few days delay don't really matter for me.

In the meantime, we drive back to the hotel in a team of four to pack our cabin luggage and have something to eat. They tell us that lunch is coming soon, but it's already past noon and the food arrives shortly before 5 p.m. But hardly anyone eats anything and the four of us take a taxi back to the airport. It's starting to get expensive, I'm running out of cash, and my fellow travellers have hardly any Euro-cash left. The Indian women give me her share in Rupees, which is very practical for me. And I manage to persuade the Mexican woman to use her share for a donation in Mexico; we joke that the best thing to do is to help victims of air travellers.

Air India check-in is on time, new flight ticket, new flight number and new gate for the now hopefully repaired plane from yesterday. Some manage to re-book in a free seat on the regular flight. I have to smile, because they are pretty convincing at the check-in to appear superstitious.

Everything now goes smoothly and boarding is announced with only an hour's delay. I hear someone saying we won't be taking off, we're late again. Air India- and airport staff don't seem to have coordinated. It gets loud again among us waiting. Despite my boarding pass, I am now asked to show my visa, even though it has already been checked twice at check-in. It is also stamped all over my passport; in previous years my passport was always enough. As a typical German in my age, I have of course printed everything out again and am now rummaging around in my backpack for the paper printout of the e-visa.

Suddenly an announcement: ‘Please all line up in a row and just show your boarding pass, we'll do everything else on the plane.’ Now it's on and we hurry down the stairs one after the other to a waiting room. After a short wait, we sit tightly packed in the bus for the relatively long, winding drive to our plane parked far away.

Someone jokes: ‘The bus driver would be better off driving straight to the runway and asking the tower for permission for the bus to take off, cars in Germany are all in such good technical shape.’ Relaxed laughers. Another, ‘maybe it's better to take the bus overland, German buses are always so punctual.’ It seems we're all in a good mood now.

Boarding completed, all baggage is stowed, safety instructions are shown on screens in various languages and seatbelt signs light up. Our plane is still stationary, and stands still, and ... nothing happens.

Things are slowly getting restless again. New announcement from the cockpit: ‘Just a short delay in take-off, we are waiting for clearance from the tower.’ Some passengers start to laugh and sarcastic remarks can be heard. Many of the Indians probably work in Germany and speak relatively good German; most with a regional southern dialect, which sounds funny for us.

New announcement: ‘We had problems clearing the outside stairs, Air Traffic Control must confirm clearance because take-off is now after 11 p.m.’

Now it's getting even more restless. Stewardesses try to calm us down. I feel sorry for them, because they have nothing to do with it. New announcement: ‘We have still no clearance from the German authorities. But we'll get the exemption authorisation from the ministry. It's just routine here, but it's the law.’ The first ones shouts: ‘That's a lie.’ And, ‘has the pilot ever seen anyone working in a government office on a Friday evening in Germany?’ Many laugh. ‘Civil servants only work until noon Fridays anyway,’ shouts one. ‘They sit in their local pub Friday evening anyway,’ adds another. The atmosphere becomes more heated.

Announcement again: ‘We can't get clearance, no take-off now. You can still eat the catering here on board. Then buses will come and take you to the same hotel. We are sorry, there were problems getting the outside stairs off.’

Now, the atmosphere explodes. Passengers are standing up, they start shouting, rhythmic clapping begins and the first ones chant: ‘We don't leave the plane, we don't leave the plane ...’.

After what feels like five minutes, an Air India manager comes on board, an older, very gentlemanly-looking man, dark blue suit, grey moustache. He's got the nerve, I think. He repeats that he has spoken to the German Ministry of Transport and that the flight can no longer take off.

Now a few Germans laugh as well, asking if he really believes that there is someone in the ministry now who is clearing flights at night at all German airports? Does he even know where the Ministry of Transport is? An Indian adds: ‘Air Traffic Control is not a German authority, why do you blame the problem on Germany?’ But the Air India manager is of course right about the departure; he and the airport cannot ignore legal regulations.

Now the mood has completely changed. A young stewardess, she might be Bengali or Tamil I assume, is typing into her phone, trembling; you can see her fear. I, too, am afraid that it might turn violent. Because some Indians are no longer complaining loudly and smiling, but shouting aggressively. And they push the manager further down the aisle to the back of the plane. But he remains steadfast and I – no longer believing the awkward Air India half-truths – still admire his courage to come onto the plane in the now heated up atmosphere.

The first passengers are already getting their food from the two galleys and retiring to their seats. They are tired, and I feel sorry for the children and young, stressed parents. There is no special announcement for them. Slowly the mood calms down and word gets round that there are police on board. It's true, some in dark blue police overalls with machine guns are standing at the front exit next to the cockpit; we also see some later outside next to the outside stairs and by the buses waiting for us on the tarmac. A passenger in front of me asks a policewoman whose protection they’re there for? But he immediately answers himself: ‘Better you protect us from Air India than them from us’; the policewoman nods to him imperceptibly and apologetically.

On the bus back to the terminal, the unanimous opinion is that it is not the technical problems that are decisive, but the many inaccurate and contradictory pieces of information and the unequal treatment of passengers. An Indian agrees loudly, looking for German faces: ‘That's how it is, they treat us like stupid children instead of just telling us the truth. It’s always other’s fault, never their own. And this happens all the time with Air India.‘ ’That's why they were practically bankrupt’, adds another, ‘now they taken over by Tata, but they are not allowed to replace this incompetent lower and middle management.’ And someone added: ‘Because it will take years. That’s why Tata has founded Vistara as second airline, which now also flies internationally.’

Great, I think, and I didn't book them because I wanted to take a flight with a stop-over. And then I remember that some people pretended to be superstitious and had re-booked on the other plane. So superstition can help after all, I smile self-deprecatingly to myself ... at least with Indians.

Of course, the announced buses outside the airport is only one bus, which cannot possibly fit everyone. First of all, it goes to another hotel, but the bus driver says it will take a while to leave. And then he wouldn't be back for at least 40 minutes. He recommends that we take a taxi. Our team is already practised at this and it is already after midnight when we arrive at the hotel.

Now, according to the Desk Manager, as his name badge shines, the hotel is fully booked due to the book fair. We can't believe it, and I realise that a bus with lots of other people is about to arrive.

He would call the Night Manager. So, exhausted, we drop into a group of seats. The young Indian student nods off immediately and the Mexican woman taps away on her social media. The desk manager is chatting to four dolled-up prostitutes, who are usually waiting for clients at trade fairs in hotels after their procession through the bars and pubs. But no sign of a call to the night manager.

I think what a night manager does all night? I come to the conclusion that he's either playing games on his phone, typing away on his social media or standing by the window smoking. Outside, I walk round to the back of the hotel to a row of doors and windows. Bingo, there's someone standing in an open doorway smoking. And when I get close, I see someone sitting very casually in front of a computer, using a phone.

‘Of course, the rooms are still booked for you,’ he replies. Air India hadn’t checked us out. Another new truth? The rooms are not made up, but no matter, the main thing is to shower and sleep. The desk manager gave us a dirty look as we waited for the lift and he is told off by his superior in front of the prostitutes.

Fortunately, I have a change of toiletries with me, but at the breakfast next morning the mood of most passengers is gone. More and more dramas are opening up. It seems that everyone is now having problems with connecting flights and trains. A young couple with their baby is on their way to Kolkata for Durga Puja festival and to introduce their granddaughter to the family. A manager from a known agricultural machinery manufacturer was with his team at their headquarters in Germany. He set up a WhatsApp group last night, which has now grown to over a hundred members in a very short space of time. He wants to put pressure on Air India to actually pay out the legally prescribed 600 Euro in compensation to every passenger.

When lunch is delivered to the lobby on time, we are told to take it to our room and not eat in the lobby. Understandable, even if the lobby and the integrated open bar-restaurant have free tables, it just doesn't make a good impression on arriving guests if we all unpack our aluminium trays there. But we simply enter again the banqueting room, where the food was placed yesterday; there are still beverages from previous day. The hotel employee finally gives up asking us out repeatedly; a crying baby can do more than annoyed and exhausted travellers.

As soon as we have finished eating, things suddenly have to move very quickly. Room check-out, bus transfer, new tickets at a check-in reserved for us, security check and quickly off to boarding; things are steaming ahead. You get the feeling that we are to blame for everything. Of course, there is no plane to be seen outside at the new gate. Again there is anxiety, what is going on? And again the staff at the boarding counter are besieged. Almost everyone from Air India, who tried to make us believe their different stories yesterday, is also there.

Suddenly applause, the plane with our luggage is slowly pulled to the gate. Like almost everyone else, I take a photo.

Then chaos again, because an Air India manager wants us to line up in rows by seating area from the back to the front; that's logical. Another organises from the end of the queues. He wants to check all passports and boarding passes first; this also seems logical, although it has happened repeatedly. And a third person simply opens the door to the gangway at the front and lets the first passengers through.

The older Air India manager, who was on the plane with us yesterday, looks agonised at the new confusion that his and the airport employees are obviously creating independently of each other.

He then takes the microphone out of the hand of a member of staff at the boarding desk and makes an announcement showing his flexibility: ‘Please go through here in two rows and hold up your boarding ticket and passport at your seat in the plane, we'll do it all inside.’ Said and done. As the plane slowly taxis to the runaway, some people clap cautiously. And when we take off, there is a roar of applause. I think Air India ground staff are happy to get rid of us ... just like us them.

We arrive Delhi early Sunday morning. Applause breaks out again as we touch-down. Later we stand in small groups with our new flight folks at the baggage carousel. Applause again when the first bag was ejected. What may the many hundreds of the people on the other baggage carousels think?

Along with many others, I quickly go to the immigration control and on to check-in to get the new ticket for the supposed connecting flight. To get to the check-in hall, we have to go through a security check, which is done by soldiers. Like many other countries, India is heavily armed after many attacks in sensitive locations. Some passengers in front of me are turned away and complemented out of the queue; others get through ... why?

Again, some start to grumble. The Indian chemist I know is also there, and he gets louder as well. Then I'm not allowed to check in either and first asked in a friendly manner and then, in response to my repeated question, why, I have a valid ticket, a little more firmly behind the barrier belt.

The soldiers, whether they understood my English or do not, know no mercy. Later I learn that my ticket for the onward flight is two days old; from the soldiers' point of view it is invalid.

Now I'm also in the grumbling group, which is quickly growing. The Air India staff at the two check-in counters in the hall, which is now inaccessible to us, keep looking over at us as they check in other passengers.

But what are a few tens of passengers compared to 160,000 passengers here every day? Delhi airport, a mega city with almost 20 million people, is one of the 10 largest airports in the world.

The group gets bigger and several passengers get louder. We are also increasingly blocking the corridor to other halls for check-ins from other air-lines. This causes additional resentment among uninvolved passengers who have to go this way. Young parents among us sit demonstratively on the floor with their children and luggage. Between them are older people, some in wheelchairs; you can see their exhaustion.

Inconspicuously, several soldiers have gathered on either side of us. Is there a threat of new chaos?

Finally, someone from Air India check-in comes to the hall entrance close to us. I'm standing near the chemist I know. With this typical Indian head shaking, he laughingly whispers to me that I shouldn’t do anything and let them do it. And it gets loud again and rhythmic comes up: ‘Let us check in, let us check in ...’.

Slowly at first, then faster and faster, two employees run back and forth with our passports and old tickets between us and a third, newly opened check-in desk. After more than an hour, I have a new ticket. Now from the other airline, Vistara, which also belongs to Tata, I am allowed to pass. Like others before me, everyone with a new, now valid flight ticket who gets through or hurries to another check-in hall is given a friendly farewell by the crowd, still without new tickets.

I have to hurry again, boarding for my new flight to Kolkata has already begun. A Vistara employee guides me past other passengers to baggage check-in. ‘Please, quick, quick,’ he forces me. But it's not possible. Firstly, my luggage is too heavy. For them now it is a one-way domestic flight, not an international connecting flight. Allowed now is only a 15 kg check-in baggage. How is that supposed to work now?

I manage to get my former Air India employee to my new Vistara check-in desk. There is a discussion and a manager arrives. Indian solution, just do it: ‘Have a good flight, sir, and sorry for any inconvenience.’

It's the so-called Murphy's Law that now the printer for the baggage label breaks down and needs a new replacement roll first.

A young Vistara employee personally accompanies me to the security check. Again, ‘please quickly, those at boarding are already waiting.’ There are only a few people, but I am pushed past. Everything as usual, mobile phone, laptop etc. in a plastic tray, cabin luggage and plastic bag with liquids next to it, including my hotel belt, in the next plastic tray and off into the scanning tunnel. I had seen that some people go through the body scan in socks, and I asked: ‘Shoes too?’

‘No, no, leave your shoes on.’ Great, I think, but the signal is on. ‘Just come through, no problem sir.’ I'm standing on the platform at the end of the security check and am also scanned with a hand-held device. It beeps at the bottom, there must be metal in the heel of my shoe. So they should have been taken off like the other clothes. What should I do?

The Vistara employee asks me to pack everything up quickly. He hurries back with the shoes. I wonder if they're a bit smelly by now. Then the tray with my shoes comes out of the scanner tunnel, but the belt stops. Several security guards are standing at the screen discussing. Apparently there is something unclear in the luggage of a subsequent tray.

We can't reach the bowl, there are high protective screens between us and the shoes. I see my companion shake hands with someone from the security service for a while; in India this is only usual if you've known each other for a long time or if you give a gift of money without an envelope. He then fetches the tub with my shoes, runs them through the baggage scanner again on another belt and brings them to us with a smile. ‘Double check, one for the right, one for left shoe,’ he laughs with the typical Indian head shaking; I smile rather agonised.

I feel like the very last passenger boarding. Two rows in front of mine the Indian chemist greets me. ‘You see, our kind of communication works,’ laughing with this Indian head shaking; we clap high-five.

Durga Puja in Kolkata

When I arrive in Kolkata, the driver I know is not there and neither is anyone else. So I'm standing outside in the sweltering morning heat and, despite my flight ticket and passport, I can't get back into the air-conditioned check-in hall. The soldiers are of course no exception; every country seems to have similar problems. And India, as a multi-ethnic nation the size of a continent with its arbitrary borders drawn by British colonial rulers, still suffers from this today. As I write this, I realise that India was still under British colonial rule 10 years before I was born.

Finally, I manage to reach my friends on the phone; I've probably rung them out of bed so early in the morning. They haven't received any message I've texted from Frankfurt or Delhi. Their offices are closed, all of them and their driver are off because of the Durga Puja festival.

I was told to take a taxi from the company in the blue building, on the left-hand side of the road opposite me. And I'm told to be careful when crossing the 4-lane traffic-calmed drop-off zone, as no one follows any rules there. I already know the taxi company and how to cross such roads, and I slowly and stoically cross several lanes of the road. Honking without end, but everyone stops at the last moment when they realise they are one step ahead. So I can also ignore the many taxi brokers with their scouts, ‘sir, best taxi ... best price ... fastest to centre ... know best hotel.’

I'm already sweating profusely at the taxi company's little house. Everything’s new. You have to download the company's app first. But it doesn't work, I can't get internet. But I can't do it without the app.

At least I can use Google Maps to identify the large park with lakes near my friends. Then I know the way and find the dead-end street where their house is at the very end. A boy, I guess 12 or 13 years old, speaks a good English. He does it on his phone and registers the taxi order in his name. I'm saved and I want to give him a tip, but he refuses: ‘You are welcome, sir, where do you come from?’

Already after 15 minutes we are in the middle of the festival; today is the second festival and also a Sunday. The driver doesn't speak any English. We make it at least to my friend’s city district in a good hour. But it's not so easy here. With my friend’s help on the phone, we somehow manage to get close to my final destination in this relatively very early holy day chaos. Not without having to turn around a few times in the maze of streets somewhere in front of or behind an altar with lots of people blocking the road and looking for a diversion. Finally I see a shop I recognise on the opposite side of the street. We have to go in there, then take second left and we'll be at the dead-end street we're looking for.

But how to get across on a road with two 4-lane carriageways, separated by a barrier with gaps for pedestrians only? But that's the least of my driver's problems. He simply reverses against the 4-lane traffic, gradually backing up about 100 m, even if it takes about 10 minutes. Despite the wild honking, he remains stoically calm; it's just his daily job.

Durga Puja, the Hindu festival in honor of the mother goddess Durga in her most popular 6-armed manifestation of creation. This UNESCO intangible world cultural heritage site lasts at least 10 days, depending on region and interpretation. The highlight is the full moon at the turn of the month September–October. In Bengal in particular, but also in Assam or Nepal, for example, the celebrations often last two weeks. A speciality in West Bengal, and especially in Kolkata, it’s Kali, the fierce and evil black apparition with a blood-red tongue hanging out and holding severed heads in her hands; the festival of good over evil.

In addition to religious rituals, there are social events such as concerts, gifts, festive meals and communal strolls. Celebrations range from family and neighbourhood activities to major central events. Entire streets are often closed off with oversized altars and even walk-in works of art; music and celebrations last until the next morning. With altars, religious rituals, festive decorations everywhere it is often compared to the Christian Christmas or Easter festival; but of course it has a completely different meaning in terms of content. But not even the lightful typical German Weihnachtsmarkt can compete with the sheer unbelievable Indian sea of lights and colours.

Now, the heat and high humidity are getting to me again. Although I've been here at least once a year for a few days for many years, I won't be able to get used to it.

I take a shower and change my sweaty clothes so that I don't catch a cold here in the house. It's pleasant here, my favourite thing is to lie under the old ceiling fan on the lowest setting and enjoy the laziness at noon and in the afternoon; it's also great protection against mosquitoes.

But I know that I'll be sweating again on the way to the restaurant, where I'll first enjoy the pleasant coolness of a new air conditioning system and then end up freezing. I know that I will catch a cold from this constant change between the air conditioning in the hotel, flights and now again. It would be strange if I didn't? But the prospect of months ahead of me in the mountains in a few days' time, in a climate that is so pleasant for me, puts this into perspective.

The days in Kolkata are as nice as ever. Mum Suniti, who is still sprightly, lives downstairs in the house. I've known her for so long now, since I was in India for the first time; in the meantime she has learnt a little English again after her husband passed away and she is very sprightly. She has also stayed with us in Germany before, so we are all a great community.

Still having the old flat in another part of the city, where I often stayed as well as in hotels; they are undecided whether to rent it out or sell? I'm staying up here on the roof terrace in a modernized room. Great view, and it's a good place to stay at night with a cold beer or two or three. As I knew that they had put a lot of plants on the terrace and Suniti also likes to be up on the roof, I put a big garden gnome in-between them as a present.

My youngest son with his girl friend had arrived the day before; staying in the old flat in the other part of the city. They both already know India and are correspondingly relaxed in the hustle and bustle of this mega-city. They came from Nepal hiking in the Himalayas at the beginning of their 1-year trip around the world; they are planning to visit Kolkata and later my home in the Darjeeling region. And Suniti is sad for me because my time here has now been significantly shortened due the days delay in travelling. My reply that I have known my son for 35 years doesn't count. Indians have a completely different understanding of family than we do, and if you don't speak on the phone at least once a day, something is wrong.

Sarah's mother and a colleague from her German NGO SOCEO are also here. Sarah wants to show them how they live in Kolkata, visit some of their projects in the area, and travel to Darjeeling, ‘for a tea at my place,’ they joke.

We spend three wonderful days together and let ourselves be carried away by the Durga Puja hustle and bustle. Of course, Suniti doesn't miss the opportunity to cook for us on this occasion in keeping with tradition.

Next day, as always when I'm here, we eat at the Calcutta Rowing Club; this over 150 years old club it's quite something, if you ignore the horrors of British colonial rule.

On my last evening, an invitation to my friends' newly opened restaurant. It's a small and, by Indian standards, exquisite restaurant that serves traditional organic cuisine with products the local women's SHG cooperatives that my friends have trained and advised. And ... the restaurant will take a special meaning for me later on, but I have no idea at the moment.

Road to Kalimpong

Now I know, only one 15 kg check-in baggage is allowed on domestic flights. I had never realised this in previous years, as we had only ever travelled with cabin luggage for a few days on projects on the Indian sub-continent.

I manage to reduce my check-in baggage to 17 kg by taking out the 30 cm-tall garden gnome made of plaster and my books. My experience was that 1 or 2 kg overweight can go with a smiling Indian head shaking. And the cabin luggage has also recently been limited to 7 kg, but my experience was that it is not weighed; size must fit and must look light. The now very heavy backpack really cuts into my shoulder.

At the first check-in counter of the low-cost airline IndiGo, which in my experience is always punctual and very pleasant, the employee sends me to another counter to pay for the 20 kg of excess baggage with a smile and the typical (for me at first apparently) approving head shake: ‘No problem, sir.’

Crap, I think first, that’s it so far with my experiences. But I tried again at the last of the five counters as far away from her as possible. While I'm waiting in the new queue, I see her leaving her counter; change of staff. Great, so maybe one more attempt. And here it works straight away and my checked baggage runs on the belt towards the plane at no extra charge; I relax with the unchecked backpack, which cuts into my shoulder, to the security check and on to boarding.

It's only a short flight of just less than an hour. Later I will learn the subtle nuances of the typical Indian head shake; it could have meant a friendly ‘yes’ or ‘I don't know’ or ’I can't decide’ or ...

Last year I travelled the route by train. I was looking forward to slowly immersing myself in the countryside in the north of West Bengal up to the famous Darjeeling region. Unfortunately it was an overnight train, but it was my very first train journey in India, with its own interesting inner life. The whole journey, including the trip to the railway station and then four hours by car into the mountains, had taken a total of 16 hours.

The mountain region was their administrative summer residence for around 100 years until the end of British colonial rule in 1947 due to its wonderfully mild climate. In the anniversary brochure of a traditional German teahouse, which I found on the Internet, I read that in 1830, for example, you first had to travel up the river Ganges from Calcutta by boat, which took a week.

And then from the foot of the Himalayas for another week on foot with porters and pack mules, and later on more developed paths with ox carts.

At the end of 19th century there was a railway from Calcutta and years later a separate mountain railway for the last 80 km; it was built primarily to transport tea and soldiers. Now it is still very popular with tourists today as a way of slowly immersing themselves in this landscape.

Today, apart from an hour drive to the airport and the short flight to the foot of the Lower Himalayas, I only need less than three hours by car to reach finally.

Before the New Truth

Review

After my commercial apprenticeship, studies and a career in banking and consulting, I moved to a university in my mid-40s. Working with younger people again and again, spending more time for researching and writing independently, this interested me more than the same old projects in same old client organisations with same repeating hotel stays all over the country.

For me personally, the university was by and large a non-hierarchical organisation with a variety of types and characteristics. Coming from the so-called Free Economy and self-employment consulting partnership – where you are not really free, but totally dependent on superiors and customers, turnover and expectations of the social class – I found now new and often seemingly strange regulations, procedures and peculiarities that were not always logically comprehensible. But, there was also a lot of freedom, fun experiences and interesting people. And for me, there was no longer the usual career hysteria surrounding me. I didn't want to manage a university or a faculty, because then I would be back on the career carousel from which I had previously freed myself.

And like so many people my age, I was divorced after around 20 years of marriage, have three great grown-up children and still have lots of plans. In particular, I had already set the course for my retirement and had already channelled my international orientation and activities in this direction.

I am now 61 years old and the last five years of my regular working life at the university began in March. I feel physically exhausted and put this down to the general Spring Fatigue. I also can't bring myself to prepare the mountain bike for upcoming short tours as a kind of spring cleaning, as has become a habit in recent years. I keep getting dizzy and, for weeks in April, I have the feeling that I'm coming down with a flu. No need to worry, you know what it's like and you can deal with it.

But it lasts longer and I sweat easily at night. The sweating gets worse and I get little red pimples on my legs, which sometimes burst and bleed or when I scratch them. Of course I know that you shouldn't do this, but (at least) I can't resist it completely. I also feel weak during the day despite sleeping longer in the morning or sometimes during the day. And somehow I'm always tired. But that's just part and parcel of the flu, I think to myself.

I can work at my desk without any problems, but as soon as I get up and go down to the basement or make my bed in the morning, I'm exhausted and have to sit down. As soon as I sit down, I can think clearly again, read the newspaper or work. But every walk is somehow too heavy for me.

I seem to give lectures as normal at the start of term. However, I no longer walk around the lecture theatre or from one group to the next in the seminar as I usually do during a lecture or seminar, but I stay seated at the front; I've never done that before.

The dizziness gets worse, after a few steps I feel unsteady and sway. What will the people around me think? That he’s drunk in the morning?

So I sit down again briefly every few steps. I pick up a CD from a table in front of a bookshop and sit down again in the shop, pretending to read the contents with interest. Outside, halfway to my bike, I do the same thing again, reading the CD cover on a little wall around a flower bed in the small pedestrian zone of my neighbourhood.

I finally make it to the bike; I can manage on the bike. Pushing it stabilises my gait. And I can get on and cycle the five minutes home without problems.

And as soon as I get home, I have what feels like a never-ending coughing fit.

The green Miracle Juice

The slight flu-like feeling, sweating at night, dizziness during the day and repeated long bouts of coughing like bronchitis, I know that from a few years ago. At the time, I had caught bronchitis, developed a fever and passed out at some point. At the ENT doctor's practice, it turned out to be hidden pneumonia on both sides and I had to go to hospital immediately.

That's why I think of flu and bronchitis first and buy the green miracle juice (a chemical medical high-end cocktail) at the local pharmacy; the 200 m I have to drive by car. Take a small portion cup with the cap on 3-times in a row at night and you sleep well and sweat out the flu. It tastes disgusting, but it helped when I couldn't afford the flu at work.

I wake up at night and am literally soaking wet in bed. Everything is wet, not just my T-shirt, shorts, sheet and quilt, but right through to the mattress. I dry off, put on fresh clothes and lie down on a sauna towel on the edge of the mattress next to the wetness in case it happens again. Two hours later I wake up again. Everything is soaking wet again, as if someone had watered me with a watering can. Dry off again and change into fresh clothes. I'm freezing and put another bathrobe on over it; I lie down in the guest room. Early in the morning I wake up freezing, everything is soaking wet again.

After a hot bath I feel better, but also weak. During the day, I take one of these capsules as a day miracle juice equivalent and no longer feel feverish; and I drink fast-dissolving anti-cough pills to cough up. I hardly notice any dizziness as I have already unconsciously got into the habit of sitting a lot and using the bike as a support.

In the evening, I make provisions. After a unit of the miracle juice, I prepare the guest room with a bath towel and dry laundry, as well as the sofa in the living room.

Again I have to change sleeping places during the night, an now across all the rooms. So is pneumonia coming? Or is it already one? And as if on order, I get a coughing fit. It takes a long time for my throat to calm down. Then, changing my clothes is unusually strenuous and I have to sit down again immediately afterwards. After a few minutes I stand up, but the dizziness is so bad that I'm really afraid of falling over. I immediately sit back down.

Things around me are somehow different. I croak self-ironically, wow dude, full on drugs, the juice has it in it; which is kind of true. There's a book on the floor in front of me. I bend down to pick it up. But I reach into the void and think, but it's right in front of my feet, isn't it? I bend down further and further. But again I reach into the void. It all looks distorted somehow; like Salvador Dali paintings, it goes through my head. Even my feet are some-how so far away.

At some point I wake up shivering from the cold. Was it a faint? Why am I lying on the floor? What's happening here right now?