I stared out of the tamtam that ferries passengers between Miraj and Sangli, two sleepy towns that exist on the lower border of Maharashtra. A tamtam is basically a larger version of the ubiquitous Indian auto rickshaw. The body is wider to accommodate up to four passengers sitting next to each other. A much larger version of this can carry upto eight passengers; an unfortunate four are made to sit rather unceremoniously on two smaller seats which can be accessed only by climbing over the aforementioned seat. I cannot explain the seating arrangements in a better way. Some things are better understood when visualised.
What possessed me to come here to this part of the country, I cannot say. Was it an uncontrollable urge to escape from all things familiar till that point in time? All I can say with certainty is that it was definitely not an adventurous spirit. Some folks embrace all things new with a sense of unbridled enthusiasm. I have never belonged to that category.
Miraj, though a small town seems to be filled with professionals belonging to the medical fraternity. There are two medical colleges with hospitals and plenty of health care centres. Every alternate building has a sign indicating the services of a doctor. The road that connects Miraj with Sangli is no different. There is one general hospital, one cancer hospital and even a mental health care facility. The doctor: patient ratio here must be one of the highest in the country. One wonders how such a small area can have so many sick people!
The number of doctors could only be rivalled by the number of potholes on the road on which we are currently travelling. Enterprising young students of statistics could derive all sorts of abnormal ratios; which are also well above the national average: ‘potholes per square foot’ or ‘the percentage of the road that can be termed as dangerous terrain’. The size of each individual pothole is also quite alarming. At times it is impossible to say where when pothole ends and the next one begins. They all seem to be coalescing into one another creating a giant formless crater filled with stones, rubble, and muddy water during the monsoons. During these times it must feel like driving through large ponds; inside heavy duty vehicles in slow motion like the ads that are shown on TV.
Misty memoirs and Wanderlust 