Just a tip before you start reading this piece: this is not a travelogue. This personal essay does not promise you the joy of armchair travelling.
For the uninitiated, armchair travelling is a thing indeed and brings great joy to the readers. As an armchair traveller myself, I can vouch for the same. I have spent decades being an armchair traveller, but last month I broke the norm and opted for the real deal.
Yes, I chose to travel and see with my own eyes the beauty of nature instead of partaking in someone else’s vision. I occasionally go out on day-long weekend trips, but overnight stays have been a strict no-no for me for the past one-and-a-half decade.
For a person in a wheelchair, it is a little difficult to leave one’s known surroundings. At least, that’s what holds true for me.
So when I made plans for the Bangalore trip, my family was astonished but thrilled at the same time. Naturally, it was I who called all the shots. From booking hotels to researching sightseeing places—I did it all single-handedly. It was fun, though a little daunting. I was, after all, leaving behind the comfort of my home and venturing into the unknown after so long.
The prospect of travelling to Bangalore did not trouble me. I was more anxious about the staying overnight part. I was worried about the hotel and the bathrooms. Especially the bathrooms. They can be treacherous things. All glinting and gleaming—perfect terrains for painful falls. However, I didn’t let the prospect scare me. I just kept praying as we set out for the airport. Just to encounter the first bump.
I was asked to give up my personal wheelchair at the check-in counter as it would have to be stowed away in the cargo. In its place, I was allotted a flight-appropriate wheelchair. The sight of it made my insides scream. It was a rickety thing promising a steady supply of butt-pinching and thigh-grazing.
My husband transferred me into it with difficulty, for the authorities did not inform us that the hand-rests could be lifted at will, and thus the waist pokes were not necessary. The wheelchair bearer just stood there, picking his teeth.
Then we hurried into the elevator that would take us to the frisking zone. I was asked to remove several things from my purse, which I obliged without any fuss. I did ask why I had to take out my mobile phone from my purse when I was already giving them the entire thing.
“Life’s first flight, is it?” the bearer pushing my wheelchair asked me rudely.
No, it wasn’t my first time on a flight. As a child, I had flown lots of times. I had flown twice or thrice as a teenager as well. The thing is, on all those occasions, I had walked on my own two legs, albeit with difficulty. Forgive me if I had not paid attention to your protocols and instead focused on not tripping over my legs.
At this juncture, I need to disclose my disability, I know, because you would be wondering what ails me. Right? Ah! Curiosity is but natural in all humans. Suffice it to say that I suffer from a progressive degenerative genetic disorder. In simple words, I have mobility issues.
Anyway, I did not take the bearer’s slight personally. And while my family was asked to join the queue, I was ushered into the space meant for frisking.
“Khadi ho jao. Stand up,” the lady with the hand-held detector ordered me.
“Mai khadi nahi ho sakti. Aapko aise hi check karna padega. I can’t stand. You have to check me while sitting,” I told the lady.
“Aise kaise? Jo bhi wheelchair par aata hai, yaha khada ho jata hai. Tum kyun nahi khadi ho sakti. How so? Whosoever comes in a wheelchair stands up here. Why can’t you stand?” she rebuked me.
For a split second, I was rendered speechless. Was this lady for real? I understood that she had a trying job, but that didn’t warrant her insensitive behaviour.
“Chalo khadi ho jao. Line mein aur bhi log hai. Come on, stand up. Others are waiting in line,” she grumbled.
I lost my head.
“Mai khadi nahi ho sakti. Aap kaise check kijiyega ye aap ka problem hai, mera nahi. I can’t stand. How you’ll carry out the checking is your problem, not mine,” I said and stared ahead.
It took all my self-discipline to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. The horrible lady grumbled a lot, but I paid no further heed. I turned deaf to her verbal jabs.
When I came out of the kiosk, my husband came rushing to my side. He looked at my crumbling face and knew something was not right. I did not want a bad start for our trip, so I made up an excuse. I told him it was the airport-issued wheelchair. There was some truth in that; I did not feel bad about lying.
The flight itself was okay. However, when we landed in Bangalore, I was reminded of the second bump. As our airport shuttle, I wanted to hire an accessible taxi. I had read about this company offering the service and had immediately blessed them from the bottom of my heart. Before coming to Bangalore, I got in touch with them. I had asked for the fare they would charge for the airport to hotel commute. I intended to book a cab.
Their answer came as a shock to me. They were asking ₹5,500 for the 34 km trip! Parking and toll extra, I was informed. Were these the good Samaritans whom I had sent my blessings, or were these people out to fleece us? Let me tell you, the actual fare happens to be somewhere between ₹900-₹1,000.
Anyway, we took an Ola at the airport and reached the hotel. Transferring from my wheelchair to the car was slightly tricky, but we managed.
The stay in Bangalore was fabulous. We visited almost all the tourist places of interest. I could not go inside the Bangalore Palace, but the management there regretted it more than I did. I really liked their approach.
The next stop was Mysore. We had no idea that Dasara was such a huge deal there. There were crises of all kinds there, we were warned. Did we have a hotel booking? Had we arranged for transport? The manager of the hotel where we had put up in Bangalore asked us again and again.
I assured him that we had hotel bookings though transport was yet to be arranged. I told him the said hotel had taxi services. Thus assured, our lovely manager sighed in relief and wished us a good time.
As you have probably guessed, Mysore was a disaster. Firstly, instead of the promised three-and-a-half hours, it took six hours to reach there. Secondly, when I called up the hotel, they said our booking had been cancelled as they were oversold and it had been the booking provider’s fault.
I called the call centre of the said booking company whose response was classic. They couldn’t help. End of discussion. I tried to reason with them, pleaded with them, and even tried to threaten them as a last resort. They remained detached and disconnected the call. I saw my family growing frantic.
Thankfully, I had booked two different hotels. I had booked a villa in a farmhouse for my parents, meant as a surprise for them. Naturally, I had to tell them, and we all headed to the villa.
The manager had called earlier to confirm our arrival, and I now told him about our dilemma. The good man said the villa was big enough for four people and had extra bunk beds. What a relief! He assured us of a good stay and immediately mailed me the updated invoice for four guests.
However, our elation did not last long. The villa was quite far from the city, and it took us more than an hour to reach. Talk about convenience, and on top, the villa was not accessible.
True to its description, the villa was in the middle of nowhere, with no one far and beyond to disturb the guests. Trees formed the skyline. “Come, enjoy a farm life with no traffic, pollution, or technology to mar your stay,” the ad had promised and delivered!
At least we are not spending the night on the footpath. At least we have a roof over our heads in this foreign land. These were the only thoughts that kept us going.
The villa in itself was enchanting. The simple farm food of chapati and chicken curry was delicious. There was so much peace around; at one point, I was happy that our booking at the other hotel got cancelled.
I longed to explore the property. But that was out of the question. The entire campus was strewn with gravel, and my wheelchair refused to budge even an inch. So, I had to keep indoors while I sent out the rest of the family to take a look.
My husband came back a little later and showed me the video he had made of the place. It was our thing. If I couldn’t see anything on my own, he would go there and make a video for me to get a feel of the place. The farmhouse was great, complete with a bonfire, karaoke, dinner under the stars, and a pony for riding. I sighed and took refuge in my husband’s welcoming arms.
The next day we set out to see the city. Our first stop was the Mysore Palace. It was brimming with people. I knew immediately that it wouldn’t be possible for me to go inside the palace. There were several stairs. My husband parked my wheelchair inside a barricaded section that had no crowd. A man sitting there was shouting instructions in the air.
“What do you think you people are doing coming here in a wheelchair and trying to get inside?” the man said while spraying me with spittle, his eyes protruding from the sockets. The way he spoke was scary and humiliating. He didn’t stop there.
“Get out of here. Go,” he shouted.
“Excuse me! You have no right to address my wife thus,” my husband roared.
“Just take away the damn wheelchair from here. People are getting disturbed,” he shouted.
I was stunned into silence. Had it not been for the timely intervention of my father, the situation would have escalated beyond control. At this point, I can only say that some people can be callous.
Our next stop was Chamundi Hills, which turned out to be another disappointment. The administration had diverted traffic and was not allowing vehicles to ply on the road that would take one directly to the temple. This alternative route, which was open, led to a spot where one had to climb several stairs to reach the temple.
We tried to talk to the traffic policeman guiding the vehicles. We wanted permission to take the road that would take us to the vicinity of the temple. He denied. Then grew angry and said there was no place for a wheelchair there!
The rest of our stay in Mysore was a repetition of these incidents. We still had a day before our flight back home. I wanted to return to Bangalore, to our hotel where things had been so good. So once again, we enjoyed the hospitality the metropolitan city offered us.
I am back now with mixed feelings about the trip. Am I discouraged? Nah. I will make another plan soon. I cannot keep myself away from the world just because some people think that’s what I deserve. My free spirit cannot be chained to an armchair; I have a wheelchair that has promised me possibilities.
And what have I learnt from this trip? That a percentage of people may not be willing to share space with someone like me, but it is my world too, and I belong. So, see you till the next trip.
Jonali Karmakar
I am an editor, writer, and translator. My work has been published in several journals and anthologies, both national and international. I can be reached at karmakarjonali@gmail.com
