“It’s cheaper to fly to India, pay for a room, and get my teeth worked on, than it is to get work done at home,” said Robert, a Canadian volunteering at Ramana’s Garden for three weeks.
Children and volunteers with overbites and cavities, lost fillings and broken teeth climbed into the back of the Gypsy for a trip to the dentist on Wednesday. Smaller children sat on laps as we drove down the crowded streets to the city of Rishikesh. Large black bulls with sharp horns slowed the traffic as monkeys swung from trees on the roadside.
Off the main highway, slightly out of town, stood the Seema Dental College & Hospital. We walked past a mangy dog, wagging his tail and scratching scabs off of its ears into the rose gardens surrounding the clinic. The low light of the lobby didn’t feel like any dentist’s office I had been to before. One receptionist took cards from the children who had visited before another made new accounts for those of us having our first visit.
There was no soft music playing in the background, no smiling pearly teeth hung from the walls.
“Children to the second floor,” said the female receptionist. Three volunteers, including myself went to the initial diagnostic room. We gave our files to a woman waiting at the counter and removed our shoes. One at a time we were called in for questioning.
Twelve examination chairs filled a large room—only two were in use. A woman with a broken jaw entered before me and winced in pain as she lay down in the chair. One technician stood at a sink sanitizing tools.
“What is the problem today?” a man in a lab coat asked. I explained that I needed a cleaning and thought that I had lost a filling. I leaned back in the chair and after a moment of examination I was sent to the third floor to have someone else look at my teeth.
Up the stairs and shoes removed once more, I waited in the hall. Dental students passed, talking in quiet voices and carrying large textbooks. My name was called and I sat in one chair among thirty, no individual cubicles for privacy, still no elevator music.
A woman with a journal asked me as many questions about my medical history as they do when I donate blood. Married or single, occupation, diet, vices, I thought she might even ask about my favorite color. After another quick look into my mouth she told me that I needed to get my cleaning first. “Go to the fourth floor.”
I climbed another flight of stairs and asked a student in a lab coat where to go for cleanings. She looked at my file and pointed down to the area I had just come from. I explained again and was sent down the hall and to the left.
The friendly face of a fellow volunteer awaited me. We asked about one another’s dental progress and I was shooed into a room where I received an aggressive examination and was told to go to the first floor for x-rays and payment. She also told me there was a possibility that I might need surgery.
I was beginning to feel skeptical about the dentists in India. I have always had healthy teeth and they were hurting more by this time than they had upon my arrival.
I figured that I was in this already, and may as well see where it would take me.
Shoes back on, I walked to the ground floor and into an office next to the one where it all began. One quick x-ray and I went to the front desk to pay while the film was developing. The charge was 230 rupies, for the x-ray and cleaning—that is $5.29 US, no insurance.
When I picked up my x-ray the man there offered me water and asked me where I was staying. He gave me 10% off discount coupons for my friends.
“He must have been hitting on you,” Maggie told me later, “I go there with the kids all the time and have never received a single coupon.”
Back on the fourth floor without any shoes I finally sat in a chair knowing that I would get some work done on my teeth. Looking around, I saw nearly fifty examination chairs; one dozen filled with patients. A counter along one side of the room was filled with students, mostly female, studying from textbooks and sharing notes. The sound of drilling filled my ears.
The woman who sent me for the x-ray approached and sat down next to me, placing a mask over her mouth. I rinsed my mouth out with some red liquid and lay back in the chair. It felt like a power drill was pounding in my skull as she began the cleaning. My mind raced with the possibility of losing all of the enamel from my teeth. To me, this seemed like a procedure from the 1940’s.
I’ve always had cleanings done by hand—dentists scraping away plaque with sharp hooks that resemble Egyptian torture devices. Now it was power tools.
When it was finished I was a little shocked to find any teeth remaining in my mouth, especially clean teeth. I was told to rinse with warm salt water for a few days and sent on my way.
Getting a filling for my chipped tooth was out of the question by now, so I went to return my file and find the kids and other volunteers. I learned that rather than the power tool I assumed she was using it was a state of the art pressure washer for teeth. No enamel is damaged by this method. I talked with another volunteer who had to return for a crown fitting, his entire procedure will cost 1600 rupies, or $37 US.
Trips to the dentist do not require appointments or calling ahead. It’s nice to know when a specialist will be in, but there is never a guarantee. Seema Dental College and Hospital is open every day except Tuesday.
Western State Writers Spring 2009 