With care

The elders’ long road.

When a grandparent is driven to Pune for a wedding or to Shirdi for a prayer, the family at home counts the hours in medicines: the eight o’clock one after breakfast, the two o’clock one with lunch, the one that must not be missed. The house counts them too — written by you, kept by the sarathi, and never guessed at.

I

The hours, written at home

Before the journey, someone in the family writes the list exactly as it is kept at home: the name, the hour, with food or after. The sarathi carries that page and nothing else. At the hour he says, quietly, Dadi, it is eight — and has water poured and, if the note says after food, a stop already made.

II

Reminded, never given

The pouch is your elder’s own, in their hands or beside them; the sarathi touches it only to move it out of the sun. He never opens a strip, never counts a dose, never decides what a missed hour means. If a tablet is declined or brought up, he calls the family then, not at the end of the day.

III

The pouch, in reach and in shade

Never in the boot. A cool box for insulin, kept cool and never frozen, away from the vents; a note of where the emergency pen is, if there is one, and who in the party uses it. Water that is cool but not iced; a flask of hot for tea at the hour they like it.

IV

A road paced for them

A stop every ninety minutes or so — Lonavala, Khandala, Igatpuri, or the amenities on the Samruddhi — at a washroom the sarathi has chosen, with an arm offered and no hurry shown. The front seat for the one who feels the road; the horizon rather than the phone; the cabin at the temperature they say, then left alone.

V

The family, told

One message when they are in the car, one at the stop if you ask, one at the door — in your words, never to your elder’s embarrassment. If anything changes on the road, the first call is to the person you named, before any decision is made.

VI

If something is wrong

The hospitals along the Mumbai–Pune Expressway and the Samruddhi Mahamarg are known to the sarathi before the car leaves. A chest that hurts, a breath that will not come, confusion, a fall: 108, the family, and the nearest of them — in that order, at once.

Said plainly

The sarathi is a host, not a nurse, and the house would rather say so than let you believe otherwise. It carries no medicines of its own — not a tablet, not a syrup — and it never chooses one for you. Your own medicines are yours, taken at the hours you or your family set; the sarathi reminds you of the hour, keeps water within reach, and keeps the pouch out of the sun. If you would like something from a pharmacy, the car stops at one and the choice is yours at the counter. If it is more than a cold — a chest that hurts, a breath that will not come, a face that swells, a faint — the sarathi calls 108, calls the person you named, and drives to the nearest hospital on the route, which he knew before the car left. Nobody is left alone.

What to write for the sarathi

The medicinesName · hour · with or after food — exactly as it is written at home. “Amlodipine, 8 am, after breakfast.” Nothing else is needed, and nothing is interpreted
The pouchWhere it rides (in their bag, in the seat pocket), and whether anything in it needs to stay cool
Who to callOne name and number at home, and the doctor’s if you would like the sarathi to have it
The small thingsThe seat they prefer; how warm the cabin; the tea they like at four; whether they would rather be spoken to in Marathi, Gujarati or Hindi; a name they are called by
What is never doneNo tablet crushed, split, doubled or swapped; no dose given late on the sarathi’s own judgment; no medicine of the house’s own — the house keeps none

Where it is kept, and for how long

What you write is read by your sarathi and the house, used for this journey only, and erased seven days after it. If it is about your parent rather than yourself, write it with their knowledge; they may ask the house to erase it at any time, and so may you. In your room the hours can be kept for every journey instead — the privacy policy says the rest in a paragraph.

The roads the elders take

Mumbai to Pune · Mumbai to Shirdi · Mumbai to Nashik · Mumbai to Mahabaleshwar · Mumbai to Goa · Parents arriving at the airport · To the hospital and home · Travelling with care.

Inside every written figure: the car, your sarathi, fuel, every toll, parking at both ends and GST. Nothing is added on the day, and no meter runs.

Reserve the long roadWrite the hours in the care note, or send a photograph of the list at home.

Questions guests ask

Will the driver remind my mother to take her medicines on the way to Pune?
Your sarathi will — at the hours your family writes, with water ready and a stop made first if the note says after food. He reminds and never gives: the pouch is hers, he never opens a strip or decides a dose, and he calls you if a tablet is declined.
Can insulin be kept cool in the car?
Yes. A cool box rides in the cabin, away from the vents; insulin is kept cool and never frozen, and never in the boot. The sarathi keeps it; your elder or the family uses it.
How often does the car stop on a long drive with an elderly person?
Every ninety minutes or so, at a washroom the sarathi has chosen — Lonavala or Khandala on the Pune road, Igatpuri towards Nashik, the amenities on the Samruddhi — with an arm offered and no hurry shown. More often if they wish.
What if my father falls ill on the Expressway?
The sarathi calls 108, calls the person you named, and drives to the nearest hospital along the route, which he knew before the car left. The family hears first, before any decision is made.
What happens to the medicine list after the journey?
It is read by the sarathi and the house, used for that journey only, and erased seven days after it — unless you keep it in your room with the house for the next time, which you may erase whenever you say.

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