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I spent last night sleeping with four women and one other guy.
In my defence, I was riding the night train from Chennai to Mysore and shared close quarters with this group (who shared two words of English amongst the five of them). I did it the Indian way in a sleeper carriage with no air-conditioning. I was the only white man on this train other than a few Siberian Buddhist monks who preferred to discuss the Australian-Russian boxer Kosta Zu than Buddha’s three teachings (So much for non-violence). Unfortunately, the conversation was stifled by my lack of boxing knowledge.
This was my virginal voyage on India Rail. The rail company is the world’s largest employer in the world with 1.6 million workers, half of whom were busy giving me instructions about where I can or can’t sit on this 11-hour journey. That said, all in all it was a great experience I am hoping to repeat.
Today I discovered the reincarnation of Michael Jackson in the form of a break dancing Indian youngster who was showing of his moves on the stairs to the temple of the Goddess Chamundeswari – who is said to protect the Mysore region for evil (proving once and for all that Jackson was not evil). For the thousands of followers of the Jacksonian faith, fear not – the lama has been found.
I am back in India, that splendid country full of life’s true colours. I landed in Chennai (Madras) yesterday. Before landing, I had to fill out the immigration forms of the Tamil couple on my right after I realized the man (who could not make head or tail of the English form) was copying mine. I thought it may not be a good start to my holiday if I enter India in triplicate.
At nightfall, I went to Marina beach where tens of thousands gather in a carnival atmosphere every weekend – horse back riding; sugar cane juice; fairy floss; rifle shooting; fortune telling robots and a hundred stalls with every knick and knack. As the sun set, hundreds stood where the water met the land as the tide let water beat earth in this battle of the elements. At the other side of this ocean was my home.
I purposely left home without a shaver or a watch as part of a grand sadomasochistic experiment. In the past 24 hours, I came close to buying a watch on three occasions and a shaver on one. I only now realized that both instruments constrain time to an extent (hair growth like sunset is but a measure of time). So in this timeless day, I spent half of it at the railway station (where I am at present) trying to buy a rail ticket; photographing strangers and having a blast. Something I would have never done happily if I had a schedule to follow.
Time takes on a different dimension when it is unmeasured. I think it was Einstein who said: “Time is an illusion, albeit a persistent one”. On cue, I have Bob Dylan singing in my ear “the future for me is already a thing of the past”. He too must not have worn a watch.
The Indian headshake is one of the most common (and peculiar) gestures a traveler would come across on their journey India. The headshake is a combination of a nod and shake, and means precisely that – yes and no.
Observe the following discussion:
Traveli: Is this bus going to Cochin?
Indian: [responds with said headshake]
Meaning #1: The bus is going to Cochin
Meaning #2: The bus is going to Hampi / Rishikesh / Varanasi
Meaning #3: What is this guy on about?!
Initially, I was labouring under the misapprehension that the headshake was the only thing I knew to combine ‘yes’ and ‘no’ – the ‘maybe’. But having the wisdom of a month in this land, I note the errors of my ways, for the term ‘maybe’ has far more certainty as it guarantees one of two results – it may be or it may not be, whereas the headshake is quite different and promises no result whatsoever. It serves nothing more than a vague acknowledgement of the question (and its right to remain unanswered), and its only useful contribution is a lesson in coping with uncertainty.
And so I board the bus and let it take me to my destination – wherever that may be.
Praise the one who owns the hills green and turns her leaves to drink.
Praise the one who brings forth steel and modes of getting here to there.
Praise the one who lets word travel and hears our laughs and cries.
Let us sing in unity and hail Tata
It seems that Kerala’s communism has rubbed off on me with this rare admission to my friends on the left. The Tatasation of India was most apparent when I was driving for hours in the hills surrounding Munaar, knowing all this beauty is owned by the almighty conglomerate.
I came to a place not found in my guide, and found that it existed, and so I started doubting that which was my guide.
I created a dot on my map, a lonely blot in a lesser lonely planet, and confirmed to myself what this city’s inhabitants long knew: they exist!
To survive on the Indian road, you need to honk excessively (works best in a vehicle) and understand your place in the road ladder (listed in reverse order):
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Man
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Motorcycle
- Rickshaw
- Car
- Bus
- Tata truck
- Holy cow
I’m heading off today from the picturesque mountain scene surrounding Kodaikanal, nearby which (in the village of vatakanal) I stayed for the past few days, to the tea plantations surrounding Munaar.
I will thus begin my way back home.
India has its very frustrating side and today I am just not in the mood to follow my own advice in my ‘Shanti, Shanti’ post – though I may just have too.
My plan for the day:
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Visit Hyderabad’s famous Bazaars (after a quick detour to post office)
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Pack my clean cloths
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Fly out of here
Actual day:
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Suit has not been delivered; go back to shops
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Laundry came back and was not washed (“man went on holiday”)
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Post office detour took over 2 hours, after the procrastinated packaging job by the Chai Walla (canteen operator) nearby was deemed inappropriate; nearly got run over by a motorbike while crossing the road; pleaded with an ofice worker on the other side of the road to give me some brown tape (“clear tape not acceptable… we are a post office, don’t sell packaging items”); a few further attempts at packing; a walk to another street to photocopy Post office forms (“this is our last one, you need three”);
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No time for hyderabad’s bazaars
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Running late for flight
Shanti, Shanti
When I was in Bombay, I was told “This is Bombay, this is not India”, and it was true. The city with its opportunities, modernity and relative meritocracy is quite unlike the rest of India.
The I was in Goa, and I was told “This is Goa, not India”, and it was true. The region with its Portuguese influence, catholic population and tourist influx is quite unlike the rest of India.
Last night, dining in a fancy vegetarian restaurant in Banjara Hills, Hyderabad (the Indian equivalent of Beverly Hills, LA), my Indian dinner colleague suggested in conversation that this too was not India.
So after three weeks is this country, where precisely is India?
