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Published: April 12th 2007
9:45, April 2nd
Somewhere in Orissa (stopped because a brake-fire has started in one of the rail cars—just a few minutes the samosa-walla says)
I’m getting farther and farther away from Chennai, and therefore farther and farther awawy (in time space and memory) from the events of my last day in Chennai. They were, of course, rather unusual events, because Chennai wouldn’t let me leave without one final shock to my system. Because—as Sarat said in reference to an entirely unrelated crazy event—it’s fun to end with a bombshell.
Saturday morning was thick with a “wait-and-see” feeling. The mess was packed with hostel girls who were confined to the campus by the uncertain severity of the bandh taking place outside of our gates. A few girls—who work in the IT or banking sector and who didn’t get the day off—ventured out into the world on their two wheelers. Word made it back that not only two-wheelers and private cars were out but a few autos were cruising the empty streets as well. And so it was that word came back to me that not only was auto trtavel possible but that because the city hadn't entered into riots the central government offices would probably be open (while state and local branches would stay closed in support of the bandh). This was excellent news to me, as I had left til last minute the task of sending two boxes filled entirely with books by super-cheap super-slow boat post, which could only be arranged at the main central post office on Mt. Road.
Past the shetlering gates of the YWCA compound I found that the streets were just a quieter, less crowded version of themselves. Traffic cops still stood on the corner directing traffic still composed of autos, cars, two wheelers and bicycles. Only the lack of buses and the diminished volume of traffic (which didn't really need to be directed) made a noticeabe difference. Because of the infrequency of autos it tooke me twenty minutes (as opposed to the normal two) to hail a ride, but when I finally did get one and asked him how much to Mt. Road post office I was pleasantly surprised by his answer. He was asking only Rs 30--the usual fare to the area that could typically only be agreed upon after much bargaining. On a bandh day, I had been warned, the laws of supply and demand could almost triple auto fare. So I happily agreed, thankful for the opportunity to take care of this last task before I left.
We sped over bridges and through streets that are normally thick with all manner of wheeled vehicles and disesel exhaust. I busied myself with examining closed-up shops and empty sidewalks that sped by to my left and right until--feeling a sudden decline in the speed of our auto, a quick and steady application of the breaks--I looked straight ahead. Thirty feet ahead of us (then twenty-five then twenty as our auto continued forward) was a line of men storming angrily out of the shadows of a side alley. A few had sticks in their hands (and who knows what other weapons were clenched between fists) and they were among the ranks of very angry looking men who suddenly turned to face us, forming a human barrier to the road. Despite breaks and declining speed our auto was still moving forward until--in a deft maneuver considering the clumsy maneuverability of auto richshaws--my auto driver pulled a sharp u-turn right before the line of angry men with sticks. It was a well-executed turn, but no matter how good of a driver you are autos are not slick driving machines and the vehicle sputtered and stalled as we tried to turn our back to the demonstrators. Suddenly men were yelling and fists were pounding on the back of the auto. We picked up speed again just as rocks started to pelt the back of the auto and hands started to work their way up the sides of the vehicle. Even as we left most the shouting men behind, one particularly determined hand refused to let go of its grip on the side grill of the auto. For a brief second his determination prevailed and his running body caught up with his hand and the auto. He had just enough time to turn toward my auto driver and yell something visciously until the speed of our auto became too much for his chappal-ed feet to keep up with; he lost his grip and out of the corner of my eye I saw his body trip and fly forward toward the ground. I closed my eyes and turned my head. Since my incident with the bus I had developed a very gruesome imagination about what a fall from a moving vehicle could do to you, and I had no desire to see whether the real effect was as gory as what I envisioned.
For a minute or two we raced as fast as we possibly could through nearly-empty streets, with the driver checking frantically over his shoulder and me too frightened to do anything but stare straight ahead. All of a sudden there was an angry man on a scooter riding next to us screaming all kinds of things (including "stop") and trying to cut us off. Before I knew what was happening the driver stopped and the angry man (who was by then in a full red-faced screaming rage) immediately got off his scooter and started beating my driver. He had screamed his way into the front seat of the auto and was raining blows and spit and nasty words on the cowering figure of my driver. Of course I didn't understand most of it but from the gestures I understood that the perseverant man (who belonged to the hand that had crawled up the side of the auto and then fell away) was back in the street where we had left him, bleeding from his face and arms. Angry scooter man was nearly in tears describing the condition of the fallen one, but his distraughtness only increased his physical violence against the driver. Unable to watch him attack my driver (and terrified of what might happen if his rage escalated further) I started screaming at him. I don't even remember what I said, but it wasn't working; so I grabbed hold of the agry man with my right arm (clawing as hard as I could) and shoved my left arm between the two in a useless attempt to block the continual blows. Practically invisible to the men in the front seat I scooted forward and screamed some more until--finally aware of my protests--the angry man turned toward me with eyes wide and rage in his voice. "Shut up!" he screamed. "No I will not shut up you stupid asshole let go of my driver!"
My words seemed to have no effect on the angry man. But all the screaming had attracted a crowd of thirty or forty men, who took advantage of the brief break in the abuse--when the angry man had briefly turned to scream at me--to try and talk down the screaming bandh-enforcer. With soft voices and hands on his shoulder they tried to plead the case of the auto driver, while the driver himself (with hands clasped together) cried for his own forgiveness. "Please, sahb. Please. Sorry, sahb." At first angry man just continued to scream in a voice that cracked with emotion, but understanding suddenly entered his eyes and his voice lowered as he looked around and realized that the crowd was closing in on him and sealing him off from his victim. Seeing the change in events the auto driver pulled another fast u-turn and zipped off to leave angry scooter man in the hands of the on-lookers.
My body was shaking (just slightly) and almost a minute went by before I managed to say "Poonamalle High Rd. Take me to Poonamalle High Road."
"No Madam. Police. Sorry. No Madam."
I had no idea what he was trying to say but I figured we were going to find a policeman to report the incident to. Instead we pulled over at the side of a road I didn't recognize and the auto driver turned to me and repeated "Sorry Madam. Please. Out. Please get out. Accident Madam. Police. Please."
"Hell no I'm not getting out of your auto. What do you think I am, crazy? Take me home! Poonamalle High Road."
Seeing that I wasn't budging the driver pulled away and sped off through streets I didn't recognize, through an intersection where he stopped again. "Please sister. Other auto. Please. Accident. Please."
"Yah you find me another auto who will take me and then I'll go but I'm not getting out until then. You get another auto. You. auto."
And this, at an empty intersection by the Holiday Inn across from the smelly river that cuts through Chennai, is where more angry men on a scooter caught up with us. Only this time there were two of them. On a different scooter. Two pairs of hands smacking the back of my auto driver's head. Two pairs of betel-stained lips spitting angry words. Only this time the mean were less wild with rage. Their anger seemed controlled, almost affected--like they had summoned it for the occassion, it being their noble duty to enforce a bandh and beat the crap out of poor rickshaw wallahs just trying to make some money.
Again I started screaming at them until they also turned their attentions to me. The one who seemed to be in charge--who was short and fat and who was balding at the crown but had grown long ugly whispy hairs off the side of his head--spoke to me through crooked red teeth. "Madam. Driver. Accident. Madam holiday, driving bad. Driver no good. Holiday. No driving." (Holiday? What a deceitfully sweet name to call something that was really just an excuse for public violence.) I tried explaining that I knew this. Yes, there is a bandh. But the accident was not the driver's fault. Clearly the man who tried to grab onto our fleeing vehicle should be blamed for his own face plant on the road. But not a word of it registered with the scooter accomplices. They nodded at me and then turned to slap the driver a few more times, but in a half-hearted distracted way. I think by now they realized that they would have to do something with me first before they could effectively deal with the bandh violator. "Let me go home" I demanded. "I need to go home. He is taking me home."
"Madam, please. Auto. Other auto. Yes. Go home in another auto" said the balding one.
Now this is ludicrous. Here they are pummeling one auto driver for his violation of the bandh and they want me to go out and find another auto driver; they were actually asking me to break the rules with one driver so that they could enforce them on another.
"What? Are you kidding me? There are no autos. Look around. Do you see any autos? You said yourself no auto." Perhaps realizing the stupidity of their suggestion they offered another one.
"Yes Madam. Taxi. Take taxi."
"Ha. Do you see any taxi? What taxi? You find me a taxi and then I'll take it home."
And then the most ludicrous idea of the entire day.
"Here Madam," the in-charge one says, patting the back of his friend's two wheeler. "My friend will give lift. Go home."
Yah. Right. I just watched you pummell a poor man sitting no less than two feet away from me. You think I'm going to get on a two-wheeler with you? You must have some twisted views on personal safety and the decision-making abilities of single white women.
"No way am I getting out of this auto." By now I had evolved into full on obstinate foreigner.
"You take me home right now. Poonamallee High Road. Right now goddammit!"
Aside from desperately wanting to get home and out of the presence of these good-for-nothing-beetle-stained-thugs I was harboring some small hope that by refusing to get out of the auto I would eventually tire out these angry-scooter-men and they would let my auto driver go, free to drive me home and stay out of their way for the rest of the day. No such luck. Realizing that I would go nowhere but home the in-charge-one saddled up next to the driver and mumbled something through angry crooked teeth. He turned and gave me what I think was supposed to be a reassuring nod (as if anything that came from these two could be reassuring). And we were off: three unlikely auto inhabitants accompanied by an angry man on a scooter, who I think was trying to play the role of moral police escort.
They drove me to Poonamallee but dropped me on the opposite side of the road. "Sorry Madam," the younger one on the scooter said to me as I got out of the auto. I ignored him and tried, as slyly as I could, to hand the driver an Rs 50 note (in some effort to pay off the guilt I was starting to feel for causing this whole mess). "Sorry" he said again as I walked past him on the cross walk. I looked at his face and there was genuine apology in his eyes. It was disgusting. I think he truly felt more sorry aobut causing me an inconvenience than about beating a poor auto driver who was just trying to make a living. All I could think was "your face makes me want to vomit," and I think my look effectively conveyed this base emotion of mine. I muttered something about goondas ("thugs") under my breath, but I'm sure my opinions were of no use to these self-righteous and self-appointed enforcers of the moral-political order.
It was the third and final of my trying experiences in Chennai--one from which I managed to return with all of my body parts in tact and belongings in place. It was the worst, however, because the ending (unknown) contained the possibility of much greater suffering for somebody other than myself. Before I was just a girl who fell off a bus. Or a foreigner who didn't hold on to her purse tight enough. But this time I was witness to a public act of violence that was both socially and politically sanctioned. And the scale of it was much larger than anything I had dealt with before.
I have no idea what happened to the auto driver; my friends are mostly of the opinion that he was probably beaten rather badly and then his auto destroyed. The next morning the newspapers declared "Bandh in Tamil Nadu peaceful, near total." "Private vehicles plied freely in towns. But some pro-reservation activists targeted autorickshaws and commercial vehicles. Violence was limited to deflating the tyres." This last statement I know to be false as violence was very certainly committed by three men on scooters with words and faces that were equal parts angry and ugly. So I can only hope that in the spirit of a "peaceful, near-total" bandh the "activists" (the language of righteousness is surprising) that I met exercised some constraint and spared my auto driver the worst of beatings and damages. And that some day a more legitimate form of political expression can find its place in Indian society.
(Thankfully) Not the end....
Fortunately the bandh incident was in the morning, leaving the rest of the day for me to experience things that would let me depart Chennai with something other than an aftertaste of fear and disgust.
I spent most of the afternoon moving my things from my hostel to the YWCA guest house, where I would spend my last night. After I cleared everything that I wanted to take with me traveling or that I would eventually cart back to the US, there was still quite a bit of useful stuff left in my hostel room: towels, my plate, a pair of salwaar pants, the sling I had used when my arm was allegedly fractured. Luckily my two favorite ayahs (Rani, who had a sweet scratchy voice and did my washing and Devi, who called me "Abby" and liked to give me bick fat kisses on the cheek) were working that day. I called them in to see if they wanted any of it. I expected them to sort through it and take the good stuff: mostly the towels and cookware. Instead when they were finished they had cleared what had been an entire closet full of odds and ends. They divided the wash-cloths evenly, fighting over who got which color. A piece of blue Jaipuri block-print paper that had decorated my wall was cut in two by Rani and each took half. Devi took the sling (apparently her son had just broken his arm) and Rani took all the American and English loose change that I had left over (for the collection that she is building of coins left behind by foreigners like me in the hostel). They took every plastic bag and cardboard box that I had accumulated over two and a half months, and while Rani played amusedly with the bubble wrap that had come in one of my packages Devi sorted through the garbage, fishing out bottles of cosmetics that I hadn't even thought to offer. "Abby, this one?" "Face wash." There was only about one use left but she put it in her bag of goodies anyway. "Abby, this one?" She held up a bottle of lavender-scented bug spray that I had bought at a natural-goods store but which had proved to be useless. She sprayed it on her arm and nodded approvingly at the smell before dropping it in with the other things.
They carted their new possessions out of my room and as they waddled down the hallway--carrying awkward sized boxes and with new towels slung over their shoulders--they teased me for having not learned Tamil after so long.
Having said my goodbyes to the ayahs it was off to make the rounds with the Aunties. First I went to see Sugunti Aunty, the one who was always blessing me and trying to get me to come to prayer group. She presented me with jewelry that she had collected during her time as a missionary and teacher in Africa: a bracelet of semi-precious stones that she had gotten in Gambia and a small owl charm made of crystal that she had gotten in an Italian colony in Ethiopia. We talked about traveling and becoming a global citizen and the importance of leaving your comfort zone to learn and grow. I should have known, though, that there was a religious motive lurking in her gift giving. "Do you know why I'm giving you these things?" she asked. "Because I want you to remember me and the ministry always." She proceeded to give a great long list of the religious services that she was performing in the hostel: writing weekly sermons on a white board in the lobby, counseling people in need, leading prayer groups, etc. She asked me not only to remember her work but to give her money to allow her to continue these services. In this way she was not unlike the many other Indians who see an American and think money. And while not all of her activities I would be eager to support (like the chorus group, which seemed to only know one song and which liked to practice it at ten o’clock at night so that the not-yet developed and strangely accented English voices of the hostel students would invade my room at the end of a long day), she successfully convinced me to give her money so that she can continue to tutor girls from the YWCA orphanage in English, math and science. At least if people are going to see me as an American who freely gives out money it can be to important causes.
My favorite aunty Chella had just returned from the hospital and so I found her in her room, curled up on her bed in her typically-Indian house-coat/mumu. Indra Aunty was sitting and keeping her company and together they were a picture of what I might hope to be at 80 years old (Indra actually just turned 81). Despite Chella's occassional bouts of weakness she spent most of her days knotting yards and yards of lace. She was constantly trying to teach me how to make the lace but after sitting with her once I knew that the process of knitting, looping and twisting was much too complicated for my mental or manual capabilities. Indra Aunty liked to keep herself sharp by playing her organ keyboard in her room and talking on her cell phone--and it never ceased to amuse me to see her shuffling around the hostel, slightly hunched over in her loosely tied sari with her mobile glued to her ear. As Chella held my hand I promised to write them postcards from my travels and--in response to her very Indian request of "Never forget us, dear"--I promised to never forget my aunties in Chennai.
And if effects were still lingering from the bandh, I only had to wait until 6 PM (when the bandh was officially over) to get into an auto and ride to Rajamma's house, where good company and notoriously spicy Andhran food promised to distract me. At 6:30 I arrived at the Potambara railway station, the entry to Rajamma's neighborhood. Her daughter met me at a lively intersection filled with families on Saturday outings, shuffling between restaurants and sweet shops that glowed from the inside. Amu--who has her mother's smile and ears and who happens to be a state table tennis chamption--accompanied me to Shalimar Sweets, where we elbowed our way through the sweet-toothed crowds and bought a half Kg of ghee laddus (her mother's favorite).
Rajamma's house is tucked back from this busy road and transportation hub through a series of quiet alleys and short-cuts. I told Rajamma that if I could live in any neighborhood in Chennai I would want to live here. The houses were two or three stories and tightly packed together--separated only by small walkways--so that you could stand at your doorway and throw your wet laundry onto any of your neighbor's roofs to dry, if you so desired. "It must be so great to know your neighbors so well" I said, as Rajamma walked me past four private doorways and up a set of stairs to the second floor, where she and her husband and two daughters had a small two bedroom flat. And as it turned out Rajamma knew her neighbors very well. She took my hand and led me down the hallway, where she introduced me to two of her sisters-in-law and several of her nieces. One of the sisters-in-law had white stuff splattered all over her dark blue sari. "Have you been painting?" I asked. The three sisters-in-law laughted and pointed to the idli-batter machine that was whirring away behind them. A stationary spatula was scraping up rice flour dough in a big spinning pot; the sister-in-law would let it spin and thicken for half an hour and then she would take what she needed for the next morning's idlis and put the remainder in the fridge for the rest of the week.
Downstairs I met two more sisters-in-law and their children. Rajamma had married the eldest of five brothers and had therefore become (after the death of her mother-in-law) the woman in charge of a large joint household that in addition to the five brothers and their wives included the boys' father and occassionally their only sister, whose husband had died and left her with on children to look after her. At the peak of her responsibilities--when the mother-in-law was still alive and most of the younger brothers were unmarried and therefore without wives of their own to feed them--Rajamma used to wake up at 2 AM to prepare breakfast for the whole family and then make lunch for them all to pack to their various schools and jobs (and since she was up already she would start the curry for that evening's dinner so that she would have one less thing to worry about when she returned from work). Rajamma had since relinquished some of her responsibility to the younger brothers' wives and was now able to sleep in until 4 AM before getting up tot cook for her nuclear family, her father-in-law and her husband's sister.
Tonight, however, she had only cooked for two. It was Saturday, so her particularly religious family was honoring the gods by eating simply--just tiffin (snacks) and small meals, but no rice. Because Muniyandi and I were the only ones eating, she explained, she had limited the courses: first an Andhran dish that looked kind of like a dosa but was thicker and the consistency of corn-bread, veg kurma to go with this, followed by vada (a donut shaped fried snack of rice and dal flour), bonda (a vada without the hole in the middle), masala dry root vegetable (which was brought out in raw form for me to identify but which i had never seen before), tomato rice, white rice, sambar (but no rasam because she knows I don't normally take it), two kinds of chutney (including the ginger one that I had grown to love on Vellore idli mornings), two kinds of home-made Andhra pickle (one of which made my face turn red and my eyes water), payasam (the southern version of kheer with noodles) and ice cream (the only thing that she didn't make herself, though I wouldn't have been surprised). Muni and I dutifully ate the never-ending dishes, doing our best to spread our hands over our plates to prevent seconds and thirds coming forth from Rajamma's insistent spoon-bearing hand, hovering dangerously near our plates. It was definitely the fullest I had been in months (the kind of full that actually makes you think "When was I ever this full?") but it was a happy full--stuffed with home-made food that had squeezed out whatever ill feelings had been left in the pit of my stomach from the morning.
Saturday night I curled into my bed (with a water bottle on the bed-side table that contained two roses--one red, one pink) and fell into a food coma, waking on Sunday with just enough time to say goodbye to my hostel friends. My dearest friend was Rajani, who lived in one of the other YWCA hostels and worked in the TRCX and who had adopted me from the first day. What started as a primarily functional relationship--Rajani was very excited to have somebody with whom she could split the auto fare--quickly became more than that. Rajani is from Bhopal, so we bonded over our love of palak paneer and Hindi music and our preference for north Indian men over south Indian men (its the height). Soon most of my evenings were spent at the harshly lit courtyard that we called the cement circle, Rajani clutching her radio-mobile close to her ear and singing word-for-word nearly every Hindi song that came on. Though she had been in Lucknow for a week for work, she got home just in time to give me a good send-off from the station.
Before we left the campus Deepa and Apu came to say their goodbyes. Of course they came together, because they are practically the same person. They are both Christians from Kerala who did their post-graduate training together and subsequently both took positions at ICICI bank, Chennai (where they sometimes wear their matching salwaar suits to work). They are both engaged to their boyfriends (who happen to be friends) against the wishes of their parents. A major difference between the two of them is that Deepa's wedding is already fixed for next June (whereas Apu's is still a secret from her boyfriend's parents). We have already made plans to meet in Kerala for the ceremony (and I've promised them that if I show up it will be in a sari).
Deepa handed me a packet of chewing gum for my trip and they packed me into an auto so that I could catch my shortly-departing train. At Chennai Central Rajani bought a platform-visitor ticket so that she could come into my berth with me and make sure I was settled (even insisting that I sit and guard my spot while she went and bought me bananas for the journey). Though I will see her again when I come back to finish my work at the end of the month we departed with a promise. "You do one thing, " I said (linguistic proof of my Indianization--a task that Rajani had been working toward through the application of bindis and fixing of dupattas). "You look for a north Indian boy fro me so that I can come back to India and visit all the time, and I'll look for an NRI for you in California so that you can move to the states like Rasmi . Ok da?" "Ok," she said smiling, and I could see that she liked this plan--this largely unrealistic scheme to make the past seem plausible in the future.
That was when my brief stint as a working woman in India came to an end and my even briefer stint as a tourist in India began. I left with many questions unanswered, like why do the ants always get into my unopened packets of q-tips? And how do you explain freckles to someone whose never seen them before (no, it's not a face rash)? Who decided that these two women would become the guardians of the corner-shrine by my gym? And how does one properly pronounce the word for OK ("cherry"? "siri"? "serry"?)? Do people really think bandhs will accomplish anything? Some of these questions may be answered some day and some are just bound to be enigmas, but it is in search of these answers (and more experiences that will make me think and question) that I know I will come back. We can't, after all, expect to find the answers to everything, but sometimes its enough to come up with the question.
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mom
non-member comment
OK the bandh incident scared me. Please take care of yourself and be careful not to get yourself into such explosive situations. Other parts made be laugh--you should write a book, really.