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Phil's 1998 India Travelogue
India
Madras/Chennai
Madras is the fourth largest city in India,
with a mere 6 million people (behind Delhi,
Bombay and Calcutta). Similar to Bombay, it
is actually a product of the British invasion,
being merely a village before then. They built
Fort Saint George, a huge fort to protect their
spice trade in the 17th century, now part of
the central city.
Foolishly, I booked a bus ride to my hotel,
which was truly a great mistake - the driver
had some agenda of his own, which pissed me
off, as well as some of the other passengers,
and it took an unbearably long time to get
to my hotel - actually he dropped me off
in a side street which led to a dead end.
So I am standing there with my big backpack
at this deadend full of poverty stricken
Indian in filthy hovels, wondering why he
let me off here. I asked one man, who pointed
to a small side street which led to a train
station, which still was confusing. Finally
some old man, a porter asked me to carry my
bag for 10 rupees (25 US cents). He couldn't
have weighed more than 100 pounds, and now
my bags, full of gifts, weighed in a 60 pounds.
He pointed to me to put it on his head, so
I did, and that poor fellow carried my bag
up and down several flights of stairs to get
to my hotel. I had to wait up for him many
times, but he somehow managed to keep that
bag steady on his head. When I got to my
hotel, he demanded a much bigger sum which
I could not avoid giving him.
I booked into the Hotel Imperial, a hotel
that costs 6 US dollars for a room, and
you get what you pay for. It was a pretty
dirty, 'hotel near the bus station' kind of
place, but Hardened Indian Traveller can
handle this scene now. The sheets were
an appoximation of clean, so that was enough.
But I think it is trying to be a two star
hotel, because there are all sorts of
hotel personnel to take care of your needs,
like getting mineral water and such. The
hotel's best feature is that it's way off
the road, away from the noise of Chennai,
which isn't as bad as the other big cities,
but bad enough.
Arriving in mid-day, I found that the hotel
had several travel agencies, a phone and
internet cafe, which was nice - I had no
impulse to go walking around Chennai. So
I selected one agency, booked a taxi tour
for the next several cities, and did a day
tour of Chennai.
There wasn't a lot to see in Chennai - saw
a museum of Fort Saint George, which was
mildly interesting - it contained real
mortars and mortar shells and huge paintings
of British Royalty long since gone. Next
stop was a Christian Church which was
most interesting. In case you didn't know,
South India has a large Christian influence,
and one reason lies in the churches of
Chennai. It is at one of these churches,
San Thome Cathedral, a beautiful church
built in 1504, where the remains of
St. Thomas were buried (until they were
moved to the Vatican). That is St. Thomas,
the famed 'doubting Thomas' that put his
fingers into Jesus's wounds to prove that
he was resurrected. I had no idea that
one of the twelve apostles ended up in
India to spread the Christian word.
Which brought up an amusing contrast. Here
I was, someone who was born a Catholic,
but for all intents and purposes, having
been in the Hindu sphere for most of my
life, looking at Indian Christians praying
to Jesus. Does not compute! But the tomb
of St. Thomas felt like a special place
and I was glad to have stayed there for
a while. I didn't notice or feel any
extraordinary current, but it was still
seemed special nonetheless.
So after the tour was over, I ended up
eating fried prawns and chapattis for
dinner at an outside cafe which played
tinny Indian music way too loud, though
it managed to drown out the nearby traffic
noise somewhat. At this point, I can
no longer stand Indian city traffic, I've
crossed some threshold where it is just
way off the scale for me.
The Iyer Family
While I was sending the previous posting
in a nearby internet cafe, a young fellow
happened to walk in and came up to me and
struck up a conversation about spirituality.
He was a bit preachy at times but nonetheless
seemed sincere.
At times, he was annoying but we did establish
a connection, and he said that I must stop
by before I leave the next day to meet his
family. I figured if the guy was weird or
a con artist, meeting his family would bear
this out.
So Kumar Iyer meets me the next morning to
drive to his family home. He tells me that
they used to be a middle class family, but
the business failed and they are now very
poor.
Their 'house' is on a side street, and is
basically a 10 by 12 room with brick walls
and a stone slab floor. That's it - that's
the living quarters, kitchen, sleeping
quarters, everything. On one end are some
decent kitchen supplies, harkening back
to better times, and on another end is
a pile of suitcases and a single closet.
It is shockingly meager to me, and is far
simpler than any home that I've ever
been in.
Kumar tells me that much of the time he
sleeps on the roof to give more space to
the rest of his family of 4, which includes
a 17 year old sister. He also tells me
that they were really excited to meet an
American, and that his sister did some
paintings for me as a gift.
His mother is a 55 year old woman with
very long gray hair. She seemed very quiet
or depressed, I couldn't tell. Kumar tells
me that she rarely leaves the house, and
basically her life consists of doing the
household chores of preparing and cooking
for the next meal. For much of the time, she
goes through a pile of white rice, cleaning
it by hand. This seems like an agonizingly
slow approach, but one that puts great care
in the quality of food eaten, a welcome
break from restaurants.
They offer me breakfast of idli, a rice
pancake and dosa, a dipping sauce, as
well as several other foods that I cannot
remember. Immediately I can taste the
pure quality of the food in comparison
to what I have been eating, and this makes
my stomach very happy. After chai, they
ask about every minute if I want more, and
I have to refuse, for by now I am stuffed
with all sorts of carbohydrates.
The father arrives later, coming home from
the temple. He is a brahman, and a beautiful
man, wearing not much besides a loincloth.
He is a Shavite, a devotee of Lord Shiva,
and has horizontal ash markings not only
on his forehead but other parts of his body.
He is much older than the mother, which
is a common occurance in arranged marriages
in India, being in his mid 60s. He is a
beacon of brightness and joy, and a pleasure
to be around.
I ask Kumar if he will have an arranged marriage,
but he tells me that first his sister must
be placed in marriage, which presents a problem,
since in many arranged marriages, the family
of the bride must pay a dowry, which can be
a hefty sum of money.
Communication goes through Kumar's translations,
and it really was a joy to meet his family.
Such a simple, simple life, worlds apart from
life in the west. As I bid them goodbye, I
give his sister some German coins and American
paper dollars as a present, a hobby of hers.
She asks me if I can send her some painting
supplies, and the father asks for glasses.
I'll certainly do what I can, once a mailing
address is established for them. In the meantime,
I give Kumar a good sum of money for a job
interview in Calcutta, as he has finished his
college courses, but hasn't business clothing
to wear to an interview. I hope that he's telling
me the truth, but I figure the gain from helping
far outweighs the loss of my rupees from a lie.
I wish the family well, and take several photos
of them, which thrills them. Some folks get a
real kick out of getting their photos taken.
I leave feeling that if I can establish a
long distance relationship with the Iyer family,
I can make a difference in their lives with
contributions. Kumar tells me that the job
interview is a mere formality, and that he
will pay me back over time. I await his
first email from his new job.
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