By Kumar Ratnam
After a while; after the attack on 'us' by 'them', re-
appearance of actual silver cutlery on a plane ride; served
by colorfully costumed Indian hostesses with an extra large
red dot on the forehead. They whisper in your ears whether
to serve Veg or Non-Veg, as if it is a crime to spell the latter.
A man in leather suit (it's bloody 35C degrees outside)
gulps enough Scotch to last a lifetime in a three-hour fly
over to 'Singara Chennai'. The imbalanced dance he
performs contradicts heavily with 'Sirungara Nadanam', a
dance of Lord Shiva.
A heavy thud on the landing strip wakes you up to an
ancient airport. Calcium formed water taps in the 'Latrine'
explain the mystery of healthy teeth of this populous
country. The immigration officer is reading ‘Eelanadu’ a
newspaper from Northern Sri Lanka while stamping on
passports and embarkation cards. The headline of
‘Eelanadu’ states a quote by Lankan politician: "Tigers
shouldn't be the sole solution to the North". The passenger
nods in a virtual agreement. The officer is puzzled and
become suspicious by this T-shirt and worn-sandal clad,
country looking backpack carrier of his 17-year tenure in
Canada. "You speak perfect Tamil", he says as if that is an
abnormality. Unsatisfactorily he let loose the passenger.
With no smile, no welcome to India and an atypical stern
face of a father who is about to punish his child.
It's rainy season; it's muddy season; it's don't go there
season. Flooded brown streets filled with green debris from
previous hour's thunder, lorries' screaming deafening horn,
125cc bikers on crazy parade, sacred cows, scary goats
and people, lots and lots of people. A beggar child, less
than five years old, cries for 'nalanaa' (25c) with little hand
beating her purposely twitched mouth, on a stop sign. Auto
Rickshaw drivers curse her for being nuisance to their crispy
(?) driving habits. "Veetla sollitu vanthiya?" (Have you said
good bye to home) as if you'd ask for blessing from your
parents to go begging on the streets. This little child
probably had never seen her father or even the mother.
The night of Chennai streets. ‘Small’ people sleeping under
80 feet cutout of a film star’s gaze. The film star points a
Magnum 44 at drivers of Mount Road. A twin of him with
plastic biceps, wrestle-mania makeup, 6 inch carved blade
and twisted look boasts a box office hit of this years’
Deepavali. While high tech firms on Anna Salai with ultra
blue neon signs portrays middle class boom, hungry
children fights for coconut pieces from a late night vow at a
roadside Ganesha temple. A sacred cow emerges from the
chaos with the biggest piece of the coconut. Survival of the
living that makes no difference in who fights for what.
India assembles many brands of cars: Mercedes, Toyota,
Honda, Suzuki and the ever-lasting Ambassador: the car of
choice and pride of greater India. It is the taxi, the tourist
car, Prime Minister’s limousine and poor man’s entry in to
luxury. It wears the same makeup for more than fifty years
with just a touchup of ‘Talcum’ powder here and there. The
Ambassador comes in many models: Classic, Elegance and
Super Deluxe. But, they all feel the same, look the same
and sell almost at the same price of a single seat Harley
Davidson in North America. These 6,000-pound beasts are
made for the hard ride of typical country roads. It stays a
good foot above ground; maneuvers the bumps, holes,
dogs and occasional turkey, with a flow of a slalom skater.
The driver of airport taxi, an Ambassador, of this goodwill
ambassador from Canada sights the night bus leaving for
Trichy. He chases the bus with horn screaming at high pitch,
waking up an entire neighborhood, and then cuts in front as
if a normal way to stop a 15 tonner. Screeching brakes
stops the monster just few inches from the passenger’s
door. An obituary missed is a life regained.
The Trichy express on Southern highway. Lorries
overtaking busses. Busses overtaking lorries. Lorries
ferrying sandalwood soap to teen beauties in Thirunelveli.
Busses trafficking Kollywood dreamers to Singara Chennai.
Everyone drives with the high beam on. And they wink at
each other just before passing. Headlights romance in a
starry night, with brown trees and thick leaves providing
cover from a paparazzo full moon.
Three in the morning. Bus stops for a break and nature leak
for passengers. While a cleaner checks tire pressure with a
passionate kick on the sidewalls, the inhabitants of the night-
bus looks for cover to leak. Males form a line near a dark
tree. Females get lost in the darkness. If you have to go for
‘number two’ you are out of luck. No stream of water in sight.
Tissue..? What tissue?
A ten year old washes dish at a tea stall, with darkened
bags under his eyes. No shirt, bare foot and fatigue from a
probable thirteen hour shift, in a chilly early morning. He
‘choos’ a dog that tries to steal a spicy doughnut that
probably was his only piece of dinner. Few minutes later a
little girl, eightish, runs to him with empty glasses of Chai
from another bus. Look around: there are many other child
runners. Morning preys of a bulky boss who is probably
sleeping with this third wife in a comfortable country-rope
bed, under tamarind shades and beside granite floored
bungalow.
Child labor is illegal in India. Punishable with severe penalty
and jail term. Politicians win elections based on this issue.
They go hug children, strike in front of factories that labor
children, go on million men marches, hunger strikes, pelt
busses, overturn police vehicles, you name it. Then all ends
after winning of the election. While opposition continues to
blare horn, the pattern continues: ten year olds wash dishes
and little girls runs for empty Chai glasses in many night bus-
stops while politicians and bulky bosses sleep with their third
wife in a comfortable country-rope bed, under tamarind
shades and beside granite floored bungalows.
Crispy morning wakes up to Trichy’s main bus-stand.
Previous night’s monsoon effects of mud puddles,
overflowing sewage, an arid smell of rotten water. A big sign
by an eight feet wall that says, “Don’t urinate here”, politely
disobeyed by a line up of men. Standing, sitting and in
various posses with no regard to arriving passengers.
The town is half of Chennai in terms of people, business
and chaos. With multiple cultural attractions dating back to
early 7th century, Trichy and its suburbs attract loads of
tourists and pilgrimages from all over India and overseas.
Trichy is also the closest point of entry for Sri Lankans
arriving by plane thus boasting a tiny community of families
with ‘money-order’ wealth accumulated from husbands and
children who lives in countries such as Canada, UK, France
and Germany. This Dollar wealthy, unofficial refugees cum
expatriates from Northern Sri Lanka also generates an over
inflation of seafood prices at the Ganesh Nagar fish market,
by which, generates resentment from locals who’s daily
survival is not as classy as the former. Yet, they all mingle,
share sorrows and happiness with white teethed laughter
helped by calcium rich water drawn from bore wells found in
almost every household.
The passenger is visiting his Sister and family. The brother-
in-law is a well-connected senior central government officer.
To put it bluntly, he is in charge of issuing or not issuing
Indian passports to 30 million inhabitants of Southern Tamil
Nadu. A 16-hour chauffeur drives him in a siren-light
glowing official car (another Ambassador) to work, to ferry
children to school and to the fish market that sells at over-
inflated prices. People in Trichy respect higher authority
with a typical Indian nod (a slant wave of head left to right at
45-degree angle followed by a head bow). The respect is
out of fear, out of future usefulness or just out of habit of
the typical Indian nod.
The family is building their dream house: A 3,000 square
feet, granite floored, teak wooded masterpiece with an acre
of land flushed with young mango, lime and coconut trees.
The building takes ten months to build just third of the plan.
Heavy manual labor in building trade still exists with no
anticipation of change in near future. Kaveri river-sand is
filtered and carried upstairs by ‘sitthal’ woman, one gunny
bag at a time to build walls that would be processed one
brick at a time. A suggestion to use mechanics is brushed
away by lead ‘kothanaar’ - a self-trained builder, who by
eyesight and an ancient leveling ruler defines the
straightness of walls, windows and floor. He has built more
than one hundred houses over the past fifteen years, he
says.
Towards the eastern part of the town, Maris theatre is
situated in middle of Trichy’s ‘hustle and buzzle’. It’s a movie
theatre complex with four cinemas. It is Deepavali season
and all four cinemas are showing brand new films performed
by ‘stars’ of the industry, which makes it impossible to even
approach the box office without getting crushed by hoards
of fans and onlookers. By default, the Rasigar Manrams
(Fan Associations) buys the right to collections for the first
week of movie release. The proceeds were supposedly
used for charity and but on occasions a roadside pub that
sells country arrack also draws enough benefit.
So, therefore in Trichy, the craving to see a movie during its
first week of release can only be met by having the right
connections. Connections of an authoritative figure, super
businessman, municipal politician or an area thug. Since the
authoritative figure was already available, a phone call
enabled five tickets to the hottest show in town: a movie of
human complexity and Disney animatics. While the 2nd
class and 3rd class patrons threw flowers at the silver
screen, broke an auspicious coconut, whistled and
applauded, the 1st class educators and the educated
yawned and turned multiple times in their seats. A Bio
professor seated next with his doctor daughters from
Koimbotore complained that an actor considered leader by
millions of people shouldn’t play negative roles. He justified
that the influence this actor have on people will just make
them a mirror image of what he portrays on screen. Good
logic; but didn’t seemed to have heard among the festive
hoopla.
Proper connections in India will even earn you a place near
God. Sri Rangam is a temple town, half hour ride through
potholed streets of Trichy. Built during early 7th century by
the Pallava regime it boasts multiple Raja Gopurams
(towers), detailed yet delicate sculptures, an open air recital
theatre of the great poet Kamban, alleyways of houses,
boutique shops, museums and a three hour line up of
people from all over the country to worship Sri Ranganathar’
s sacred and secret statue and footprints. A payment of ten
rupees will earn you a place in the three-hour queue.
Twenty-five rupees will halve that. Connection of an
authoritative figure, super businessman, or a state politician
- thugs don’t work here - will provide access to God
immediately. While the people of ten rupees and twenty
fives await patiently in iron caged line-ups, sweating from
thirty degree plus humidity and carrying crying little babies,
the VIPs gets whisked through by an uniformed guide
towards the God. The statue of God, Sri Ranganathar, in a
resting position, stays in a dark room. A priest lights an oil
lamp, waves it from left to right to show the idol to
worshippers. Within ten seconds the lined-people are
pushed away to make room for another batch. The VIPs get
extra seconds, extra blessing and additional Thulasi flowers
from the priest. The God, unaware of these events,
continues on his posture, since the early 7th century,
through wars, famines, more wars and releases of many
Kamalhasan movies.
The short stay at Trichy ends with eating out at Tab, a
restaurant with a dark ambience of a basement pub and is
made for the tourists. Run by Muslim brothers who
happened to be fasting for the Ramadhan. The owner, older
brother, sits with the guests through the whole meal,
entertaining with casual chat, ordering additional food items
directly from the chef, taking care of the ‘connected’ people.
This thriving businessman, thirtyish, practically owns many
parts of Trichy’s commercial real estate. With a cell phone
plug attached to his left ear, the maneuvering of deals he
make, while paying total attention to guests impresses the
visitor. India composes many of these self made people.
Although survival makes them superior hustlers, the pure
existence of billion plus consumers allows for infinite
potential. If someone would identify the need, the market
gets flooded with supplies overnight. The best survives. The
losers move on to fill another void.
