A good hotel, Bad hotel, Baramati, Doing Business in India, Foreign in India, Indian bureaucracy, Indian Hotels, Travel in India, Travel in Maharashtra, Unromanticized travel

Getting a Mobul

Baramati, December, 2015

I had my mobile epiphany—Get a phone!—as I walked in from Baramati’s east side on shade-dappled Canal Street to the junction downtown with the traffic circle and Cinema Street. I’d been talking with an ancient toothless man in a Nehru hat, watching boys swim and women from the Dalit huts pound clothes on the stone platforms at water’s edge, and I calmed four small children gleeful at having their picture taken. My feet were tired.

I’d resisted after my American phone proved to be expensively blocked, but an Indian  mobile would let me call ahead to my next hotel and improve the slim chance of finding an unbuggy refuge.

The Reliance shop was close to the junction in a joined line of tiny stores. Its sign in Marathi suggested it sold telephones and such gadgets. Inside, it was chilly; the neatly-dressed clerks in the shop, once they understood I wanted the minimum–No, not that big one!–had just the mobile for me (a basic Samsung Guru or Swirl, Blaze, maybe—I forget the name and have discarded the box), a tiny do-little-but-talk phone of the sort favored by tuk-tuk drivers.

“Just 1,100, sir.”

A day’s lodging, more, in the hotels I favor.

And a SIM card?

The clerks consulted the manager. The AC hummed.

The manager might have been a State Farm agent. His smile was practiced. He adjusted his glasses. “We require passport, sir, and document of residence, where you live…”

Outside, traffic honking honking, high schoolers on their way home shouting, tuk-tuks aswirling, black and yellow, all with untuned engines, cycles swerving, trucks, push carts, the laundry women each with a laundry bucket on her head, sometimes another on a hip, walking the half mile to their streets.

The documentation could be provided by my hotel. The manager took my hotel’s business card and spoke clearly, authoritatively, for a time. He had spoken, he told me as he deftly flicked off his extra-large phone, to the manager of my hotel. In fact, as I soon learned, he spoke to Gotsurya, the easily-baffled front desk clerk, a man destined to end his days in a dungeon.

“No problem, sir. Hotel give document. You come tomorrow with document and passport. We keep phone for you.” He put my Guru/Blaze back in its box and returned it to the display shelf.

I bought a kilo of tangerines and three bananas, fended off a street sleaze asking incomprehensible questions about my passport, his tongue flitting, then hailed a tuk-tuk for the two mile trip north to the Baramati Club, my upscale residence.

Gotsurya, in his mid-20s, dressed elegantly, as befits the front desk man at a plush club, rose to greet me, inclined his head and provided the key to one, one, one. Yes, he nodded. He had spoken to Reliance. “SIM not problem, sir.”

Could I get the document now?

Tomorrow, he said.

Why not now?

“Manager busy,” he said. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow come. Morning time.”

 

Day 2. After choking down a rubbery omelet and leaving the fancy club restaurant irritated because the waiters, engaged in weighty discussion, failed to bring a cup of tea, I gave a friendly hello to Gotsurya.

My SIM document?

“Busy now. Come half hour.” He scarcely looked up. The purple birthmark on his forehead was throbbing.

A half-hour? That wasn’t good. An omen. It meant he didn’t want to deal with a SIM document. Why not? Damn! He wouldn’t want to in 30 minutes. An empty promise in the land where a promise doesn’t rise to the level of inshallah. It was time to become stern.

I needed the document at once! We had arranged this yesterday! Did he not remember? Goddamnit!! (inaudible hiss.) Glare.

Ten minutes later, all afluster, he handed me a document. It was a blurred photo-copy of my passport pages, copied again from the copy they’d made when I checked in, for the police, to combat terrorism.

He is an idiot? No. He doesn’t know what to do, so he does something. He gives me a document. When it doesn’t work no one will trace the problem back to him.

No, no. No. No! Reliance needed proof I was staying in the hotel. As the man told you. I had my real passport for them. I didn’t need a copy! I patted my pack.

The sound of the conversation wandered slowly down the corridor like the water on my bathroom floor after a shower seeps to the floor drains, to management offices. After a time, Vikhram, an assistant manager and the sports facility director, appeared. He spoke some English and had been the one the previous day to tell me, sadly, that the large swimmerless swimming pool, inviting and a vivid Caribbean blue because of the blue tile, did not open until 4.

“Is being cleaned.”

Baramati Club pool, Not Open Until 4!Closed until 4:00

Well, no. It wasn’t. It rippled invitingly just below my open room window. It hadn’t been. No one had touched it. It was as clean as it was going to be.

“Four o’clock,” he said. “Sorry.”

Vikhram was a pleasant, soft-spoken man. I explained the SIM issue. He took the passport copy from me, winced and returned it to Gotsurya with a frown.

Gotsurya had perhaps not understood, he said. He had little English.

“Come,” Vikhram said. “I drive to shop.”

That was nice. He was being helpful.

We arrived in 20 minutes. It was another hot day. The manager explained the SIM procedure to Vikhram. I handed over my passport.

“Your document?” Vikhram said, holding out his hand. “He need residence document for SIM card.”

I had a bit of tangerine fiber caught between two teeth. I freed it with my tongue-tip. Outside, a straight-backed woman passed with a large laundry bucket on her head balanced with one arm; I breathed through my nose; a lorry, dressed as for Carnival, chugged out a cloud of diesel fumes.

Well, I said… I went over it again. I had no document. That was the reason for the discussion with Gotsurya after he misunderstood directions in Marathi from this man. I needed the document from the hotel, to get a SIM card. That was why we had come, to deliver the document. From the hotel.

Had someone put LSD in my tea? No, the restaurant at the Club couldn’t make tea, which was why I had to walk two kilometers to the main road to find a tea wallah…

Of course, of course. Vikhram seemed to see a spark in my eye. I could get a SIM card at any shop. No problem. We would go back now. Buy the phone, he instructed. Avoid another trip.

I bought it, though a mobile without a SIM card is a fish with no gills, a fan with no blades, a desk-clerk without a brain, an Indian restaurant without tea.

I stayed in town, walking, communicating adequately with people who spoke no English at all. I bought a billfold, a new watchband, and I had lunch in Bustee town from a roast-corn wallah, picking up my piping hot ear from the embers with the clean husks, using a lemon slice to lift salt from a small white saucer and rub it on the ear, delicious, and went back to the Club in time to shower for my four o’clock swim.

Roasting ears, Suhus Nagar,The roast corn was tasty

Vikhram, sitting now in the sports facility office beside the gym, searched fruitlessly for a towel for the pool. Perhaps I was its first human swimmer? Never mind, I said, I’ll dry in the sun. And, he added, replacing the stack of papers under which a towel could have been, “Problem with SIM card.”

The hotel, he regretted, could not provide such a document. Reliance required a residence, a document from someone which would verify I lived somewhere. In India. An employer, probably. Hotel was helpless.

Perhaps, I should speak to the manager, I said. I knew countless tourists with Indian SIM cards. I had sat beside a Japanese woman just the other day in Pune when she recharged hers. She was not working. She was a meditator, on vacation.

“Pune,” he said enigmatically. “Manager not here.”

I swam briskly in the odd 25-meter pool, three feet deep at one end, five at the other, surrounded by treacherous slick marble, not designed by a swimmer. Emerging, I found a large blue and white towel beside my shorts and flip-flops.

 

Day three. The Swirl/Guru is fine. Charged, it lights up. I had something like it 10 years ago. It is familiar. Samsung products are reliable. The manager is not available.

Does he work today?

Gotsurya. Later. Come back in half hour.

Does the man work at all (to myself)? Vikhram appears. Is the manager a grand raja? I wonder aloud, too grand for mere guests? Phone conversation. Return at 11. Manager will see you then.

Mr. Shetty was courtly: a portly man in his early 40s dressed in dark slacks and a white, pin-striped shirt. We said hello in the lobby and retired to his tiny office. He understood my problem. Some miscommunication had occurred. He was sorry, but the hotel, a “club,” owned by a “foundation,” a corporation, could not provide the SIM document. That was done by employer. And was there a problem with coffee in the morning? He had heard something. He did not eat in the restaurant, because the waiters all surrounded him, the manager, and ignored the guests. Manpower was difficult in Baramati, but he greatly wanted feedback from a foreign guest.

The hotel was lovely, I said, though I was puzzled that the sheets on my bed didn’t cover the mattress. They tended to ride up as I slept, leaving me on the bare mattress. It was true, too, that the toilet seat was loose, dangerously so, some other things, the pool…. It seemed…unusual…that the hotel had such a fine outdoor pool but forbade the guests to use it. Perhaps I had misunderstood? In any case, my room was comfortable, and the hotel was very clean(ish)… Of course, the WiFi didn’t work. Often. And it wasn’t coffee, but tea. I had waited and waited and decided finally that India had run out of tea.

He appreciated my good joke. Chuckle. No, India had tea.

The pool, he said. Baramati Club was a club, not exactly a hotel, and the Foundation made the rules… It was beyond his reach. Sheets. Yes. He had been manager for just a year and a half, and the previous manager had bought sheets badly.

Short-sheetedThe sheets were short. But why?

He bought sheets that were too short? Didn’t he complain when he opened the package?

It is a problem, Mr. Shetty said.

Note: Explore sheet issue. The Baramati Club is the fourth or fifth hotel this trip with cut-off sheets. Am I selecting hotels badly? Do the managers get a kick-back for saving cotton? Does no one notice? Might it just be a talented, silver-tongued, award-winning sheet salesman, a former news anchor?

And the WiFi. Google tries to climb from its dark cupboard, the blue access bar flickers and then goes out in a gust of bad breath from Indian technicians.

But we were straying from the SIM card.

I shook my head clear and invoked the wisdom of my guide Indu, in Pune: “In India, there is always an alternative…”

The hotel would pay for the phone, Mr. Shetty said. He understood my frustration. They would give it to a worker.

A mobile would be useful for me, I said, calm now, manager to manager, as it was for other tourists. Communication. Particularly, I repeated, as he had made no note the first time, as the hotel’s WiFi seemed to be broken much of the time, making communication difficult.

“I will work on it,” he said.

Mr. Shetty, Baramati Club managerMr. Shetty working on it

That evening, a technician banged on my door and linked my computer to the hotel’s landline system. It worked wonderfully (until that system, too, blinked off.) (“It is company, sir,” the front desk said. “Repair 20 minutes only.”) Twelve hours later, it was still down.

Perspective, perspective. Indian Army helicopters, now 50 and 60 years old, crash regularly because of maintenance deficiencies. I was traveling in a different culture. Was I expecting too much, that sheets cover the mattress, that the toilet seat in a luxury hotel didn’t pitch you off onto the murky floor? That I could make Guru speak?

 

Day four. The manager had made arrangements. Phone calls had been made. A great effort on my behalf. We would go now, sir, Vikhram said, please to Idea shop for SIM card. Passport necessary, to combat terrorism.

The Idea shop was 10 minutes north in Vikhram’s little Honda and the procedure was quick. In an hour, without displaying any proof of residence (Mr. Shetty was a wizard!), I had five pages of documents to sign, filled out painstakingly by Vikhram and the shop manager. “Father good name?”

What?

“Father? Good name!?”

The manager was skeptical of my passport. It had no street address. Was it a real passport? I had a Michigan driver’s license with my street address. He examined it carefully, both sides. That would do.

Though I waggled my eyebrows at her, a young woman in the photo shop next door aimed a big Canon at me unsmilingly, and I got six skeptical-looking, washed-out shots for Rs 50. One got stapled to the documents. I paid Rs. 250 ($3.78). The manager, bored by the familiar, unceremoniously lifted a frayed box of small yellow envelopes from his drawer, each with a ten-digit all-India phone number on the outside and a SIM card within. I got to choose.

“Any number you like,” Vikhram said.

My number would be “activated” within 24 hours. 968-953-3954 (though the Indian presentation is without hyphens).

Need I do anything?

Automatic. It would activate before 24 hours. Tomorrow.

We returned to the hotel. I thanked Vikhram for his help. “It is my duty, sir,” he said.

 

Day 5   Thirty-five hours had passed. Blaze was still inert, but lightable, with the appearance of life, as a pink-cheeked corpse at viewing. I had made English my language. I had made Vikhram my first contact. I had used the calculator to tabulate how fast my bank account was draining.

I carried the inert phone into town and back early in the day, suddenly insecure without a mobile. Everyone had a mobile. I had made five previous trips to India without a phone, the first four without any device, but I was nervous, now, with a phone that didn’t work. I pulled it out periodically in town, turned it on and poked out Vikhram’s number on the tiny keys. Nothing. Not automatically activated at all. But to all appearances, I was as connected as everyone else. It comforted me.

9 p.m. The phone played a Bollywood air. It was ringing! It had been activated! “Hello? Hello?” I knew how Alexander Graham Bell had felt. It was from home. On the other side of the world. I had sent my new number in an email, and it worked. Guru was fine…

I called Vikhram. I wanted to thank him again. It didn’t buzz. I got a long message in Marathi, something about “balance.” I tried again. “Balance.”

 

Day 6. An assistant manager whose name I never learned, the same man who had hooked me to the hotel’s broken Internet, listened to my balance message. Yes, you have no balance. Must buy talk time. Any shop. No problem. Not so much money. And must call within 30 days, even short time, or not activate. Talk time!

I didn’t understand.

Mr. Shetty was clearer. He listened to my balance message and said I had no balance. I needed to buy talk time. Any shop. It wouldn’t cost much. He called a national help center in Bangalore, perhaps in the same bunker as those so helpful to Americans with various digital issues. Yes I had no balance. He tapped out numbers on my phone, which I had begun to call Slash. Yes, there it was. No balance. Just Rs 197.50 for incoming.

I had understood it was all automatic… I said this forcelessly, worn down, easy prey now for the tangerine/banana wallah (bad wallahs try to slip in yesterday’s bananas and too-soft, sun-ruined tangerines; one must be alert). The store said I had a balance of Rs 197.50…

“Talk Time! Buy Talk Time,” Mr. Shetty instructed, something in his manner hinting he was tiring of my mobile issues. However, I was grateful that my toilet seat was tighter. Not secure, exactly; it required stillness; but it was less perilous than it had been.) Also, a waiter had banged on my door with a cup of tea, the same milk tea in a dirty glass with sugar and cinnamon that is India’s coffee and doughnuts. Perhaps I should post a list of grievances on my door each morning.

Talk time, I said.

I walked across my suburban Serengeti to the nearest phone shop, a kilometer or so toward the main road.. He had said Any Shop. No, they said.

“Talk Time,”I said, “talk Time! Talktime!”

No, they said. No one there spoke English, and they were surly, as they had a right to be, working for peanuts in a stifling phone shop with litter piled in the corners.

OK. I’d return to the Idea shop. I began the trek. A motorcycle screeched to a stop beside me. It was a waiter from the Baramati Club restaurant. Ride? He knew where the Idea shop was, and in two minutes I was there. It was 10 o’clock. The shop opened, the neatly-printed legend on the door said, at 9:30. It was closed. A crowd stood outside on the trash-strewn pavement in the withering sun.

It wasn’t locked. I pushed in. The cleaning lady was whisking. She snarled at me and motioned me back outside. I sat down. Thank you, I would wait.

At 10:15, a clerk arrived, a puffy-eyed young woman in a sweater, prepared for her hours beneath the frigid AC. “Stand!” she told me. Why didn’t she leave her sweater on her chair, or bring it in a bag? Outside was an Oklahoma summer day, with masala instead of armadillo jerky. Stand. The cleaning lady needed to whisk. Fifteen minutes later, my clerk arrived, the store manager.

He was a skilled technician and spoke to his screen rather than to me. I did not need talk time, he said. He had told me that I had a balance of Rs 197.50, he reminded me, and I still had that balance. I had paid. It just hadn’t shifted yet from the inactive. It was automatic. First, the card was activated. Then, after another day, the outgoing call was activated and the balance would show. “Do nothing,” he said. “Automatic. Just 20 minute only.” He copied my new number onto his newspaper.

It was interesting. The activation worked in two stages. First, after a day, incoming calls were allowed; then, after another day, outgoing…

He had said nothing about the delay after the initial delay. Why? I wondered. Why wouldn’t he have mentioned that?

“I must do nothing? Pay no more?”

“Nothing!” he said. (Idiot!) He was patient. The interview was at an end. He had customers. Twenty minutes.

I returned to the club and went to my room, stretching my toes and keeping an eye on Slash. At 11:30, the house phone rang. Gotsurya. “You check out when?”

What?

Must go. Hotel full. Check out now.

Check-out time was noon.

I found Vikhram. He interrogated Gotsurya and returned to where I leaned, gazing at the empty pool. “He told you yesterday we had no room.”

I had practiced restraint. Making a scene leaves bad feelings. “That,” I said softly, nearly in a whisper, “is not correct.”

Vikhram returned to the front desk and leaned over Gotsurya, shaking his head affirmatively. He returned. “It is correct,” he said. “He not tell you.”

But he told you he did?

“He lie. He tell me he lie.”

He would rearrange the reservations, and he would speak to Gotsurya. The hotel had manpower problems.

At five o’clock, the yang side of my SIM card came to life, as promised.

I called Vikhram, who was standing beside me. I had been thanking him for not tossing me out on the street. His phone shrilled a jingle. We talked. “Hello?” “Hello?” Hello, hello.

Slash, et alSlash, et al

Day 7. Leaving. The Internet was not being repaired, and I had called ahead to the Hotel Jeet Paradise in Phaltan. Yes, the man there said, they had a good WiFi. Count on it.

I saw Vikhram with Mr. Shetty in the lobby. I thanked them again for their help. Should I mention that I had noticed my sheet now covered the mattress? That was good. Gotsurya was at the desk studying hospitality memos. Should I crack his head with Slash? My mobile is broken! No. Stay focused. “My phone works!” I said proudly.

They beamed.

No problem, sir. It is our duty.

Standard
2014, A good hotel, Cheap Travel in India, Hotel bugs, Tenkasi, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu

Tenkasi Goodbye

It’s 4 p.m., Feb. 17, and the Tenkasi swelter, Florida in August, is beginning to slip away. I’m at the built-in desk in my room at the Krishna Tourist Home with the lights off and the ceiling fan at its highest speed, scratching.

ImageRoom 110

I’m being bitten, usually by small black things, flea-size, but “soft,” an entomologist might say, and tiny brown ants which are country cousins of those at Kappil. Other things too, I think. My feet begin to burn. I look down. There’s nothing on them! Am I going mad?

It’s much worse at night, even slathered with repellant—a  polite American repellant which makes suburban gestures Indian bugs find amusing.

I want something which kills them when they peek over the window sill or crawl up out of the mattress, or in under the door, wherever they come from. BLAM! SPLAT!

As it is, I wake up bleary after a night of scratching lying in pools of my blood…

It’s not my dirt that draws them, I think. I’ve been taking three and four showers a day.

I believe it’s the hotel’s ambience.

Immediately below my window is a blackened concrete space between this building and the next. It seems to be the back door to the hotel’s kitchen or maybe it’s a foundry. I don’t know what it is. I see a heavily-stained iron cauldron and an elephant-sized cistern.

A dark-skinned man with a moustache just emerged, saw me peering down from behind my safety grate and gave me a happy wave. I’ve seen him in the morning, washing up and spitting. Whoever he is, he’s my closest neighbor and far from the worst I’ve had. I don’t like his throat-clearing hacking, but he’s usually quiet and keeps his radio low.

Twice a night, from beyond the courtyard, someone, a punk drummer who’s found what he was looking for, bangs a hammer on resonant metal, as though dislodging crumbs or unmelted metal chunks, loud enough to unman a meditator. It usually accompanies the evening call to prayer. For four or five minutes. Twice.

Men sit in the lobby downstairs reading the newspaper. They don’t talk. They don’t look up.

My bathroom “closet” (that’s the term used here as well for the booth at the cyber cafe) is a long, dark rectangle with a drain in the floor I had to scrape open. The hotel has provided a plastic stool and tub, both blue, with scratches, which have inspired me to alter my shower habit of many years and sit on the stool with my feet in the plastic tub humming old jazz tunes while the water drizzles down.

I need to soak the dirt off my feet, of course, but the foot-soak-sitting-shower has inspired me to breathe deeply, nearly ritualistically, and I feel cleaner inside.

Note: Am I acquiring Eastern habits that will be annoying to easy-going Midwesterners?

And I use the tub for clothes. I haven’t sent anything out for months. Clothes given to the hotel man and by him to some hidden laundry come back beautifully folded and clean-smelling but beaten thin. Doing it myself saves money, is an easy demonstration of sturdy self-reliance, and keeps me independent of the unreliable laundries, which miss deadlines too damn often, freeing me to flee at any moment with all my clothes.

I use a one-rupee packet of Tide. That’s kept my T-shirts and shorts sunshine fresh. I let the clothes soak for a half-hour or so, slosh them for a minute, rinse them two or three times, wring them out well and, in this hotel, hang them on my curtain rod above the courtyard with its deep, wide, dark, mostly-covered cistern. They dry in a few hours. If they are picking up courtyard accents, I haven’t noticed it. But I wouldn’t.  A half hour outside, and the shirt is dripping sweat.

Within, on a two-inch pedestral beyond the shower, is a serviceable Western toilet  with a handy bottom-cleaner hose nearby instead of toilet paper. That’s as awkward initially as eating with your hand, your right hand, always, because you clean yourself on the toilet with the hose and your left hand, or, if you are without a hose, with water from a plastic cup splashed around with your left hand.

(At such moments, my background at the Kinsey Institute combines with these toilet insights and I understand the widespread condemnation of oral sex and finger food by traditionalists, some even in our own bottom-splashing hinterlands.)

With practice, however, I’ve concluded  the hose approach is superior to ours.  Paper!  Disgusting!

Eating with the right hand only, though, is difficult to remember, like calling that bozo in City Hall Mr. Mayor.

Stretching alongside the hotel and back toward the river is a 30-yard strip of garbage which is a convenient urinal for every man without a toilet within reach, which means most men here.

Krishna Home, as it’s known locally, is buggy and stained, yet despite such blemishes—the smell, the heat, the black cauldrons, the bugs, the peeing public, the rubbery, green lizard four inches long which dropped last night from the ceiling onto the desk just beside my left hand—this  hotel is the best I’ve stayed in on this trip.

And cheap. I’ll have spent 6 days here for $53.

Krishna must be experienced in context. It’s relatively clean, the staff are alert, and though no one speaks English, I really haven’t had much to say.

Some hotel restaurants here are dark and unhelpful. The Krishna’s is dark and friendly. The waiter, with just a half menu of English words, having seen me struggle with some entrees, has made thoughtful recommendations.

The restaurant is more expensive than it should be in a town this small, but this is a respectable hotel, and the restaurant, though it has uncovered formica tables and unhappy lights, is as well. My fellow diners are all unwealthy middle-class Indians. They don’t speak with each other, and they’re made a bit uneasy by surroundings more formal than at home, but they’re decorous. The restaurant staff are nice to them and have been helpful to me, trying to understand what I want.

They have labored, for instance, to serve coffee I can drink. Initially, they brought me a large cup of hot milk with about three tablespoons of coffee in a stainless-steel bowl. It was an odd presentation. They thought it odd, I suppose, that I wanted so much milk, but they served it politely.

Then the elderly bus-boy took charge. He understood what I wanted and  brought a big cup of coffee and a big cup of milk. I applauded him. He was happy. I was happy.

Yesterday, after several days of coffee ease while reading The Hindu, the bus-boy was reminded of his station, and the waiters took charge again. They brought a big cup of hot water, a big cup of milk and the tiny stainless-steel bowl with its swallow of coffee.

What the hell! I put the coffee in the water, added milk, and it wasn’t bad.

It may be that their coffee is as hashish is to dope—a refined and enhanced brew.

Note: I must be more trusting and open.

But I’ve been content here, bottom line, as the salesman says, because Krishna Home is a good hotel. It approximates a home, shabby in this case, but warm, with many servants, and it tries to provide what I want. Otherwise, they leave me alone.

It’s been a good place for writing and for reading, and whenever I step out, the man at the desk is polite and the guard outside, a wildly combed army veteran, snaps to attention and salutes. He does that for everyone, but for a moment I’m back in NATO’s CENTAG and I return the salute. The years disappear. Paris beckons.

Unusual odors waft in with the evening breeze here. I prefer them to the canned corporate smell of home.

And outside, Tenkasi has been interesting to me, and nice. I’ve walked miles looking into the doorways of tiny side-by-side huts in the early morning, a room occupied by a family. Down alleys and lanes that lead on to more and more, with women at the water pumps filling jugs and bright saris and houses of pink and blue and orange and cows in the street and rangoli house-blessing symbols drawn with rice powder.

House blessing

Rangoli ritual

Saturday morning, on the east side, I turned down the lane of Ajis Saif. He stopped washing his motorcycle to welcome me to Tenkasi. He insisted I sit down and have a cup of tea, and he introduced his children. He said, I believe, that he wanted my memories to be sweet.

Ajis Saif, Tenkasi Ajis Saif

Last night I stopped a man who looked like my late Uncle Bruce and asked for help. He led me to a pharmacy and then insisted on paying for my aspirin and Apollo Soft Tissues. “It is nothing,” he said, and exited stage right cleanly.

This morning, at my cyber shop, Raj Net, the young lady clerk came back to my tiny closet to say hello again with a big smile and ask if I have children and to invite me to her place in Tirunelveli. She had virtually no English, so I may have misunderstood that an attractive 20-year-old was hitting on me, but anyway the phone rang up front and I didn’t see her again. “Women of Tenkasi!” I wrote in my notebook with a smiley face. Such notes become cryptic after a day or two.

It’s been over 90 every day with a heavy sun, the bugs in my room are daunting, the garbage stinks, the sewers are open, the streets are bordered by dust and rubble, I haven’t had a conversation since Varkala, and the traffic is as dangerous here as anywhere I’ve been except Endeva, near Kappil, but I felt sad this afternoon when I decided to move on. Tenkasi has good vibes.

Tenkasi

Tenkasi

Standard