March 21-22 2014, MADURAI
I plan my walks from Google Maps. I scrutinize satellite images for narrow lanes, rail lines, a river or sewage canal—the cramped streets where small houses touch.
The better-off in all Indian cities live invisibly behind high walls. In the crowded neighborhoods, doors are open in the morning from small rooms. Life spills into the streets. Roosters crow. Carts rumble. A woman hacks her throat clear. The milk man calls from his bicycle.
It’s a stumbling walk each morning into streets that touch ancestral memory,
Women make their trip to the neighborhood pump with 20-liter plastic jugs in red or purple or white or stripes, men sit on the ledge outside their door and read the newspaper and smoke. A man brushes his teeth on his top step and spits into the sewer gutter. A woman squats to pee by the tracks. Kids in blue/white or red/brown or grey/white school uniforms appear. It is respectable to come out pressed and shiny. In the poorest streets, they are barefoot, and the uniforms are hand-me-downs.
Raw sewage, moving slowly in dirt or concrete channels, is never far away. The air smells of it and of the urine on walls and smoke from wood grills and garbage fires and tea shops and incense a woman is wafting beneath the encrusted tail of a brown cow that has been painted with bright hand prints and devils. The air is never fresh.
Inside a door this morning, a uniformed girl sat on the floor while her grandmother fixed her hair. At another house a sour-looking laborer scrubbed his sudsed, wiggling little boy on a slab by the door and gave him a smack to improve his cooperation. In a deep ditch between two walls, half covered by a plastic trash bag, a white dog was dying, shaking, eyes closed, whimpering to herself like an abused child. Just past a stand of rickshaws, a huge man blocked my path and said in a small voice, “What is your sweet name, please?” Three huge hogs round a house corner just in front of me to root in garbage. A dog runs at me snarling.
India has millions of tiny shops. In the neighborhoods they are little groceries, corner idli and vada shops, tea stands. The grocery stalls have detergent, water, pop, festoons of packaged crunchy snacks, cigarettes sold individually and jars of penny candy. Children run to them on errands.
Women stop to talk. Men buy a tiny cup of steaming tea and eat a quick breakfast for 20 rupees. A cow or two, some goats, are tied nearby or saunter by. Dogs lounge indolently. Rickshaws cluster. The reek of sewage rises from the ditch. Vegetable vendors have their mats spread and the tomatoes and peppers or coconuts displayed. The fruit carts appear. Conversation is everywhere, laughter, the chain-saw tuk-tuk-tuk and horn blare of rickshaws, clucking chickens and a too-loud radio from a doorway.
The vegetables and bright fruits and the saris and the pink and orange walls give color to the shabby steet. Women make the wide-legged peasant bend and draw the day’s rangoli on the lane before the door. Municipal cleaners rake garbage into piles for burning, or to be taken away in carts for burning. A little boy of three defecates in the dirt 10 feet from his doorway, bending his head to watch the progress. Old women and men sit on the pavement or on age-blackened steps, staring at nothing. Escape seems unlikely.
These streets are not much visited by outsiders. I have never seen a Western tourist in them, and official India, including the limp-wristed press, ignores them.
I create a stir as I walk, much as I did snorkeling beyond the reef in the Red Sea, where the fish patterns would dissolve as I approached. It is not hostile, but it is watchful and wary.
I have learned this slowly. The shadow at the door is a woman watching, there an old man, the three men at the tea stand, the woman on the balcony, the man in the grocery stall.
I am closely watched.
They watch, but their first inclination is friendly.
Live in Indian hotels, as I have for months, and it’s difficult not to conclude that most Indians are listless, heedless and unresourceful. Such are India’s middle managers and company reps, those who people the hotel world.
In the neighborhoods, however, people, speaking large, are more generous to a stranger. They have the grace politeness confers; their deference is sincere.
Of India’s many curses of self-indulgence, deference to foreign, deference to rich and deference to white rank high, close to corruption.
It may be that the powerless are deferential, polite with a thin Potemkin politeness, because they have learned their lot is to be subordinate. Yet in these raggedy streets “they” are not uniformly anything. The weasels are easy to spot, as they are anywhere, the clean and the dirty, the quick to smile and the pimps (for here is where you go if you are looking for sex, whatever your awful predeliction), the stalwart and the respected.
Most return my namaskar greeting, the hands together in front of the chest in the Indian equivalent of “salaam alaikem.” Boys of 8 or 9 run up and say, “Hello how are you I am fine.”
My nationality is important because it confirms I’m from away, where conditions are better. I say “USA” or “America,” and they approve, “Ah.” But I have been German and French and Italian and even English, and they said “Ah” in exactly the same way.
No one objects to my presence, and when I stop, seeing a face or texture , I’m quickly hemmed in and pawed by the kids, who call, “Photo, photo,” so I will take their picture. One mother points to another, saying I must take her. Honor her, she says. Grandmothers appear with infants. I shoot, smilingly and pompously dispensing beneficence, as deference insists I must.
My camera has a good view screen. I punch up the shots I just took of the baby, the mother and all the kids, and the kids next door, and I can zoom in on a face and give that person a pat. They crowd in to see under the shade of my hand. No one asks for money.
They look to recognize themselves, and then they smile and thank me, “Super!” I give the little girl who’s pulling too hard on the camera a light smack and say, “Hold on,” for it seems that’s the right thing to do. I give the grandmother’s shoulder a squeeze. Touching seems the right thing to do, for men and women, boys and girls. I shake hands and give half hugs and squeezes and pats. I bask in Tahitian smiles. As I walk on, trailed to lane’s end by 10 or 12 small kids, I’m Pied Piper. One always asks for my pen; all of them are excited. The teenagers we pass are blase.
Celebrity politicians may pass through once every few years in a motorcade, and great seers come to town, but I am the most rare Important Visitor. I take notice. I walk the bustee lanes and speak as I can to individuals and hug pretty little girls and joke with teenage boys and say “Oooh” at babies and shake my finger at a barking dog just as they do, and jump the same streams of sewage.
I speculate, that is, that unfair though it is, I have influence by birth and circumstance somehow to encourage a neighborhood’s prettiest face, as a teacher can lift shy students, as a priest can bless a life.
My presence and photographs of generations of family and neighbors, all the happy kids—dim images on a view screen in bright sunlight—affirm I think that I have noticed and may remember.
March 1, 2014, Tuticorin
The middle-aged man stopped his tiny white car beside me this morning as I was walking along the Buckle Canal just east of Jeyaraj Road in Tuticorin.
India had many beautiful places to see, he said. Why was I taking a picture of “ugly?”
“I ask friendly,” he said, grinning.
It was a reasonable question. I had already shot a pretty, distant steeple over a wall (only spotting the man peeing against the wall during editing) and a picturesque, high-wheeled cart. They, except for the pisser, was what he had in mind as suitable subjects. Would I run slideshows of sewage for the family when I got home? Pull up a shot of Buckle Canal and recall its flowerings on the first day of March?
He asked the question clearly and politely, but I’d been sick and was hacking and spitting like everyone else and wasn’t feeling diplomatic.
“Are you asking because you want to know, or do you just want to give me a lecture?” I said.
He laughed and waggled his head. “I am graduate,” he said, meaning he’d been to college and was a man of the world.
I squinted at him. What the hell did that have to do with the price of tea in China?
I didn’t say that; nor did I say that I was taking pictures of things I encountered on walks, in this case in a high-rent neighborhood, because men of the world like himself weren’t doing it.
“Ugly?” I said. “It’s just an average street. Apparently the government thinks it’s OK.”
He laughed. “You coming German, USA?”
Yup, I said.
“You embarass goverment, good,” he said, “but see universal embarrass country.”
I commended him. He was the first Indian, I told him, to ask me such a question, and it was a good point. I had sent an e-mail with ugly pictures to the Chief Minister, but hadn’t heard back. If I had a prize, I’d give it to him for seeing ugly.
I walked on, getting a lovely shot of small feeder pipes dribbling eight or 10 more gallons a minute into the canal, which drops its load a mile on into Tuticorin Bay near New Beach.
Yes, he surely had a point, and I’d heard it before. My old newspaper in the States took direction from the local Chamber of Commerce, Babbitts to a man or woman. They would use a cholera outbreak as an opportunity to highlight the excellence of local hospitals, or ear-drum-busting war planes as a chance to get funding for the Leahy School for the Deaf. I understood his reservations. Bad news isn’t constructive. Bad news is bad.
But I had walked by the shiny (on the outside) new municipal building here just before I got sick and was so struck by the contrast between it and the street outside that I consciously slowed to clear my throat on its manicured lawn.
I had become tired of namaskaring politicians featured always cutting a ribbon for a crony’s gold mine. Public health, sanitation, water purification, cholera rates, babies’ birth weights and so on are not mentioned publicly here, any more than our slums and poor get covered—i.e. a reporter embedded—by NBC or any of our lickspittle (what a good word!) networks, let alone God’s annointed Times, which waits these days for confirmation from D.C. that what could be news is fit to print.
Beyond annoyance about how the average person here is mistreated by the government, I was still grinding my teeth over the moralistic support from all sides (Congress, BJP, AAP) when the New York consular clerk Devyani Khobragade was charged in December with felonies for lying on visa forms about the pay for her live-in maid. Strip searching an innocent Indian diplomat! The Indian government promptly removed the concrete barriers protecting the U.S. Embassy in New Delhi. None of the papers here paid any attention to the maid, who was, after all, just an indentured servant. This was U.S throwing weight! The Fox-equivalent coverage here, which is all coverage, went on for weeks. Poor Devyani. Strip searched. Body cavities. Jailed with criminals!
I’m on the sixth floor of the “luxurious” Raj Hotel in Tuticorin. I just threw open the sash to get a breath of fresh air and promptly closed it. The Canal, 400 meters north, was blowing my way.
Nah. Thousands of people live beside Buckle and thousands more move along it every day on city streets. This is the home neighborhood for that pretty teenager passing on her bike, a handkerchief held to her nose, that little boy, the store clerk who went out her way to be nice and the beggar who touched me softly as I walked by. My questioner probably would consider him ugly. “We having many pretty girl. Super! Why you photo ugly man?”
After I published a reasonable notebook entry in Tirunelveli called “Shit,” I heard from an Indian who told me I shouldn’t have taken a picture of the excrement lining a public street, or the man peeing just off another street, or the garbage lining another street.
I respond that if a friend comes back from India with no photos of sewage and garbage, they haven’t strayed from Potemkin India. Chastise them. Take their progressive card.
The next time you see an Indian diplomat or high official blathering about Ghandi or making any claim at all to the moral high ground about anything, remember that they are doing nothing about Buckle and its millions of counterparts. Only a tiny number of people here, the Devyanis’ ilk, live outside the stench zone.
Sewage is India’s apple pie.
Feb. 25, 2014, TIRUNELVELI
Disgust may be a facile response to small, soft, diarrheic piles of human excrement which line Indian streets in lieu of flowers or neatly painted fences, but that is so because the disgust has no certain target.
I walked this morning north along the Thamirabarami River, the narrow, shallow, filthy stream which flows sluggishly north and separates Tirunelveli from Palayamkottai to the east.
Each morning the families who live in adjoining slums walk sleepily to the riverbanks to bathe and brush their teeth and wash clothes by smacking them, soapless, against river rocks and to shit and piss.
Small boys dive into the water, the women with their wash in plastic buckets that once held paint or solvent stand waist-deep in the water and visit, and a man who has just risen uncleaned from his morning squat beside the river road stops a foreign visitor and urges him to take a photo of his “super” young son. A Westerner’s taught avoidance of social objectivity makes it hard to know whether to recall the man’s toilet habits or his pride in his son.
India’s is a disingenuous squalor. It is pervasive, but it is unseen and unaddressed.
I have been displeased in my hotel because the wifi is unreliable and the staff talk loudly in the hallway outside my door and the guest in the next room shouts on his mobile with the door open and the TV volume raised to a scream. Still, I have a shower, bottled water, sheets which may have been washed with soap, and a flush toilet. I live in relative luxury. It feels petty when I walk out to fault those who live as they must.
Those shitting beside the roads and tracks and river have no alternative. A toilet can be found in the deluxe waiting room at the train station, but it costs 40 rupees. Some expensive restaurants have a washroom with a toilet, but the great majority here can’t afford the entrance price. Otherwise, public toilets are not to be found and the out-houses I recall from my childhood haven’t been invented.
The Tirunelveli municipality, as is true of every municipality in India, has provided no toilets (or much of anything else), and in the months I have been wandering through south India, reading The Hindu or the laughably incoherent Indian Express with my morning coffee, I have seen no mention in the papers or on TV of toilets or shit-lined streets or roadside pissers. It’s also fair to note that if toilets were available, porcelain basins in which to defecate, the waste, given the government’s lack of interest, would simply flow out with a flush into the sewage canals and then into the river.
As I picked my way along the broken asphalt of the river road this morning, I made a prissy mental note that aside from the soft brown piles, litter adds to the unsightliness. The city sends out unsupervised workers with barrows, but they miss most streets and most of the trash, and it has become deep over the years—old paper and plastic bags and cigarette packs, a twisted shoe, discarded building materials, a rusted ambulance with flat tires, a radiator hose, or, yesterday, a dead dog with an expression of amused contempt on its maggot-covered face.
I fault the state, but it is countless individuals who routinely throw their trash in the street, and piss there, and spit and shit there. As one who travels nearly as a mute—I have not met a single person in Tamil Nadu who can hold even a simple conversation in English, though English is the country’s lingua franca—I am unable to raise the subject, and I’m doubtful that if I could speak, my questions would even be understood.
During my weeks on the back roads of Tamil Nadu, I’ve developed a deep contempt for my easy scapegoat, Chief Minister (Governor) Selvi J. Jayalalithaa. She is a longtime party hack familiarly called “Jaya” by the papers. Her face on peeling posters is ubiquitous. Her government Web page is a chest-thumping list of her accomplishments in winning elections with no mention of toilets.
I presume, maybe wrongly, that if if I made my way through her sycophantic retinue and gained an audience, she would frown at my discourtesy in raising such a stinky subject and tell me that programs are being instituted quite soon now to be dealing with litter and protocol for public health. My guess is she has a toilet in her mansion.
I hear voices from home saying, “So why go there, if you dislike it so much?” I say that at times to myself. I feel, too, that mere complaint is useless, until I step in a pile.
My impulse is to look away from the mire that is India. Disgust is not easily communicable, as our national inclination to go to war demonstrates. Euphemism is the easy resort of the propagandist.
We turn away from the screams and torn bodies of war or from close observation of predatory financiers and dress up the ugliness with medals, Sousa marches and Chamber of Commerce scrolls, making it all sound rather fine.
India shields itself from the grotesque with ad words like “exotic” or “picturesque” and posters of pretty women in pretty saris. It works. The country draws busloads of uncritical tourists.
Even so, bathing in sewage has an effect on real people. Misery deserves notice.