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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The desk assistant at the Krishna Tourist Home, a dark-skinned man with a moustache and a striped shirt, pointed out the window of room 110. “Nature,” he said.
It was mid-afternoon,Texas hot outside, and I was sticky after a long trip to Tenkasi from the Kerala coast. The room looked adequate. The price was 550 rupees, less than ten dollars, and it came with a ceiling fan, a built-in desk, a TV that worked and a bathroom with hot water, which I hadn’t had since Mysore, and then only from 6 to 9. The bed sheet didn’t quite cover the mattress, but for reasons beyond my ken, that is nearly always the case.
Though I’d already decided to stay, I looked over his shoulder at nature. He was pointing past the littered courtyard just below and past a broken wall and maze of power lines to several palms on a nondescript green hill, thinking, apparently, that the concept alone would sway me. He hadn’t noticed the hotel worker standing just outside his tiny hut below my window in his skimpy underwear, pouring water on his head.
Could I have a towel, too?
Yes, I could. He jumped to attention. And a blanket! he said —an extra sheet to cover up with when the night chill crawls in the window.
The sale made, he led me to the end of the corridor to look out at more nature through the grating of the open window at the back of the hotel. The courtyard there had one pit filled with coconut husks and another with empty beer bottles. Outside the wall a rivulet of garbage headed west as though trying to reach the fenced in fields and the thick palm grove at the Hanji North River. Five men stood along the garbage patch, peeing.
In front of the hotel, along Tenkasi’s main street, the electronic shops and an optician and dentist and fruit stands, bakeries, are pressed close together. The street has no sidewalks; it tapers off to the brown urine-dribbled dirt and rubble, ragged and with open unwarned pits, that border all Indian streets. Landscaping hasn’t yet arrived, though billboards with smiling beauties selling perfume or concrete or paint often picture scenes of bright cleanliness as remote to people here as Fred Astaire nightclubs and hotels and dancing blondes in glittery gowns were to pre-war America.
The street bleeds its constant honking traffic to the building fronts, two lanes morphing into many more for opportunistic drivers, buses blaring their horns, the rickshaws theirs, the scooters and motorcycles theirs, and pedestrians walking with scant attention to what’s coming, and the traffic swinging off without a signal into any open space, regardless of direction.
The sewers are narrow concrete trenches on both sides of the streets, emptying into the rivers. The stench of garbage and human waste is strong and constant in the poorer neighborhoods. A street bordering the rail line was lined this Valentine’s Day morning with new piles of soft human excrement. Litter of the crushed bright packaging of snacks and soap and milk powder and everything sold in the tiny markets, ground into the dirt by countless feet, frames the streets with trash. The sweet smell of urine, the constant smell of India, wafts through my hotel room as seductively as funeral home flowers.
A pye dog sniffs at me as I walk by then resumes drinking from the sewage trench.
I walked my first morning behind the hotel toward the river along a dirt track that soon became a foot path. I left the garbage strip behind, though the litter continued. The man walking just in front stopped and without a glance to see who might be close peed into the grass, shook himself, then blew his nose between two fingers, shook his hand, wiped it on his dhoti and walked on.
I came to a fenced-in area where a shepherd boy of 17 or 18 was watching a bull with its horns painted blue. I nodded to him.
“Ehhh?” he said. “Ehhh?” He didn’t smile.
Closer to the river, the fields widened and I came to washed clothes, still dingy, put on the hot grass to dry. A young woman stood there wrapped in a towel, as Brigitte Bardot used to appear from steamy bathrooms. She took no notice of me. Goats rasped from a field somewhere to the north. I took a drink of my Sugapriya bottled water.
Beyond, on the river bank in the shade of the palms, village women banged clothes against the rocks with great soapless swings of the clothes as though chopping wood, and others, men and women, were bathing in the river, midstream, in brown water nearly waist deep, still clothed.
A village man with grey hair, tending two cows, concluded I was lost. He pointed north, up a steep bank, cracked from the heat and past a cluster of hovels. The road was there, he gestured.
He was concerned. He took me gently by the hand and led me. When we reached the road, he took my hand again and led me into a sawmill where the workers looked askance but said nothing. He wanted to show me a new bullock cart with high wheels, but I couldn’t understand why or if it was his. “Bye-bye,” he said.
Tenkasi, pronounced Tenkashi, is friendly. Its wide main streets, the roads leading on to Madurai and Teruneveli, pass neighborhood lanes that lead on to smaller lanes and alleys in a grid but with multiple turns and twists and dead-ends. At night, scarcely lighted, it would be frightening, and one can buy anything in those streets in one house or another. By the light of early morning, it was otherwise.
A small boy saw me coming and ran in fear to his mother. She laughed and kissed him and carried him back to me, reassuring him. A man brushing his teeth out his front door over the sewer called hello to me. A pretty schoolgirl of 11 or 12 wanted to know my name and from where I am and just what I am doing please. A woman filling her jug at the neighborhood pump stopped pumping to nod a greeting. Groups of school boys jumped in front of me so I could take their picture for them to look at. A thin man took a picture of me with his phone and showed it excitedly to his family and then to me. “Welcome,” he said. “Thank you.”
I thanked him and put the phone in my pocket and turned to walk on. That caused even the old woman who had been glaring at me from the stoop next door to laugh.
When I finally turned the corner, steering toward the massive tombstone-like Kasi Vishwanathar Temple which looms over everything and my hotel just beyond, 30 or 40 people, men and women, naked toddlers, school children, teenage ruffians, the ginger man, waved goodby.
“Carry on,” an old man said, wagging his head. “Goodbye.”