Chennai, India

FIRST IMPRESSIONS: ACCURATE?

Fighting the urge to cower in a corner, I pass through a roughly constructed 2x4 and plywood frame that appears to be imitating, nay, mocking a metal detector. Best efforts to ignore the constriction in my chest fail, as Nepalese security guards in army suits glare at me from under large black eyebrows. I re-cinch the strap of my backpack, check the lock again, wonder where to settle my eyes; I’m pushed and bullied again to the back of the lineup by the Baggage Claim Predators on a vicious luggage hunt. I wonder how my common sense could betray me so, waiting until now to challenge my agreement to this trip. I look down at my pale skin, a stark contrast to my surroundings- to the crowds of people, the stained walls, the gray air. Silently, at my side appears the tiny Indian girl I sat next to on the plane; I smile and regard her as an old comfortable friend. She lingers, protectively, until I’ve found my luggage. I step outside, colliding with an offensive wall of odor and humidity, to be greeted by inexplicably intimidating crowds. The invisible canvas tie-down strap tightens on my chest, another notch, another. I locate my name on a hand-held sign; smile back at the face of my driver, relieved to be spoken for on that 8 ½ X 11” Jiffy marker claimant.

My driver is called Guna, and stood waiting for me in a full, white suit with a proper chauffer's hat on. Communication is awkward, but I feel comfortable under his watch. He tells me stories of his new bride, glowing with patriotic pride as most will while interrogating “First time in India? You like India? Are you married? How is your family?” The values of the culture bombard you even in an introduction.

It is the driving in Chennai that I expect to be the most disconcerting part of the trip. There seems to be little, if any, regard paid to traffic laws. Guna said, while laughing at his own joke, that "the cows are the traffic police" and they do indeed seem the only thing holy enough to stop the flow of cars, water trucks, 3-wheeled rickshaws, and bikes. Rather than stopping at the occasional traffic light that appears, one simply honks his horn and punches the accelerator. Lines drawn to identify lanes were clearly a futile effort, and are blatantly disregarded. Maybe I should have stayed in the airport, under the accusatory watch of the security guards?


THE OFFICE

Today is "Diwali" in India, the Festival of Lights - a very important and joyous Hindu celebration of the triumph of good over evil. This means that roads were quiet of traffic, and fireworks have been exploding in city streets all day. The women are all wearing newly purchased sarees, and are adorned with gold jewelry and gorgeous sprigs of potent white flower in their hair. (By “potent”, I mean eye-watering, throat-constricting potent.) Now even, at 5 a.m., I am hearing occasional explosions outside.

The office is massive, a cornucopia of cubicles. I would later learn how deceivingly quiet my first day, with the calm and stagnant feel of the building due to the holiday, party decorations left strewn over bulletin boards and hanging above doorways. Every person would excitedly welcome me with a “Happy Diwali!” and wide smile, to which I would return the greeting, as though I knew what I was commemorating.

The people are intriguing, and I am filled with longing to truly know them. Generalizing, with the aid of my Westernized preconception, they appear sad, their faces hard and their characters calloused. The work ethic is astounding, doing data entry with educations far surpassing mine, and yet- are absolutely willing to nod obligingly to anything I have to say. Extreme population and minimal jobs create a highly competitive work force; I hope do little more than instill even an ounce of confidence.



LESSONS LEARNED

1) Do not put soap in your hand until first testing to see if there is water in the taps that particular day. This is just the type of situation for which you packed hand sanitizer.
2) When crossing the room holding hundred of employees, know that they will without fail all turn their heads to watch the freckled little white girl pass through. They’re only curious, don’t be threatened; just smile and they will grin rewardingly in return.
3) Get in the back seat of the car and the back seat only. Otherwise you are risking the loss of years of your life and the accumulation of prematurely graying hair or a possible ulcer.
4) It is not only possible, but indeed common, for two adults and any number of children to ride on the same 2-wheeler scooter or pedal bike. Need I mention the audacity of the father, who is generally the only one wearing a helmet?
5) Every vehicle will, without fail, exercise it's self-determined right to occupy the space in front of or beside it, whether or not said space has yet become available. Wear a seatbelt, and tuck your chin.
6) Just because you SEE a mosquito, doesn't mean you have malaria.
7) When the lights in the office go out, as they surely will periodically throughout the day, do not in any way acknowledge the darkness. Your alienation will become glaringly obvious in doing so (not that the wearing of pants and exposing of arms doesn't already give you away.)
8) Always be at attention. When you are beckoned, it is often with a mere whisper, and the State dialect of Tamil is a slurred and difficult one to comprehend. While on the topic of language, talk slowly, annunciate, avoid slang and be prepared to come up with a new way to say exactly what you just said. Good luck keeping the hand gestures to a minimum.
9) Given the use of the spray-hose located beside every toilet, never sit without adequate preparation and always carry your own toilet paper. (I am beginning to wonder why none of the travel guides recommended, in preparation for India, a routine of squats and lunges in order to strengthen one’s legs for The Hover.)
10) Before you leave Canada, take a deep, long breath of fresh air, and appreciate it. It will be a while before you have more.
11) Indians want you fat. Every day, multiple times, you’ll be quizzed: “You ate? When? How much? What did you eat?”
12) The people are genuinely welcoming, endearing, kind, and capable of stealing your heart, never to be returned. Be prepared. Receive what they offer graciously, as it is their pure joy to help you experience the country they love.


HUMILITY

Isn't it ironic, that the more one is treated like a Queen, the more she feels like a Peasant?

They say that the customer service in Asia is extravagant. They say this is normal. But to have someone fold their hands as if for prayer, bow their head, and in true submissiveness, say to you "Good morning, Ma'am. How are you, Ma'am?" could not make me feel less like a "Ma'am." I want to lift their chins, look them deep in the eyes, and tell them what deserving and valuable creatures they are. I want to submit to them, rather than the other way around. I want to tip them all so extravagantly that they see my side, but I'm afraid the only effect would be an increased servitude.

I have woken up in the body of a 1920's "Lady," and could not feel less natural in this reincarnation.


THE PEOPLE & THE STREETS

India, to me, is predominated not by scenery, development, technology, but by the People. I am a curious child at Disneyland for the first time, my brain assailed with too many sights to truly take in. I’m overcome with love and compassion, while also feeling a strange hesitation and discomfort. There are faces I have seen here- certain eyes- I never want to forget. I only wish it were a more sanctioned activity to wander around taking photos as one feels the urge.

First, there is the Server in the hotel restaurant. He looks so young, and is never without a wide smile. To acknowledge that he understands your request, he wrinkles his nose and grins, thereby enhancing his dimples, while conducting the customary Indian head-wobble.

Then, of course, there is my Housekeeper, Karuna, who is as committed to the cleanliness of my room as a mother to her child. He, too, possesses a face-consuming smile at all times. My room is rapidly becoming cluttered with the jungle creatures he is creating with towels and the vases of flowers he daily delivers, along with notes signed “Best Regards.”

I think, too, of the people in the office. Gorgeous, shy, silenced by my presence, following me around the room with large, deep eyes.

It is futile for me to attempt the true capturing in words of the sights seen on city streets in our short commute each day. The colors, the inexplicable filth, the animals, the aggressive hustle, the density of pedestrians- it is all beyond overwhelming. I try to imagine each of these people as an individual, each with a unique story to tell; a life so different from mine and yet emotions experienced that link us together in humanness. There is a man sitting beside the street, on a piece of burlap fabric, folding white t-shirts- who do the t-shirts belong to? Where did they come from? Why is this where he chose to fold them? An overloaded truck passes, carrying in the box wood planks and barefooted men seemingly on their way to a jobsite. I catch my breath as a small child is pulled from unhesitating traffic and a goat jumps into the meridian with inches to spare. I myself am suffocated merely by the sight of public buses, each packed so full that I imagine not a square inch of your body is untouched by a stranger; so full that people and children are hanging out the windows in desperation for air. Lining the streets are kiosks stacked high with fresh fruit and bright fabrics, all being defiled by diesel smoke, dust, and pollution. We pass a man who has curled into the fetal position for a nap on the cement wall running parallel to the street. Everywhere I look there is glimmering jewelry- rings, bangles, nose studs, necklaces- these people appreciate beauty. All around, horns are honking incessantly, people are shouting, and stray dogs are barking in glee at the discarding of an apple core.

Amidst the confusion, a complacent old ox traipses past our car, pulling a cart, as if he too is a Ford Fusion and has just as much right to be on the street in a city of 6 million. This entire time, my fellow passenger - a native to India - is reading his newspaper, seemingly unaware of any of this.


SOME SIGHTS

Finally, today, we went on a tour, away from the hotel and office whose compounds have created claustrophobia in this Bedouin free sprit. Our sightseeing, however, was overshadowed by poverty as new to me as snow would be to these locals. Even the hoards of monkeys playing at our feet could not distract me from the despair bombarding my every sense. Beggars and street vendors congregated in the area, in a quest to exchange money for jewelry, carvings, sandals, trinkets. My entourage pulled at my clothing, repeating their offers, refusing defeat. As the situation is unavoidable, we walked on ignorantly. To say no is futile, but to say yes would be suicide. My heart ached for them in a depth I didn’t realize existed; still I regrettably confess to feelings of panic and discomfort as I cruelly forced their hands from our car door in order to shut them out. The memory of it will bring tears to my eyes for months to come.

I doubt that I will ever forget one little girl, who was trying to sell me beaded necklaces. My mind burns with the memory of her filthy teeth, her fingers-to-mouth hand motions, her eyes that I sensed were fully aware of everything I had grown up with. She stuck to me for several blocks, saying "Please help me, Mama. So hungry, Mama." ... over and over, in an eerie, heart wrenching, sing-song voice. Hours later, days later, her voice continues to echo in my head.

What a horribly dismal world we live in.


BIG BUILDINGS

The lack of air conditioning in many buildings has created in me a new appreciation for the sub-zero temperatures maintained in the office and hotel. I got sick, and was taken to the hospital to ensure I didn’t have an infection of some kind. (Clearly the Indian people have antibodies that mine could never conceive, and American illness is not taken lightly.) The office was phoned, the hospital forewarned, and all seemed on red alert of my impending arrival. I was whisked past throngs of people into the emergency room, gawked at the entire time.

A trait of the Indian people, which I witnessed that day, is their hospitality. They will do whatever necessary to show their appreciation for a visitor. While my hospital trip cannot be portrayed as pleasant, by any means, I must acknowledge that the people astounded me with compassion and special treatment. I was told to remove my shoes, and walked barefoot into Emergency where I was surrounded by teenage boys with curious and confused expressions who seemed to be working there. This was the first building I’d been in not to be air conditioned, and it was hot; windows were open and I could hear the abnormally close murmur of conversation in the alley outside and watch the flies coming in. My doctor, a stout man with reassuring eyes and a supremely relaxed ambience, introduced himself with comfortingly good English. He wore baggy torn jeans, old sneakers, and a yellowing lab coat. I was offered a rusty, stained and creaky bed that reminded me of something in an orphanage on old movies. Sitting there imprisoned in a circle of filthy curtain, a fan blowing at my face, I rested my chin on the knees clutched to my chest, feeling small, insignificant, distant, alone.

If I thought the hospital was hot, I had seen nothing. Later some locals would take me to the Mall to do some shopping. Who hasn’t heard that some stellar purchases of jewelry, carvings, and silk pashminas can be made in the dollar-rupee exchange? As we walked through the doors, the tie-down resumed it’s restriction on my chest, as I struggled to breath and maintain composure.

Again, no air conditioning. This time, combined with dense and inconsiderate crowds that walk the way they drive. To add to the discomfort, the mall had low ceilings, dark lighting, and sporadically placed fans like propellers on the Titanic that not only blow your hair back, but nearly blow it right off your scalp. More offensive and domineering than the heat, was the smell. A mixture of food court spices, body odor, old recycled air, humidity- did I mention body odor? It is the only time in five weeks that my attempt at open-minded acceptance nearly dive-bombed to oblivion, so strong was the urge to run back to the car and grasp desperately to my Westernized obsession with sanitation and cleanliness. Needless to say, I didn’t buy a thing and would come home with no souvenirs.

Finally, the Airport. In my mind, this is neutral territory, impartial to the country in which is resides. You are No Where, because the Place you are is In Transit. Not so in Chennai. Here you don’t quickly forget that you’re in India. Security is aggressive, over-the-top redundant, and the only place I’ve experienced The Pat Down. The building is hot, crowded, and filthy.

Monsoon rains flood the city, oftentimes not cleared by car doors, and still incapable of slowing traffic. (I couldn’t help but notice that even unrelenting torrents of rain could not obliterate the flow of pedestrians and cyclists, now with plastic bags squeezed tightly onto their heads, most pushing their bikes rather than riding.) My driver took me to the door of the airport, that same crowd that panicked me the night of my arrival was again waiting for me, and I left with him all my remaining Rupees. He held an umbrella over me just until I reached an unsheltered lineup of people still being assailed with rain, and then he returned to the car, as I watched the umbrella go and anticipated the joy of a 24-hour journey beginning with damp clothing. Eventually I found my way to the PROPER line up, and required all documentation to even enter the building.

Now, not only hot but also giving reason for the existence of the word “humidity,” coils of normally pin-straight hair sprung to cling to the back of my neck. I’ll reserve details, but to use a bathroom consisting of wet floors and a mere hole in the ground, with no toilet paper or place to set your 10-pound backpack, that is India. And THAT is why you should do squats and lunges in preparation for your visit.


A CANADIAN GIRL: SCARRED

I have been home for a while now, and think it undeniable that the greatest effect of a visit to the developing world hardly begins until you return home. It’s Christmas-time; everywhere I look I see abundance, wealth, waste, materialism. I hate the country I grew up in for this, and not because it is our country to blame. India has scarred me, it has warped my perspective and thrown up a film over my eyes which alters what I’ve always seen but never Seen. I anxiously flip the Calendar to January, in anticipation of my faux enthusiasm for the season being granted leave.

Even after being home just a couple weeks, I am filled with wants, for the Things for which we feel we somehow deserve. I hate myself daily for this quest I am on; this quest for the acquisition of whatever it is I desire. I am selfish, unappreciative, demanding, a 2-year old yet to be trained in self-control.

Already India is a lifetime away, but an experience I will never forget, and likely long to relive. While I was indeed challenged and discomforted by the poverty and unrest of the country, it is also a place I learned to love. The day I flew home, there were terrorist attacks in Mumbai, targeting people just like myself, staying in places exactly like we stayed. This only served to add to the overall theme of this trip: GRATITUDE.

In Canada, the news is dominated with stories of the dynamic government, the crashing economy, the crime and cold weather. In India, people are starving everywhere and surrounded by death, citizens work harder than any Canadian I've known, police and government are corrupt and feared, children are stolen and maimed to earn a greater income in their lives of begging for which they are allowed no proceeds, men abuse their wives, all live in fear of invasion by Pakistani & Chinese armies, stray animals are unloved and surviving on garbage ... but people are appreciative. They are grateful for every blessing they have, as they witness daily how many are without. Their smiles openly express pure joy, which seems to come through their eyes as if a light from behind.

I may have returned to my materialistic and self-centered lifestyle, but no effort could force from my memory the impact that India and its beautiful, generous, hospitable people had on me.