Kevin and I in India

by Frank Kusy

  We returned to the seashore to view the sea-temple by night. Except for the regular wash of the waves, it was completely quiet. The temple glowed luminous-white in the reflected light of the rising moon. The sky was clear as a bell, and a fresh, clean breeze was blowing in from the sea. We sat on the temple steps, and began to feel the calm, tranquil atmosphere stealing over us and soothing our souls.

  Suddenly, a strident voice broke the silence. ‘Gidday!’ it said. ‘Where’s the action?’

  The voice belonged to a lively, lanky Australian called Gill, who had brought his English friend Jim out for a night stroll.

  ‘I’ve brought this whingeing Pom for a glim of the temple!’ explained Gill. ‘He absolutely hates temples. I’ve dragged him round every temple in South India!’

  Then he began complaining about the lack of action again, and dragged us all off to a tea-stall in town where he reckoned ‘it all happens’ on a Saturday night.

  Once at the tea-stall, Gill leapt forward to exclaim: ‘Okay, where’s the dancing girls?’ The old crone manning the tea-urn gazed at him in mute incomprehension. As well she might, for there were no dancing girls, there was no ‘action’, there was nothing happening here at all. Apart, that is, for six huddled Indians drinking tea and a local cow trying to climb under a low tea table.

  Gill entertained us with stories of his visit to Goa. Most of the outside toilets in Goa, he informed us, had pig farms built below them. On his first trip to one of these, Gill got a nasty shock. He’d just squatted down to lower his backside over the hole in the floor (the toilet), when a low, hungry snort below him made him look between his legs. He saw a pair of beady, piggy eyes eagerly waiting for him to supply breakfast.

  ‘They just love foreign shit, those pigs do!’ recalled Gill. ‘They don’t move an inch when an Indian goes for a crap, but when they see a tourist coming, they’re up and off and forming a queue under that toilet with their napkins on before he’s even crossed the street!’

  Kevin and I slept tonight on the porch outside our hut, sharing a tiny mattress lent us by the landlord. It provided very little padding against the bare stone floor. And for a while at least, we were busily occupied fending off invasions of ants, beetles, cockroaches and hopping frogs – all coming from the banana plantation in the nearby garden. For once, however, there were no mosquitoes.

  January 2lst

  We arrived at the Village Restaurant this morning before the staff had woken up. Whilst waiting for them to get dressed, we discovered the establishment’s beautiful back garden and took turns lying in its hammock, watching the world go by.

  The view from the hammock was marvellous – an inland lake, calm and serene; rustic cottages and reed huts dotting the far bank; rows of lush green palm trees and banks of reeds all around, rustling gently in the cool morning breeze.

  The whole day followed suit, tranquil and quiet. Even the waves pounding into the shore seemed somehow less angry, less tempestuous. We lay on the beach and did nothing at all. I remarked to Kevin that we couldn’t afford to stay in Mahabilapuram long. It was so pleasant, we might never leave.

  January 22nd

  The mosquitoes arrived last night. Having remembered to put on ‘Odomos’ repellent, I woke up refreshed. But Kevin and our new neighbour, Nick, didn’t wake up refreshed at all. They had both been plagued by the little vampires all night. The rest of the day, their covetous, envious eyes followed me everywhere, mentally appropriating my small tube of protective cream.

  Over breakfast, tears came to Kevin’s eyes as he fought the temptation to scratch his numerous bites. He knew that if he started, he would end up flaying himself alive. So he sweated things out in moody, monastic silence until the irritation drove him out to the garden hammock, where he swung back and forth in restless bad spirits.

  Sometimes I don’t credit Kevin. I mean, it’s one thing to stroll around unprotected like a walking lunch for mosquitoes. But it’s quite another to lie around all day unprotected against the fierce sun, stubbornly refusing to use any cream or oil. He returned to the hut tonight looking like a large red blister. I had never seen such a bad case of sunburn. But I had to hand it to Kevin. He has such a remarkable facility for laughing at vicissitude. His entire body burned raw-red and pocked with livid mosquito scars, he told me he was now coming down with flu into the bargain. But did all this deflate him? None of it. ‘You know something?’ he remarked over supper. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever felt better in my life!’

  The conversation came back to the subject of Goa.

  ‘One guy I knew,’ recalled John, ‘got the dysentery real bad in Goa. A doctor gave him an opium tablet to stick up his backside. But he’d no sooner done this than he got another attack and shot out to the squat-toilet. Well, of course there was this pig waiting down below, and it ate everything that came down – including the opium tablet. An hour of so later, the pig’s owners found it lying on its back in the high street of Goa, kicking its little legs in the air and snorting fit to burst. ‘Man,’ declared my friend, ‘that’s about the happiest-looking pig I ever saw!’

  January 23rd

  I woke suddenly in the dead of night, surrounded by smoke. I had set my mattress on fire. It had been ignited by the ‘Tortoise’ ring I had lit by my head to keep the mosquitoes away. It took two water-bottles to douse the fire completely, yet the damage was done. I was now left with two problems – how to explain to the landlord the charred lump missing out of his personal mattress, and where to sleep tonight, for the surviving section of it was now a waterlogged ruin. I decided to go for a walk.

  It was 3am when I ambled up to the sea-temple. The moon was down, and it was pitch-black. For a while, it was easy to imagine myself the last person on Earth. But then, out of a dark recess of the temple ruins, came a voice. ‘Master!...Rajah!’ it hissed, ‘...you have cigarette?’

  The mattress was only slightly damp by the time I returned, so I got some sleep after all. The landlord was not at all pleased when the burnt, sodden bedding came to his attention later on. He did an angry little jig on the forecourt, shouting, ‘Look! Firing! Firing!’ My apologies fell on deaf ears; he was quite inconsolable.

  The Village Restaurant was absolutely packed tonight. Kevin had told everybody he’d met that this was the only place in town to get a decent cup of coffee. But the restaurant just wasn’t geared to handle 29 customers at once. The staff simply couldn’t cope. The young waiter, Charlie – normally so cool, calm and collected – was reduced to tears by the continual barrage of food orders. Imbal, a young Israeli girl we’d met earlier, sent me into the cookhouse to see what had happened to the lime lassi she’d ordered two hours previously. I found the cook spread senseless over the utensils cupboard; the pressure of work had driven him to drink. He had been trying to cook 29 suppers on two small electric hot-plates! On the way out, I found Imbal’s lime lassi. Charlie had made it an hour and half ago, but had forgotten to bring it in.

  Fed up with waiting, Kevin had been consulting the rest of the guests. He called Charlie over, and told him we had all changed our orders to make things simpler. All he had to do now, said Kevin, was dish up 29 fresh boiled lobsters. Charlie looked at him aghast, and closed the restaurant.

  January 24th

  We reluctantly left Mahabilapuram today, and took a bus on to Kanchipuram.

  There, we found lodgings at the Raja Lodge, close to the bus-stand, and went in search of food. Having had enough of thalis by now, we were looking for the only place in town reputed to have something different – the New Madras Hotel.

  Along the way, we took stock of Kanchipuram itself. It was without doubt the noisiest Indian centre we had visited. Its busy streets were full of giant public carriers, the constant blast of their air-horns jangling our nerves and setting our teeth on edge. The air-horns were even left on when the vehicles were parked. As for the many shops and stores along the streets, these were either constructed from planks of uneven timber or from u
neven sheets of corrugated tin. The place gave the general impression of a struggling shanty-town – heaving both with people and sacred cows. I had never seen so many cows packed into one place.

  It took us a long hour to track down the New Madras Hotel. It should have taken us just ten minutes. None of the locals spoke any English. They did their best – every few steps a grinning Indian turned up to offer us a rickshaw ride or to give us some wrong directions – but we kept ending up back at the Raja Lodge. It was uncanny. And when we did come to the New Madras Hotel, it was a sheer fluke.

  The restaurant was something of a disappointment. It had a rather dirty, greasy, seedy atmosphere. But it certainly had some character too. I had just received my egg biriani and stuffed paratha (spelt ‘stuffed parrot’ on the menu), when Kevin discovered a rat under his chair. He promptly leapt up and started a jig of alarm on the table. A party of Indians at the adjacent table, guessing that he was treating them to an impromptu English dance display, began stamping their feet and cheering him on with claps and whistles. By this time, the rat had disappeared. So had Kevin’s dinner. He had sent it flying when he’d jumped on the table.

  January 25th

  We were awoken in the morning by the Indian party occupying the rooms all around us shouting good morning to each other across the corridor. This racket commenced at 5am. These were the same Indians who had been shouting good night to each other until 12 the previous night. We wondered how they managed on just five hours sleep. We also wondered why they felt obliged to impose the same ascetic regime on poor, weary travellers like ourselves.

  The morning’s breakfast – a cup of coffee and a bun – was taken at a roadside cha-house. We sat on a low wooden bench, our feet covered in a black moving carpet of flies emerging from the nearby gutters. It was decided to make a move as soon as possible.

  Hailing a cycle-rickshaw, we contracted a rate of Rs15 (35 pence) to see Kanchipuram’s three most distinguished temples. After visiting the Kailasanathar (devoted to Shiva) and the imposing Kamakshiamon (dedicated to Shiva’s wife, Parvati), we came at last to the Ekambareswarer temple, which was fronted by an outstanding tower 57 metres in height. This particular temple has quite a poor reputation amongst tourists – beggars, cripples, even priests gather from miles around to hassle visitors for money.

  The cripples here were the most deformed and pitiful we had yet seen. Elephantiasis is a common affliction in these parts, being easily contracted by walking barefoot in the city’s flyblown streets – the worms bore into the soles of the feet, and work their way up through the bloodstream to bloat the legs or the testicles to gigantic proportions. One victim of this appalling disease lay against a temple pillar, unable to walk. His right leg was swollen to the size of a tree-trunk. Another unfortunate passed close by, cupping testicles as big as melons between his hands. He was quite naked. It was only when I saw this that I recalled John’s story, told us in Mahabilapuram, of seeing a man wheeling his genitals down the road in a wheelbarrow – and mentally admonished myself for not taking him seriously at the time.

  Back on the streets in the afternoon, we were soon worn down by an everlasting stream of Indian men pestering us with questions. They wanted to know our names, whether we were married, why we weren’t married, what our jobs were, and how much we earned. They were keen to know how old we were and how we were enjoying their country. But they were particularly curious to know which country we came from. Every person who blocked our path had the same question: ‘You are coming from?’ This was invariably followed by a monetary proposition.

  Kevin got so fed up of this after a while that he decided to change his nationality. He was tired of being regarded as a walking sterling note. He was even tireder of everyone trying out the same few English phrases on him. I suggested that he tell them he was Swedish. But Kevin wasn’t satisfied with being Swedish. Sweden wasn’t half far away enough. With his luck, he’d be sure to bump into a succession of Indians who spoke fluent Swedish.

  Instead, he began telling people that he came from the planet Mars. And when they didn’t believe him, he started hopping up and down in the street, flailing his arms about in a vivid re-enactment of how he had descended to Kanchipuram from a spaceship. Crowds gathered to watch him. They had never seen a Martian before.

  Kevin began to gain confidence, as one by one, beggars, tradesmen and rickshaw drivers bounced off the armour of his new-found origin. Then, just as he had approached the peak of his triumph, he was stopped in his tracks by an eager young ‘businessman’ who was determined to expose his fraud.

  The conversation went something like this:

  ‘Hello,’ said the Indian.

  ‘Hello!’ replied Kevin.

  ‘You are coming from?’

  ‘Mars! I am coming from Mars!’ (Kevin did a little jig, and simulated spaceship descent)

  ‘You are coming from England.’

  ‘No, I am coming from Mars. It’s a different planet.’

  ‘You are coming from England! You have English coins?’

  ‘We don’t have English coins on Mars.’

  ‘You are going somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, I am going somewhere.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘I take you. I show you the way.’

  ‘How can you show me the way? You don’t know where I am going!’

  ‘I take you. You have cigarette? Spare rupee?’

  ‘What’s a rupee? We don’t have them on Mars.’

  ‘You are needing dhobi? Clothes-clean? You want guide to temple?’

  ‘We’re allergic to temples on Mars. Go away.’

  ‘Where is your room? I bring real English bread-butter to room. Yum, yum! Extra-strong bottle beer also!’

  ‘You couldn’t get in my room. It’s a one-seater space shuttle.’

  ‘Yes! I bring mosquito repellent your room! Also Japanese electric-element tea-maker!’

  ‘No thanks. Push off.’

  ‘You are needing anything?’

  ‘No, I’m from Mars.’

  ‘Ah! You can send me postcard from Mars? I am collecting stamps.’

  ‘Oh, I give up.’

  ‘You are from England?’

  ‘Yes, you’re too sharp for me. I am from England.’

  ‘Ah! England! You know, I am M.A. Bachelor in English!’

  ‘I kind of thought you might be. Say, have you ever been to Sweden?’

  Deflated, Kevin’s spirits only lifted again when we returned to the Kamakshiamon temple for the festival of the Golden Chariot. Every Tuesday and Friday, we had been told, the goddess Kamakshi (an incarnation of Parvati) was towed round the circumference of the temple grounds in a golden chariot to bless marriages. The rest of the week, Kamakshi’s chariot took it easy in an old garage some way up the road.

  The Indians seemed to take Kamakshi’s blessing very seriously indeed. Few of them in this part of the world would have dreamed of getting married without it. On the occasion of our visit, an astonishing 25,000 people had come into town to pay their respects in the temple. The scene, when we arrived at 8pm, was like a Roman triumph – hordes of jostling, excited people crowding in through the narrow entrance to the courtyard within.

  We had arrived just in time. Moments after we passed into the temple grounds, the crowd suddenly ceased its activity and a respectful silence descended. It was pitch black. Kevin and I peered at each other, wondering what we had let ourselves in for. Suddenly, from out of the gloom to our right, came the unmistakeable sound of an electric generator starting up. And then there was light. Kamakshi’s processional chariot, previously only a dark, dim shadow, lit up in a blaze of neon-coloured bulbs.

  What a sight it was! The entire carriage was plated with 24-carat gold and was festooned with bright flowers, garlands, taffeta and silk tassels. The tiny model of Kamakshi was completely buried in all this decoration. The solid gold figurines of her attendant
deities and the two red and gold fairground horses ranged around her on the chariot, were brilliantly illuminated. A great howl of awed appreciation rose up from the crowd.

  I had never seen a god propelled by a diesel tractor before. The carriage began to move slowly forward, followed by a troupe of musicians playing an eerie, hypnotic rhythm on squeezebox, horns and drums. An elderly fat priest forced his way up to me through the crowd, and gripped my arm. ‘You see?’ he proclaimed, his face radiant with joy. ‘You see how wonderful is our god? You think that this is all begging. But it is not begging!’ I tried to direct his attention to the growing crowd of acquisitive infants around us, all chanting ‘Rajah! Master! You have pen? You have cigarette? You give rupees?’, but he sprang away the next second – still crowing with ill-suppressed glee – without giving them a second glance.

  The processional car stopped four times in all, once at each corner of the massive temple grounds. On each occasion, the two temple elephants heading the procession were drawn to a halt, and a succession of firecrackers and rockets were lit practically under their trunks. They appeared remarkably unmoved by all this commotion. It was impossible for Kevin and me to remain unmoved, however. The combined effect of the jostling, cheering crowds, the wailing, insistent ceremonial music, the smoke and smells of fireworks and incense, and the devilish features of the ghostly gopurams, shot into relief by the bright glow of Kamakshi’s flaming chariot, was the most magical, mystical experience we had had in India to date.

  A lot of the magic went out of it, however, when I caught sight of what the temple priest on top of the chariot itself was up to. Each time the car came to a stop, he would stretch his hand out to the multitudes below for their money. Most of them had by this time worked themselves up into such a trance of religious ecstacy, that they were prepared to give him the shirts off their backs. Many people were waving large fistfuls of banknotes in the air, desperate to get his attention. When he looked their way and took their cash, they were so grateful they kissed his feet and fell sobbing to the ground. After collecting everybody’s money, the priest offered it to the Kamakshi figurine on the car behind him, waved a smoke-laden chasuble up and down in front of it, and told all the donors that their marriages had been blessed by Heaven. To conclude the ritual, he knocked a number of flaming incense-coals from the chasuble to the ground. Wherever the coals landed, the crowd fell to their knees groaning and paid them tearful, grateful homage. It was all very emotional.