by Frank Kusy
January 26th
Today we made the acquaintance of Netaji. More accurately, he made the acquaintance of us. And once adopted by Netaji, we couldn’t get rid of him. The moment we showed him the slightest interest, we became his parents, his brothers, his mentors and his best friends. This whole day revolved exclusively around Netaji. He would have liked nothing better, we concluded, than for the rest of our lives to revolve exclusively around Netaji. His desire for our friendship was so powerful and consuming, we couldn’t comprehend it. Let alone reciprocate it.
Netaji first appeared early this morning. He came offering to take our clothes to a dhobi for washing. He returned an hour later with the clothes cleaned, and squatted down on Kevin’s bed for a nice long chat. He remained there the rest of the morning. We learnt that he was seventeen years old (though he looked only twelve) and was still at school. What Netaji hadn’t learnt at school simply wasn’t worth knowing. He gave me the names of every cricketer in every English cricket team over the past ten years. Then he told me how much milk was produced in Sweden last year. Then he told me a whole host of ‘interesting facts’, such as how long it took to build the QE II and other famous ships.
As I listened to this incredible monologue (it went on for two hours without a single pause), I took stock of Netaji. On first impression, he looked like so many other Indian boys – with the usual shock of sleek black hair, the familiar grinning set of brilliant-white teeth, the eager, moist-brown eyes, the clear-skinned but hungry features, and the wiry, undernourished body. But then I noticed the deep scar tracing a jagged path down from his lip to the base of his chin. I asked him what had caused this. He replied that as an infant he had been sitting on the side of the road when a bullock-drawn haywain had passed by. The wheels of the cart had a vicious circle of sharp wire spokes fanning out from the axles. One of the spokes had caught his lip, and had raked the entire left side of his face open.
Netaji informed us that this accident had deprived him of speech for over a year. Kevin and I exchanged a meaningful look. Could Netaji be making up for lost time? We gazed at him in dismay. Would his stream of inconsequential chatter ever come to a stop?
Netaji told us that today was Independence Day in India. He wanted to go somewhere to help us celebrate it. We tried to protest, but he wasn’t to be denied.
‘We go see temple!’ he announced, his bared teeth gleaming in the light of the dim room’s single bulb.
‘No, Netaji! We’ve seen enough temples!’ we protested. ‘Why don’t you go home?’
He shook his head. ‘Parents away for weekend. I stay with you. We go to temple. We go to temple now.’
Kevin groaned and rolled his eyes. He was trying to decide which was worse: going round another boring temple, or spending the whole weekend with Netaji.
Actually, the Varatha Temple which he took us to was well worth the visit. The massive rajagopuram (temple tower) had just been renovated, and was most impressive. So was the wide, spacious Marriage Hall – supported by one hundred finely carved pillars – within. It looked out over a large ghat containing two small temples. ‘Every twelve years god comes,’ explained Netaji. ‘He comes as animal, and each time he comes, new temple built in water tank.’ I looked at the ghat, and did a rapid mental calculation. In another hundred years, there would be so many temples in there to commemorate Vishnu’s visits that he wouldn’t be able to come anymore.
Netaji asked us if we were hungry and then, without waiting for a response, ran off out of sight. He returned with three banana leaves full of what appeared to be a mush of greasy, bright yellow maggots. ‘Sweets!’ announced Netaji. ‘Yum, yum!’ He told us it was a mixture of lemon-rice, ladau (sugar) and onions. Kevin’s face registered absolute disgust. Netaji didn’t seem offended when we gave him our portions. He ate the lot, and thoroughly enjoyed it.
We had planned to lose Netaji outside the temple, but he had other plans. ‘We go see film!’ he said. ‘English film! You like!’
Actually, this didn’t sound a bad idea at all, so we decided to string along. Off the bus back in Kanchipuram, Netaji sprinted off – with no warning – down a backstreet. We followed at a run. Neither of us had any idea why we were running. We were quite breathless by the time we caught up with him, having scurried down a bewildering warren of hidden lanes and narrow alleys. I clung onto Netaji, and demanded an explanation.
‘We run quick! Friends no see, parents no find out!’ he replied.
‘Parents no find out what?’ I quizzed him.
‘Parents no find we go see sex film!’ tittered Netaji.
We looked at him in alarm.
‘Yes!’ exulted Netaji, clapping his hands together in excitement. ‘Sexy film! English sexy film! You like!’
Before we had a chance to protest, he had dragged us inside the nearby cinema and thrust us down into two empty seats. Then he ran off to another part of the dark interior and sat somewhere else. He apologised that this was necessary, since it wouldn’t do for him to be recognised in such an establishment with two foreigners. Before leaving, he assured us that we would love this film. It was the most popular movie playing in town.
The film was called Together With Love. It wasn’t a sex film at all, but an educational film for expectant mothers! The screen was alive with heavily pregnant ladies wallowing around doing exercises on the floor of a pre-natal classroom. Some sort of raucous American commentary was going on in the background. It was so loud as to be completely unintelligible. Kevin and I held our hands to our ears, and looked around at the audience in the cinema. They were all men. All we could see of them was rows of staring, excited eyes and grinning teeth. Everybody was riveted to the screen. The only times there was any reaction was when a naked female breast loomed onto the screen, and then a ripple of nervous, lascivious laughter swept through the audience. We were quite at a loss to understand this – all the breasts which came into view were heavily swollen with milk, and generally had a thirsty baby attached to them.
Kevin and I suffered twenty minutes of this curious spectacle, and then left the cinema. Netaji leapt out of his seat and followed us outside. On the walk back into town, we tried again and again to lose him down one or other of the numerous backstreets, but with no success. Whenever we thought we’d finally given him the slip, back he’d pop into sight laughing and skipping along about ten yards ahead of us. He never came any closer, and was never farther away. At this distance, he could both pretend he didn’t know us (in case his friends or parents turned up) and yet be pretty sure of retaining his hold on our company. Netaji was a very sharp cookie indeed.
We did get rid of him in the end, though. Back at the lodge, Netaji got collared by five chums on the roof who wanted him to share a hash cigarette with them. This offer proved irresistible, Netaji’s vigilance slipped for a moment, and we bolted thankfully out into the freedom of the streets.
Kevin now announced he was hungry and suggested we try a grubby old roadside restaurant. He asked the cook at the entrance for a cheese omelette. But the cook didn’t know what a cheese omelette was. Kevin had to explain it to him. He explained it first by drawing a series of pictures illustrating what a cheese omelette looked like at each stage of its evolution, and then – when this failed to work – by grabbing some pots and pans and flailing them about in the air to suggest how to prepare it. From the other side of the street, it looked like he was sending semaphore messages to the cook.
Gradually, light dawned. The cook’s face broke slowly into a fat, greasy smile of comprehension. Yes, he indicated, he would be delighted to prepare a cheese omelette for his honoured English guest. We sat down inside and waited. Two Indians from the other table silently rose from their seats and came across to wait with us. The waiter, his wife, and the cook’s wife also appeared. They had come to wait with Kevin as well. A trickle of curious Indians started to come in off the street to watch. By the time Kevin’s cheese omelette arrived some five minutes later there wer
e eleven people waiting to see him eat it. Oh yes, and the cook. The cook was twisting his apron between his hands in an agony of suspense, waiting for Kevin’s verdict on the omelette.
Kevin eyed the omelette warily. It had a suspect rubbery texture, but it certainly looked like a cheese omelette all right. He took a large forkful, chewed it twice and swallowed it. The next second, his eyes glazed over, his knees began trembling, and his face went quite red. The omelette had been laced with powerful green chillies. He downed the glass of water set out for him, and made to leave. Eleven pairs of eyes bore him down into his seat again. They wanted to see him enjoy his omelette. The cook, unable to control himself any further, waded across and leant heavily over Kevin, desperate to know how he was enjoying his omelette.
‘Oh, fine, fine!’ mumbled Kevin. ‘Never tasted better...’ He held up his hand, and waved his five outstretched fingers at the cook in a gesture of appreciation.
This was a bad mistake. The cook, overjoyed with his success, misinterpreted Kevin’s gesture. He studied Kevin’s five fingers waving in the air, and concluded that he must be ordering five more omelettes. What a compliment! Glowing with pride, he returned to his frying pan and starting selecting his choicest chilli peppers for Kevin’s pleasure...
By the time Kevin had finished the first omelette, sweat was streaming down his suffused brow and he had completely lost the power of speech. But he had finished it. And he could just about summon a weak smile of appreciation to let his packed audience know what a pleasure it had been.
Imagine his surprise then when the second omelette arrived. The cook came over personally to serve it to him. It slid under his nose like a death sentence.
Kevin’s face registered unmitigated horror. ‘Take it away!’ he tried to shout, but his voice was gone and nobody could understand him. The staff interpreted his wild protesting gestures as excited anticipation, and they hastened to assure him that all was well, that he would always be welcome here, and that indeed they would even set aside a special table for him each evening if that was his wish.
He shot me a mute, desperate look of appeal, but I couldn’t help. Kevin plunged into the second omelette with the air of a man consigned to the gallows. More Indians came in off the street. Everybody was magnetised by the sight of a Westerner who enjoyed their cooking so much that he’s ordered six omelettes at a single sitting. The cook looked at the tears of joy starting up in Kevin’s eyes, and was so touched that he himself began to weep. It was a very emotional scene.
Kevin was only halfway through the second omelette when the third one arrived. He stared at it as if it was Marley’s Ghost. He stopped eating and looked over at the cook, who already had omelettes four and five on the go. A low moan drifted out of the side of Kevin’s omelette-packed mouth. He upped from his seat, fought his way through the crowd of onlookers, and fled out into the street as fast as his legs would carry him. The cook tried to follow him down the road, holding a frying pan before him in a prayer of supplication, but Kevin never looked back.
I passed the cook on my way out. His face wore such a look of dejection that I told him Kevin had merely run off to tell his friends how good the omelettes were, and he would surely be back for more later.
January 28th
The next objective on our route was the ‘temple city’ of Madurai, which took us even nearer to the southern tip of the continent. We arrived in Madurai at 7am, after a gruelling ten-hour bus journey.
This bus was manned by the most reckless driver we had yet encountered. Minutes after screeching off into the dark night, he sent the bus flying over a giant pothole in the road. The whole vehicle, wheels spinning freely, flew into temporary orbit. The long road to Madurai was so poorly surfaced that it destroyed the bus’s already weak suspension and left every passenger on board praying desperately for deliverance. Kevin and I spent the whole journey tightly gripping our seats to prevent being catapulted out of the windows.
Another interesting feature of this bus was that all the Indian parents on board had bedded their children down in the gangways. This meant every time we wanted to get off to relieve ourselves or to get a cup of cha, we had to engage in all sorts of athletic contortions to avoid stomping on some recumbent infant.
At Madurai bus station, we were surrounded by a squadron of rickshaw drivers clamouring to take us where we didn’t want to go. We beat them off, and went in search of a restaurant for breakfast. Suddenly, a paan-chewing, bow-legged ‘helper’ appeared at our side and snatched up my bags. Off he went up the road, with Kevin and me giving furious chase. By the time we’d caught him up, he had booked us into three separate hotels and collected three separate amounts of commission from the proprietors. What an ingenious way of making money!
We booked into the New Modern Cafe hostel, just off Town Hall Road, and immediately went to view the Shree Meenakshi Temple. It was set within a large complex of its own – making it virtually a city within a city – and we found the high southern tower open for tourists to climb. Fighting our way to the top, along an increasingly narrow series of steps heavily populated with screeching bats, we came out into the open via a small trapdoor hatch. We squatted precariously on the tiny viewing ledge, looking down on a vast panorama of temple buildings, gopuram towers and ceremonial shrines below, and became increasingly uncomfortable. The view was superb, but there no safety barriers up here and we were rapidly overcome by vertigo.
Preparing to descend, I suddenly noticed a French hippy who had somehow crawled along the narrow summit ledge and wedged himself between two of the balustrades. Kevin wondered how he had had the nerve to get out there. I wondered how on earth he was going to get back. Especially as he seemed to be stoned out of his head on grass. As he began to pack yet another wedge into his chillum, he gave us a cheerful, languid wave of final farewell.
Coming out of the temple city, we walked into Madurai proper. It was, by Indian standards, a very clean and modern town. We had several approaches from salesmen offering ready-to-wear cotton suits and clothes, and we did have to be careful not to be mown down by the fleets of bicycles and mopeds coming both ways down the narrow footways, but after Madras and Kanchipuram these were only minor inconveniences. Madurai was far and away the most pleasant Indian city we had yet come across.
The evening was spent in the cinema, viewing a popular Hindi ‘horror’ film called Purana Mandir. It was an incredible epic – full of haunted houses, moonlit graveyards, hysterical women, deranged woodsmen, cackling witches, blood-streaked showers, gloomy mortuaries and lots of very bad weather indeed. It rained and thundered and spat lightning for over an hour. Then, quite suddenly, the portly hero and heroine were transported to a haystack in the middle of a sunny beach. This was very odd.
What was even odder, however, was what occurred in the very next scene. In this, all the main protagonists were suddenly whisked away from trying to murder each other in the old haunted house, and inexplicably set down in a modern strobe-lit discotheque. The audience gasped, and clapped in appreciation. What a brilliant piece of editing! But they hadn’t seen anything yet. For onto the disco floor came tripping a gargantuan limbo-dancer in gold pantaloons. She had the most enormous pair of breasts, with gold tassels swinging from them. They looked like a couple of giant armour-plated watermelons. As they loomed up on the screen, everybody in the cinema recoiled in their seats. Then, as we watched, this mammarian tour de force began lunging around the disco floor, singing a gay little song. In the middle of this, she plucked a feeble little Indian chap off his seat, whipped off his cool Michael Jackson shades, and made him sing the gay little song too. As the dancer advanced on him, he began to say his prayers and prepared to be buffeted to death by those unbelievably dangerous breasts.
He was saved by the interval. So were we. The film had already run two hours, and we were too tired to stay for the second half. On the way out, just as we were commenting on the use of wired bats in the film’s graveyards and haunted houses, a rea
l bat entered the auditorium and began flitting eerily across the empty screen.
We made one last detour before returning home, to a local vegetable market. Here, a charming sloe-eyed local girl casually offered me her body, while Kevin went into loud raptures about coconuts. ‘These coconuts are just the job!’ he boomed down the market. ‘I think I’ll take some home with me! I reckon I could live on coconuts!’ He emerged with five coconuts, and began bowling them down the dark, empty street in a vain attempt to break them open. Much later, in the silent still of the night, I could hear him at the other end of the corridor, bouncing the resilient coconuts off the walls of his room, and then furiously stamping on them. The way he cursed those coconuts, you’d think they’d break and yield their fruit just to keep him quiet. But they didn’t. In the morning, he still had five intact coconuts.
January 29th
The five-hour bus journey from Madurai to KodaiKanal was the most perilous expedition we had yet undertaken. Indian buses are bad enough when they are travelling the straight and narrow, but when they start going up into mountain passes, you are never quite certain of reaching your destination alive.
