Kevin and I in India

by Frank Kusy

  We went to bed. It was still pitch-black outside. Within our room, the overhead fan whirred round with a quiet, insistent hum. Otherwise, all was silent. I closed my eyes. Long minutes passed. Then Kevin’s voice shattered the peace. ‘I can hear a mosquito,’ he announced. The lights came back on. ‘I got undressed for bed,’ continued Kevin, ‘but now I’ve heard that mosquito, I’m getting dressed again.’

  Before the lights were extinguished again, I took one last look at Kevin. He was not taking any chances with those mosquitoes. Not only had he turned the air-fan on full blast, which pinned us both securely to our beds, but his body was now swathed in three layers of clothing and smeared with a thick yellow paste of ‘Odomos’. Surrounded by a glowing circle of smouldering smoke-coils, his bed had taken on the aspect of a funeral pyre. And on top of it lay Kevin, his arms peacefully folded over his jaundiced, overdressed body, looking like a deceased Eskimo.

  February 15th

  Today we hired bicycles and rode out to Thekkidy game reserve, hoping to see the wild animals which graze on the banks of the Periyar Lake. I was just beginning to enjoy this excursion, cycling quietly through the calm, peaceful woodland roads, when a convoy of screeching Forestry Commission jeeps and trucks roared past, sending all the monkeys and birds resting in the treetops flying for cover. Their behaviour bewildered us. For it was the Forestry Commission who had posted signs all along this road instructing tourists like us to ‘Keep quiet in the forest in order to see and enjoy the animals at their best.’

  On the way to the lake, we stopped at Periyar’s 25th anniversary ‘Jubilee Exhibition.’ This comprised a clay elephant lurking in the undergrowth, a gold model tiger with a jolly betel-red grin, a giant wicker peacock and a plaster giraffe with tree branches sprouting from its head like a set of weird antlers. The ‘exhibition’ hut itself contained just a few photos of animal species wiped out when the lake’s dam was built, and three glass cages containing respectively a stuffed tiger, a stuffed bear and a limp ex-cobra!

  The information office at the Forestry Commission in Thekkidy refused to give us any information at all. It had the information all right. It just wasn’t handing it out. The official at the desk told me they only had ‘limited stocks’. I spent a half-hour trying to persuade him to part with some of his limited stock, and was rewarded with a single information leaflet. I felt quite pleased with myself: no other tourist in the area had managed to get one.

  The Periyar Lake is an artificial lake built by the British about 90 years ago. You can see it is an artificial lake because scores of jagged tree stumps and branches still point their spectral fingers above its surface. Before its construction, these trees must have been a formidable size, for even in this pre-monsoon season the depth of the lake was some eighty feet.

  We booked tickets on the 4pm boat round the lake, which promised best views of the wild elephants, water buffalo and even tigers who tend to come to water at this time of day. We were, however, to be disappointed. The frantic Indian contingent of tourists aboard our vessel maintained such a loud volume of shrill, penetrating conversation that every animal on its way down to the lake did an immediate about-turn. We saw a flock of retreating wild pigs, a couple of retreating baboons, and a distant retreating elephant. Even the flying fish which came near the boat rapidly flew off in the opposite direction.

  The boat’s gentle captain soon became tired of his noisy passengers also, and engaged me in conversation, probably to steady his nerves. He was a sensitive man whose broad features and high forehead denoted a warm nature and keen intelligence. He told me that he was fully qualified to be a captain of a ship on the open sea, but lack of jobs compelled him to work on this small sightseeing boat for just £50 per month. He only got to see his family, who lived back down the waterways at Kottayam, once in each month. Despite this, he managed to hold a cheerful, lively conversation and I reflected on how pleasant it was to talk feely to an Indian man about his life, his hopes and his dreams without the usual barriers that tended to go up between the average Indian and the average Western tourist.

  Back on land, we returned to the information centre to book its advertised ‘elephant ride’ for tomorrow morning. But we hit another brick wall. The information officer, irritated at being woken from his afternoon nap in the side office, came out to tell us there was no elephant ride. ‘Why not?’ we enquired. He yawned at us and replied: ‘So sorry – elephant sick!’ Well, we should have guessed. Kevin sent the elephant his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and we cycled back to Kumily.

  February 16th

  We returned to the site of Periyar Lake again this morning, ready to start our ‘forest trek’ at nine o’ clock. We were both eagerly looking forward to this: at last, we would now get to see the wild animals in the nature reserve up close. Or would we?

  There were nine of us in the small trekking party, led by a tiny Indian guide wearing the most enormous pair of ex-Army issue shorts. He took us over a series of low hills skirting the lake, and then plunged us into a thick burnt-green jungle with strict instructions not to disturb the wildlife. But he needn’t have worried. We didn’t see any wildlife to disturb. For three and a half gruelling hours we trudged through the damp arboreal vegetation with not even a sniff of a wild animal. Sorry, we did see a solitary distant pig and a pair of tree-monkeys too lazy or indifferent to scurry away at our approach. And we did see some elephant droppings. We saw an awful lot of elephant droppings. The whole trek path was plastered with elephant droppings.

  Every so often, the diminutive guide would gather us around him in a discreet huddle and hiss: ‘Look! Tiger footprint! There is a tiger nearby!’ Much more commonly, however, he would whisper: ‘Look! Elephant dropping! There are elephant nearby!’

  Kevin and I decided to make our own amusement from now on. We went into the ‘Disco’ barbers in Kumily high street, and had all our hair shaved off. The sight of two crazy Westerners going bald created quite a stir in the local community. A swaying crowd of curious Indians gathered in the street outside to watch.

  ‘If your mother could only see you now!’ I remarked as Kevin’s gleaming, tonsured scalp came into view.

  ‘Actually,’ came his bald comment, ‘I did have my hair cut close once, and my father wouldn’t speak to me for three days!’

  I considered this, and suggested he send a photograph of his bald head home right now.

  ‘If you send it off now,’ I helpfully suggested, ‘your father will have six whole weeks to cool off before you get back to England!’

  I was doubled up with laughter the whole time Kevin was in the barber’s chair. When the flashing scalpel came my way, however, it was quite a different story. I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late. The first ridge of shiny bare scalp had already appeared in the barber’s mirror.

  The crowd outside got very excited when we returned to their midst, our domes gleaming like two new pins The whole street reverberated with joyful cries of ‘Kung Fu!’ and ‘Shaolin!’ and upwards of a hundred people followed us down the dark road. I became concerned. And I became even more concerned when I saw Saint Anthony coming the other way. He was lit up with coloured bulbs and strapped to the front of a jeep. The jeep was escorted by a mass of candle-bearing schoolchildren singing militant carols. Firecrackers were going off all over the place, and the jeep was led up the road by a band of determined-looking musicians. This lot wasn’t going to move aside for anything. A head-on collision between Catholic and Buddhist acolytes appeared imminent.

  Suddenly, a miraculous event occurred to avert disaster. Just as the two crowds were about to clash, a pair of itinerant donkeys appeared between them and began copulating in the middle of the high street. ‘Golly!’ exclaimed Kevin. ‘I’ve got to get a photograph of that!’ And as he bolted ahead to snap the performing donkeys, both crowds shuddered violently to a halt, mere yards from achieving impact with each other. Kevin (and the mules) had narrowly averted a full-scale riot. They had do
ne it by arousing the curiosity of every Indian in the vicinity. Everybody was staring at Kevin amazed. They were, I guessed, all thinking the same thing: ‘Try getting that one developed in our country, Englishman!’ ...But he did.

  February 17th

  We came into Cochin this morning. Our bus there was full of Indians staring at Kevin’s bald head (I wisely kept my cap on). Arriving, we moved into the Hotel Elite. Our room was stark and simple, but downstairs was the best western-style restaurant in town. It even provided Kevin with a cheese sandwich. The cheese came out of a fridge, and was hygienically wrapped in foil. Kevin went into a transport of delight, and I didn’t hear any more about cheese sandwiches for the next week. The service at the Elite’s restaurant was excellent too. It is famous among foreign travellers as the only restaurant in India where the waiter always smiles at you and always remembers your order.

  A couple of Indian chaps joined us at our table. At first, we thought they had come just to stare at our bald heads – like everyone else we had met today – but they only wanted to be friendly. We ended up having a long, enjoyable conversation about commerce, politics and economics. Unfortunately, just as it was getting really interesting, an Australian called Dave turned up to queer the pitch. He asked our Indian friends if it was true what he had heard, that seventy per cent of all Indian men were gay, because caste restrictions preventing contact with Indian women made it impossible for them to be anything else. The two Indians looked at each other in dismay, and silently got up and left the table. Dave asked us if he had said anything wrong. It was our turn to look at each other in dismay and leave the table.

  It was this evening, over supper at the Hotel Seagull, that Kevin’s recent cheerfulness finally evaporated. Things started well enough: he gave his order for fish and chips to the waiter, and began the usual procedure of picking up spelling errors in the menu. This was a good one too – SCRABBLED EGGS, SCHERADE BEEF (shredded beef), BUFFALEW FRY, and LEMON SOD (lemon soda) – but then the waiter came back again. He had forgotten Kevin’s order. So he took it a second time, but then reappeared a while later to say that he had forgotten it again. These consistent attacks of amnesia however were as nothing to his major transgression: not serving Kevin enough chips, and giving him a small black object which was supposed to be a fish fillet.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Kevin, snarling dangerously at the waiter.

  ‘It is fish and chips,’ answered the waiter.

  Kevin swept up the plate and marched it into the kitchen. ‘I want the complaint book!’ he told the harassed-looking manger.

  ‘So sorry,’ replied the manager. ‘There is no complaint book.’

  Kevin thrust the plate at him. ‘Then I want more chips,’ he demanded. ‘And you can replace this morsel of fish with a bigger bit. A bit which isn’t burnt black like this one!’

  The manager demurred politely, saying, ‘Fish not burnt.’

  This got Kevin going. ‘Oh yes, it is!’ he raged, sweeping the offending cinder off the plate and waving it under the manager’s bushy moustache for added emphasis. ‘This is a burnt fillet!’

  ‘No, no!’ protested the manager, recovering the fillet out of Kevin’s hand. ‘It is burnt on the batter, yes, but the fish inside, it is not burnt!’

  He passed the fillet back to Kevin, who stamped his foot and howled: ‘IT’S BLOODY BURNT!’ before flinging it to a nearby waiter. The charred ember of fish was now rapidly going the rounds, being passed, thrown, fingered, dissected, picked at and returned by five different people, including the cook, the cook’s assistant and a trainee waiter.

  Kevin waited until the fish returned into his possession, and then brandished it dramatically in the air. ‘Would you pay 11 rupees for this rubbish?’ he cried. ‘Just look at it – it wouldn’t feed a canary!’ The distraught manager waggled his head furiously in answer, though whether to agree with or dispute Kevin’s allegations it was impossible to say. As he stretched out his hands to make his case, Kevin decisively deposited the burnt fillet in them and stormed off into the night.

  February 19th

  Today we hired bicycles, and rode through Cochin’s narrow backstreets to Mattancherry. The city’s oldest synagogue here was a simple white-painted structure notable for its beautiful interior of suspended oil-lamps, hand-painted floor tiling and superb brass-work. It was now little more than a museum piece, however, the original strong Jewish community in Cochin having shrunk (at the time of writing) to just thirty-three members.

  By contrast, Mattancherry’s ‘Dutch Palace’ (not Dutch at all, but Portuguese) is full of remarkable 16th century wall-murals, one of which shows the god Shiva on lascivious top form, all eight of his hands busily at work on the private parts of eight receptive handmaidens.

  Returning, Kevin and I hurried to Cochin station to catch the 7.30pm train to Mettapulayam. But we needn’t have rushed. The first people we spoke to on the platform informed us: ‘Train postponed – now arriving at 8.45.’ We thought we had better check this, so asked another group of people. They assured us: ‘No, postponement now cancelled – train, it is leaving at 7.30 as scheduled!’ Finally, we came to the platform waiting-room, where a chorus of fifteen rail employees told us: ‘Train is most certainly postponed – will now arrive at 8.30!’

  Well, they should have known. The train did arrive at 8.30, much to the surprise of all the other passengers expecting it an hour earlier or fifteen minutes later. And the ten-hour journey to Mettapulayam, via Coimbatore, passed very smoothly indeed. It was so smooth in fact, that we both managed to sleep right through it.

  February 20th

  Passing up into the mountains on the famous ‘toy train’ from Mettapulayam to the hill-station of Ooty was an unforgettable experience. The railway runs a special ‘rack and pinion’ track up the mountain ascent, a third ‘chain’ rail passing in between the usual pair of narrow gauge rails. The engine is placed behind the carriages, and pushes them up the steep track, using the grip of the extra rail to maintain constant traction all the way up to the town of Ooty, two thousand feet above.

  From the open windows of the miniature blue-and-white wooden carriages, we looked down over a series of magnificent mountain, valley, woodland and village views. The five and a half hour journey passed with surprising speed. Partly because we were deeply in conversation with a young Indian sharing our carriage. Well-spoken, athletic and intelligent, he told us he was just visiting his home country at present, being currently employed in Australia.

  ‘I am well-qualified,’ he said, ‘but I cannot obtain well-paid work here. Also, I might waste ten years working in some low-paid job in India, only to be passed over for promotion when my superior dies by someone of a higher caste who has no experience of the job whatsoever. There is simply no incentive for the well-qualified man in this country.’

  He moved on to explain the Indian caste system, and to tell us how socially and emotionally restrictive it was for men and women alike. Indian men, he maintained, often only had their first real contact with women when they got married, and this generally didn’t happen until their late 20s or early 30s. As for the women, the caste system forced them into difficult dependency on their husbands. ‘If you gave this country some social security and created more jobs for women,’ he stated, ‘then many wives here would tell their husbands to get lost, and would walk out. Because of the present inequality, very few Indian marriages I have seen are truly happy, and many of them are downright miserable!’

  Arriving in Ooty Town, we booked into the popular YMCA, strolled round the nearby Botanical Gardens and saw a twenty thousand year old fossilised tree trunk (it looked like a gift-wrapped plank), then retired to bed for a long rest.

  February 21st

  Today had an inauspicious beginning. Much in need of a shower, I had ordered hot water for 7 this morning. But the room-boy had forgotten. I had to follow him all round the hostel in the freezing cold, dressed only in a towel, just to get the opportunity to
jog his memory. Later, now armed with my bucket of hot water, I stood in the icy shower-room and enjoyed a good wash. I was watched throughout by a pair of tiny frogs, both frozen solid to the walls.

  Ooty, like other Indian hill-stations, is a favourite holiday resort. People flock here in the summer to go boating on the lake, to ride horses, to play golf or simply to admire the beautiful scenery. We decided to start with the lake.

  Just as we reached the boating quay, we suddenly ran into Charlie, our little brown waiter from the Village Restaurant in Mahabilapuram. He embraced us with the enthusiasm of a biblical shepherd recovering some long-lost sheep. Which was an appropriate analogy, since he was presently working by the lake at a shop selling ‘Christ Eucalyptus Oil’. After introducing us proudly to all his friends, he sent us on to a cha-shop for some teas with a promise to return shortly. Kevin gaped astonished at the stunted little cha-wallah, who was carefully washing an old one-rupee note in a basin, and then hanging it over a hot tea-pot spout to dry out.

  Ooty lake is full of ponies. Everywhere you go round here, there is a pony breathing down your neck. I was just complaining about ponies over my cup of coffee when, perfectly on cue, an Indian appeared leading a pony. ‘You want pony ride?’ he offered. ‘Pony ride?’ I echoed. ‘Ah!’ confirmed the Indian. ‘No,’ said I, and he said ‘No?’ I said ‘No,’ and he said ‘No?’ again. I tried to bring the conversation to a close, stating firmly: ‘No. No ponies!’ but he just said ‘Huh?’ and dragged his pony even closer. ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere!’ I ranted at him, ‘just take your pony somewhere else. It’s just blown its nose in my coffee!’