Holy Cow! an Indian Adventure

by Sarah Macdonald

  The Indian Sikhs seem even more confused by the turbaned white people. The next day I run into Keval again at the Golden Temple, and as we sit down for a final chat, a small crowd gather around us to watch. For once I’m not the centre of attention – they are all staring at Keval. Indian Sikh women don’t wear turbans or carry a knife, so her outfit confuses them. And the fact that Keval is white and wearing such a get-up obviously amazes them. A man is pushed forward to speak to her but he’s too intimidated; instead he asks me, ‘What she is?’ I explain in Hindi that she is a Sikh. They pass this around the circle in Punjabi, shocked and murmuring. I ask them what they think. Some say ‘very good’, a few are amused that rich spoilt Americans come to them for help, but a few shake their heads angrily.

  ‘She can’t be a Sikh, she’s not Indian,’ an elderly man spits as he wags his finger at me sternly. ‘Sikh is not just religion, it’s our birthright of blood, it’s not for foreigners.’

  I see his point. I’m kind of uncomfortable about people adopting a cultural identity because they perceive their society lacks its own. I vow that if I further explore India’s smorgasbord of spirituality I won’t end up in a costume or in cheesecloth.

  Although I’m enjoying not working, the journalist in me wants to collect more information and perhaps court some controversy about the white Sikhs, so I wander around to the nearby headquarters of the faith – the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak. Here, Sikhism is protected with machine guns as well as swords, and the Committee Secretary, Gurbachan Singh Bachan, plans propagation of the faith while sitting behind a desk as large as a small boat that’s surrounded by weapons and chai wallahs. Gurbachan is a fierce-looking, hairy version of Rumpole of the Bailey and his thick-lipped permanent scowl sends the message that meeting me is a waste of time. His face lifts when I mention Yogi Bhajan.

  ‘He is my friend.’

  ‘What do you think of his focus on using Kundalini yoga in his teachings?’ I ask.

  Gurbachan Singh laughs long and loud and his office assistants join in.

  ‘Yes, Sikhs don’t do yoga, but Yogi Bhajan is just attracting those westerners by yoga to get them to be Sikhs. It’s a tool for accelerating Sikhism.’

  ‘So that’s all right, is it?’

  ‘Yes, madam, isn’t it? Look, Sikhism will solve the world’s three main problems. Firstly, mental depression will go, as Sikhs remain in an ascending mood. Secondly, AIDS will be wiped out, as Sikhism makes mankind free of HIV because we be faithful to a single partner. And thirdly, cancer won’t happen, as Sikhs don’t smoke and they don’t get skin cancer. The hair of the Sikh will absorb the sun’s rays.’

  He leans back and frowns at my pathetic scalp.

  ‘You need it most, madam. Your hair is not much and in Australia you haven’t got the ozone layer, you need hair to protect you even more. Join us, sister, become a Sikh missionary and stop cancer.’

  How do I tell this man that if I went down to my local Sydney beach looking like Celine Dion in her turban phase and told the gay boys in G-strings that they must give up waxing, they’d banish me? If I then proposed they grow their facial and head hair, I may need the Sikh sword for protection. I respect the Sikh focus on living a moral life, doing good deeds for others and speaking the truth (a relative concept in India), and for being spiritually strong to fight weakness and fear. But I hate a uniform and I’m not ready to leap to a faith in God yet, let alone a religion. As for the white Sikhs, while the old me would have rejected them as sick freaks, the Indian-based Sarah seems reluctant to judge them too harshly. It’s as if their tragic guitar playing has awakened my Kumbaya and my Kundalini, for on the train home I sing their chants about being what I am. Their friendliness and gooey openness has disarmed me, and while what they teach might be a bit over the top, I think they’re harmless. What they have shown me is that India has many lessons to teach and many paths to travel to peace; I’m encouraged to find my own.

  Back in New Delhi I realise that something transforming did indeed happen in Amritsar. As I shampoo my few hairs clean of the filth from the trip, I feel little stalks. Regrowth. It’s as if I’ve now shed the old body, mind and hair. I joke with Jonathan that I am a newborn babe budding in India’s spiritual supermarket.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Indian Summer in Suburbia

  A week after I leave the Army of the Pure, a civil war erupts at the ABC compound.

  Moolchand fires the first shot. One morning he runs down from his laundry room on the roof and barrels straight into our flat crying fat tears, shaking with sobs and wringing his hands.

  ‘Irrrreeen is gone, sir, help, irreeen is gone.’

  Jonathan and I look at each other. We beg Moolchand to slow down and to calm down, but he sobs louder and louder. ‘Irren, irren, priess, priess, gone, gone.’

  We shake our heads failing to understand the tragedy at hand. He yelps in real pain and Rachel comes running.

  ‘The irren, my good, number-one, excellent preisser irrren totally, one hundred percent gone.’

  Moolchand’s moustache quivers and droops, he sinks to the floor like a runner shot in a trench. Rachel translates as she revives him with chai.

  The iron has been stolen from the laundry.

  The news spreads around the compound in fearful whispers. Gossip, conspiracy theories, and finger-pointing follow. Angry shouts come from the rooftop; the ABC office manager Peter tells Jonathan he must act decisively and defensively to keep control of the staff. Jonathan is a most unwilling commander but we trudge upstairs to the office for a council of war. Mary, Rachel, Abraham, Moolchand, Lakan, Aamar and ‘Mr Peter’ sit in a semi-circle, eyes downcast, feet shuffling; Abraham is shaking, Moolchand sniffling and Lakan emits a nervous cough. The new ABC staff reporter, Neeraj, stands at stiff attention beside Jonathan. Neeraj should really be in the army rather than journalism; General Kumar loves him as he always wears camouflage fatigues, sports a number-one hair cut, keeps a well-preened sergeant major moustache and insists on calling Jonathan ‘skipper’. Today he offers to translate for clarity.

  Jonathan sighs deeply and in his most solemn reporter’s voice begins.

  ‘As everybody knows, the iron is missing.’

  Neeraj jumps his legs apart, clasps his hands behind his back and clears his throat.

  ‘Hum-ko maloom yeh press missing he.’

  Everybody nods. Jonathan continues.

  ‘This is a most serious crime and I am most upset.’

  Translation and tears, shakes and sniffles. I stifle a giggle.

  ‘There will be an investigation. But I don’t want to hear rumours, innuendo or suspicions, just facts.’

  They nod sternly as one. I dig my fingernails into my hands.

  ‘This brings shame on me, shame on the ABC, shame on Sarah and shame on your good selves.’

  I bow my head and shake with laughter. There’s a ripple of eyes and a Mexican wave of gasps. The staff think I’m crying. They shuffle out stooped, supposedly sad and shamed, but, like me, they are faking it. Moolchand beams as he sets off to buy a new iron, and tells me he likes the new Jonathan.

  ‘Mr Jonathan is real boss now. We love having tough guy, you and sahib-sir are too nice really. Too softy.’

  Whoever says India is spiritual has no idea what it’s really like to live here.

  All the same I’m feeling energised by my brush with Sikhism. It’s as if the buds of my new hair contain the seeds of a new strength. A desire to take action grips and propels me to move the ABC away from this dreadful dark, diesel-stained dungeon of a flat on the ring road. I’m warned it’s mission impossible. Many correspondents and their partners have failed – even our predecessor, the debonair Edmond Roy, who speaks four local languages. I ignore all the doomsayers and begin juggling real estate agents, landlords and staff requests for suburbs with the best shops, churches and temples. Jonathan seems amused, touched and cheered by my stories of Vipassana and Amritsar and my subsequent transformation. While he’s made m
e promise I won’t become a white Sikh or a Hare Krishna, he’s encouraging me to make the most of India and to travel as much as I want, starting with a tour of Delhi’s rental properties. He, too, would love to move from the West End – he’s sick of the pollution, and the traffic is coming through as background sound in his reports home.

  This year, anyone who is anyone is moving into farmhouses south of the city. We bump and bash down brown potholed tracks to view mansions that are Gone with the Wind meets ‘Sylvania Waters’ with colonial columns, sweeping staircases, dust bowl courtyards, dried-up fountains and high mud walls topped with ugly shards of broken bottles. I cruise sedate bungalows within Delhi’s diplomatic suburbs; all full of faded glory, with elephant foot umbrella stands, grand grey chandeliers, stained conservatories and mouldy drawing rooms. I view ex-embassies filled with tiny dark windowless rooms that possibly served as torture chambers. All are too expensive for the ABC budget. Delhi rents are almost as high as New York’s.

  We rein in our search to one affordable village (Delhi is more a collection of villages than suburbs) called Vasant Vihar in south Delhi. It’s not near anything much, bar the homes of our staff and the airport, but it does have a shopping centre with a classy movie theatre and a Nirulas ice-cream shop. I fall instantly in love with a house modelled on the starship Enterprise – the huge living room is dominated by a wooden bar, three revolving chairs and a set of huge curved windows displaying a Milky Way of splattered bird shit. In warp speed we tell the agent we’ll take it, but he rings the next day saying the owner will not let non-Indians pollute his property. This is an unusual triumph of bigotry over big bucks, as most landlords jump to fleece foreign tenants.

  Then we find an apartment shaped like a ship, with porthole windows and a staircase built in the shape of an anchor – we adore it. But the owner sees that we’re white and triples the rent before we’ve even made it to the front door. We get lost in houses with labyrinths of crescent moon-shaped rooms added on as families expanded. We see marble mausoleums and subterranean dungeons that are worn down, half torn down, dirty and degraded. We inspect new properties all kitsch and crass with green marble floors, brass fittings and copper art that have been modelled on the Alexis pad in ‘Dynasty’.

  Then, just as I’m about to admit defeat, we tour a gorgeous, light, private house with a huge terrace of trees. The price doubles but is still right. I ask the real estate agent (all-slick hair, big blazer and huge belly) if I can see the staff quarters. He looks at me as if I’ve farted.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The staff quarters.’

  ‘What?’

  I give in. ‘The servants’ quarters.’

  ‘You want to see the servants’ quarters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why, madam?’

  ‘To see how our driver and family will live.’

  Abraham (listening in from the car) begins to sweat, shake and swallow rapidly. The real estate agent and elderly owner glare at him suspiciously, stare at me contemptuously, wobble their heads and scratch their balls. I climb alone up a spiral staircase to a tiny windowless room and a filthy toilet. I yell down, ‘That is it?’

  The owner shakes his stick at me.

  ‘What more do they need?’

  ‘Our driver has a wife and three grown children.’

  ‘So?’

  We reject the house despite the owner’s attempts to bribe us with moonshine poured into a Johnny Walker Black Label bottle. Some of the staff may think we’ve gone all soft again but Abraham and his family are grateful.

  Finally we find a red brick house with Play School-like round windows, a seventies sunken den, light shades shaped like fig leaves and an inner garden open to the elements (this is good vastu – the Hindu equivalent of feng shui). The building is self-contained, with no interfering landlords on site and has enough room for an upstairs office and a downstairs home, plus it has a roof terrace and a tiny patch of scorched earth for a garden. The owner is a Colonel who doesn’t rip us off too badly. We’re thrilled, but our old landlord, General Kumar, is distraught; we are deserters, abandoning him for a lower-ranking officer’s home.

  On the morning of the move a small army of skinny men swarm into the flat on the ring-road and wrap every single CD, bowl, toiletry product and safety pin in separate huge balls of newspaper. They work rapidly and diligently, until one finds our only bottle of Stolli vodka. The day ends with the truck half full, three boxes stolen, four of the mover-wallahs vomiting in the stairwell and a group of them asleep on the driveway.

  It’s worth it.

  In our new home our sleep no longer vibrates with car horns, truck rumbles and screeching brakes. We wake up to the rumble of wooden wheels of vegetable carts, the clip clop of cows, the ping of bicycle bells and the cry of ‘aiiiiiiiyeeeeeeee, aiiiiiiiiiiiiiyeeeeeee’ (please come) from the garbage collector. We have breakfast to the sweet songs of the broom man and are further serenaded by the plant seller, the rug cleaner, the curtain maker and sometimes by the flutes of the snake charmers. Occasionally an elephant will clang its bell, or trumpet as it trundles past on its way to perform at a birthday party. By lunchtime the air is filled with the soft thud of ball on bat and cries of ‘howzat!’. As summer builds, the afternoons grow so still that only the crackle of badly tuned transistor radios and the whisper of suburban snores carry through the thick air.

  Our home is also a hotel – troops of Australian friends begin to stagger in from their travels, limp, filthy, skinny and exhausted. They collapse onto the couch and into the loving embrace of Rachel’s cooking, Mary’s coffee, Jonathan’s bootleg beer and Moolchand’s laundry. Many of them refuse to leave until their plane’s due date. One good mate from Sydney, Pete, lifts his head from slumber one afternoon to christen our new home the ‘Biosphere’ and threatens to put us in the Lonely Planet under the recommendation: ‘A hotel that seals out the heat, the dust, the dirt and the exasperation to create a pod that re-energises the traveller for re-entry to the infuriating furnace that is the Indian outdoors.’

  We buy some small sculptures, re-cover the couches, get curtains made and place big cushions on rugs. At last a home! I’m comfortable in my sanctuary of sanity, my safe-house on the other side of the looking glass, where things are in their place.

  By May, however, I’m less comfortable. Pete and all our friends have left; only the most foolhardy or ill-informed tourist would dare venture to India from April to September. The staff is slowing down for summer, too. Only Rachel has vim and vigour. She also has a glow and sings as she works. Rachel is in love. Akash, a friend of her brother’s, has asked for her hand in marriage. She shows me the photos of his conversion from Hinduism to Catholicism that won her heart. He stands small, slight, serious and confused as the priest wets his head and renames him ‘Ronald’. They travel to Madras for the wedding and Rachel returns from the honeymoon vomiting – pregnant from the wedding night.

  As summer builds in intensity we begin hibernating from the heat of the day. Jonathan and I wake floppy and dehydrated before dawn and drag ourselves out for a brief break with home. We walk wet with sweat to our local park, a square of brown, dotted with dirty, raggedy gum trees. A couple of ancient Muslim tombs add ambience but their rotting walls are scratched with graffiti like ‘Sita loves Ramesh’ and ‘Hai Hindustan!’ Mangy dogs lie deep in mounds of sand, black-bristled pigs and local slum boys compete for scraps, and tiny girls collect and carry huge piles of rubbish and firewood on their heads. It’s hardly Hyde Park. Under a sky that’s a white-hot sweltering soup of pollution we join middle-aged men in shorts pulled high over round paunches as they stride and clap their hands to applaud their own efforts. Young men play cricket to an audience of cows, and old men leg squat, star jump and gather to comment on the weather or to congratulate each other on being Indian. There are big beaming smiles the day India reaches the one billion population mark and handshakes and pats on the back when Delhi overtakes Mexico as the most polluted city on eart
h.

  ‘Good to be number one at something, hey boys,’ shouts an old codger to his friends.

  At seven the local laugh club meets.

  I haven’t seen many people really laugh a lot in India. Perhaps it’s the bad jokes but perhaps it’s also the fact that the country lacks the lightness of being that a belly laugh requires. Instead, laughter is a serious form of exercise best practised in a circle of about forty men and boys and best sounding like a pack of hyenas in pain.

  One morning the chief laugher calls a sweaty Jonathan and I over. Fat and happy, he stands with his legs wide apart and stomach out.

  ‘Come, laughing is good for health, we will exercise the lungs and fill the heart and body with joyful energy.’

  So we stand like him, with our hands on our hips, chins to our chests and pelvises forward. We take a deep breath.

  ‘Now laugh,’ yells the leader. He bends his head back, expands his girth and waves a hand like a baton.

  We exhale, yelling: ‘Hhhahhhhhahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhha!’

  I’m feeling a bit dizzy.

  ‘Put all your body into it now, come on. Breeething in and exxxspiring with laughter.’

  ‘HAHAAAAHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHAAHHHHAAA!’

  I think I’ve popped a blood vessel in my head.