to chennai, with love

I am home. I am in heaven: I can walk on carpets, take hottt showers and use good hair products and brushes. I can rejoice in roast dinners, marvel at my Christmas tree, and sleep on a wondrously thick mattress. I can feel the peace and quiet, turn up my bass speakers, and hear the sweet laughter of my family.

Yes, I am home. But India has not left me. She ravaged me with sickness yesterday and made me throw up 13 times – perhaps it was her final send off! Thank goodness, I feel stronger today. Strong enough to be able to reflect on the last five months of my life, and put some of it into words.

I learnt so much. I can now tie a beautifully neat sari in 20 minutes flat, and squatting into Indian loos is second nature (a must have skill for every world wanderer). I learnt to stop shaking when faced with bigwigs in the Taj lobby – enough to give a first class check-in to the president of Uruguay!

I took lessons in selflessness from handicraft shop owners, who followed me around the city to return a credit card I had left behind; from dedicated rickshaw drivers, who had stickers with my name on their windscreens. From warm and friendly strangers, anxious to do what they could to keep me safe.

I learnt to have fun. I realised how much I am attached to vodka, and I might even have started to like beer. I fell in love with the sand and the sea, and the crash of the waves on the Indian shore. I realised that I want to own a house with a rooftop, because rooftop parties simply rock.

There is so much that I will miss, too. Breakfast on banana leaves: poori and coconut chutney, and hot chai. The joy of indulging in fresh fruit on roadside stalls. Long (and bumpy) bus journeys, where friends and time become your own. The magical sounds of the monsoon rains beating India’s dirt paths clean.

Rhiannon, for being an awesome buffet and Mocha buddy! For giving me the courage to reach to South America. Tessa, for your neverending good humour, your love of shopping, and your straight laced attitude towards life’s woes. Leevin, for the best parties ever, and for being a rock of strength.

Pasha, for your ceaseless compliments, your giant bear hugs, and for being there from the start. For your absolute selflessness, and for making our flat a family! Filip, for your love of good times, your brilliant mind, and for teaching me to chill out. For your sweet romance, and for being my bad boy convict. 😉

To Chennai, with love: I will miss you.

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walking off the chapatis

 Any conception of good diet is impossible to follow when faced with a five star buffet, twice a day, six days a week. I am eternally grateful for all the free food, but Taj really should issue health warnings to their interns. The long and short of it is that the weighing scales were mean today, and I am taking action.

 Central Chennai is not the most enticing place to run about in jogging gear. Walking along the roads is almost a near-death experience; the sweet twitter of birds is smothered with the blare of beep, beeeeep, BEEP; and the heat will kill you long before a motorbike takes the liberty.

 On account of all this, I joined a gym when I arrived in the city. That didn’t work either; I spent an inordinate amount on membership and then went only four times. But, I realised, it was more life-supporting than the many different ways I could die running along Chennai’s streets. I swallowed my pride and returned.

 I decided to take an energetic (treadmill) stroll. I am no fan of indoor exercise, so I made use of my imagination. I was in New York, early morning, with skyscrapers towering above me. Then Colombia, wandering the ups and downs of the Andes. Then … uh, I almost fell off. (Better to keep my eyes open.)

 This is the new plan.

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diwali boom booms

 Last Thursday and Friday, India found herself celebrating Diwali.

 Diwali is the Hindu “Festival of Lights”. Candles and lamps are lit the world over to celebrate the victory of brightness over darkness within ourselves. It is a time for new beginnings, a time to ward out internal evils and find instead an inner, peaceful good.

 It is also a time, it seems, to scare the bejibbers out of expats.

 I was awoken on Thursday morning at 6:00am. Boom, boom, BOOM! I jumped. There’s a bomb attack! … I still haven’t registered with the British Consulate … Chennai is under siege … I’ll never be found … b*gger, b*gger, b*gger …

 I looked outside. I couldn’t see anything, but I could still hear explosions. Sweet Olga was sleeping peacefully. I ran to Berat and Pasha’s room – Pasha was not there, Berat, too, was away with the fairies. BOOM! Another one. Neither of them stirred.

 Was I going crazy? How could they not hear? Should I stay inside: but I have to go to work, I am the only one on my shift! Oh: I will call them. But no, my phone was stolen, I don’t have a new sim card yet … b*gger, b*gger, b*gger …

 Olga awoke.

 Me: “Olga! What is the noise, what’s going on!” 
 Olga: “Uh … it’s the crackers … the fire crackers … Diwali …”

 Crackers. No, they cannot be crackers. Crackers make a gentle tinker-boom and release pretty lights into the sky. Olga assured me that I was not going to die, and that I should just walk to work. In the end I did, and was assured, by evil, laughing colleagues, that they were indeed just crackers.

 It seems that this is how Diwali is celebrated in India. Home made explosives, set off not by big men with big gloves behind big fences, but by teenagers in the street. I praise the Lord that I escaped the festival unscathed. (Burns admitted to hospital triple in India during Diwali!)

 Relief only came on my weekend flight to Hyderabad. We took off in darkness, and a silence descended over the aircraft. It was black outside, and I finally saw the pretty lights, as real fireworks illuminated Chennai’s (smoggy) dusk.

 I had found my inner peace.

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a little faith

 It’s been some time since I’ve written. I feel like a lot has happened: a lot of tears, a lot of confusion. I still don’t know the truth about India, or whether I can love her again after being confronted, of late, with so much poverty.

 But today, I have a little faith.

 I took a rickshaw back from the shopping mall. The driver asked if we could stop at an emporium first; they get paid for introducing Western customers. I was tired, but I agreed, knowing that his income would be small.

 When we arrived, he told me that I could leave my shopping in the vehicle. Uncomfortable with this, but not wanting to carry my bags, I hesitated. “Madam, I will go nowhere! I will wait for you”, he smiled. I decided to trust him.

 After ten minutes of playing fancy dress with beautiful cashmere shawls, I stepped outside, peeking around the door nervously. … He was there. And so were my bags, in the precise position I had left them.

 On the way back, he tried to teach me “how are you” in Tamil – it was a mighty tongue twister, and we were in heaps of giggles at my shaky attempts. The passenger in the neighbouring auto was grinning at us too.

 My sweet driver told me about his home, and he told me about his children. He didn’t push for more shops. When we reached my flat, I paid him double. He gracefully accepted with a wonderful smile and a “thank you, Mam”.

 Yes: today, I have a little faith.

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serving the rich

 India is a land of contrast and contradiction. It hit me harder than usual today.

 My colleagues are bright and dynamic. They will do everything in their power to create the elusive ‘wow’ factor; they will work thirteen hour shifts, or thirteen days in a row. They use style and grace to bring about a sense of awe: the sirs and mams, the certainlys, the my pleasures flowing freely.

 Their energy is awesome, inspiring, even. But it is with a heavy heart that I write this, and tell you that I worry it is misguided.

 I left work today by the staff entrance. I swiped my card (almost signing IN, a seemingly automatic action). There is a long driveway at the side of the Taj, lined with employee’s motorcycles, and security personnel at the entrance. I smile at the guards, and step beyond the gates outside. Outside, into India.

 I almost trip on construction workers. They are doing roadside work at the entrance. They have steely stares, and hardy hands. Their skin is bare and shrivelled from the burn of Chennai’s glaring sun. They are axing holes with precision, and I cannot tell if they do this with dedication, or in defeat.

 I drive in a rickshaw to the supermarket. The journey is slow with traffic, and I see a lot, today. I see material shops rich in sarees and polished window entrances, with half built straw huts for their neighbours. I see gleaming xerox and phone and printing shops, and just beyond them, rows upon rows of slums.

 I see a man sleeping, I pray not dead, on the pavement.

 It is too much for me today. I realise, sadly, that we work like dogs to serve the rich with poverty on our doorstep. The TATA group to which Taj belongs donates 70% of its profits to charity, and our salaries are the lowest in the Indian hospitality industry. But still, I am uncertain.

 Today I do not know. Today I do not understand.

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