Three weeks in Hindustan- Part 1
Travels of an Ignorant American

Pavan Vangipuram

I landed in Bombay International during the wee hours of August 3rd, and immediately filled my lungs with the familiar smell of India, a curious mixture of humidity, vegetation, and human sweat. But as I looked around the airport, I noticed that the other things I had come to associate with India were conspicuously absent.

Where was the dirt, the grime, the walls streaked with red betel-spit? Where were the hordes of beggars, hands pathetically outstretched? Where was the chaotic mass of scrambling people at customs? I looked around and saw polished white marble floors, stainless beige walls, and an orderly queue to formally enter the country. I passed through customs momentarily disoriented and settled in the lounge to await my connection to Chennai.

As I further examined the airport, India slowly revealed herself to me. The military policeman, automatic rifle resting on his leg, lazily reading a newspaper, the tribe of porters dressed in red, eager even at this hour to carry bags, and the station-master loudly announcing “Bangalore! Bangalore!” in a guttural monotone, all betrayed the India I once knew.

Yet it was clear to me that this was not the India I left five years ago. I boarded my connection to Chennai full of anticipation to explore this new country.

The Coastal City

Chennai, formerly known as Madras, was the center of British operations during the occupation and is now the de-facto capital of southern India. A city of nearly eight million people, it stands as one of the country’s four major metropolitan areas. I would be staying with uncle for the next few days, and I was anxious to arrive and unpack after a grueling 28 hours of travel.

It was 6:30 AM, and the city was just beginning to wake. I arrived at my uncle’s flat, a posh two bedroom apartment in a complex known as “The Nest”, and unpacked.

The apartment was magnificent, equipped with amenities and luxuries which would have been a distant dream merely one generation ago. Yet on a side street next to the apartment, a mere 50 meters away, stood a rat-infested slum. As I walked down the side street, I saw an unclothed boy of four defecate in the middle of the road. Ragged women in torn saris were crowding to get the day’s water from the communal pump. Stray dogs fought. Fifty meters removed from this, smart businessmen were putting on suits to begin their day, their children watching television and munching on corn flakes, their wives microwaving their breakfast. It was a jarring juxtaposition. Turning to leave, I was nearly hit by the stream of a 13-year-old boy impudently urinating on the sidewalk. This was India.

My second day was spent rather uneventfully, and on the next day, I took a tour of several temples in South India. The Islamic invasion did not reach very far into the south of India, and as a result, traditional Hinduism has remained an integral part of the south Indian lifestyle. I did not realize, however, how deeply ingrained religion was to the lives of the south Indians until I visited the city of Kanchipuram.
Kanchipuram was the capital of the ancient Pallava dynasty (c. 400-700 AD), known for its pioneering architecture. Their structures have lost little of their grandeur over the resulting 1500 years.

Great stone temples stood on nearly every street corner of this primeval city. Most of the temples glorify the lord Shiva, and every day, thousands of loyal Shivites go there to pray. The architecture of these temples was truly a sight to behold. One could get lost for days in the labyrinth of intricately carved pillars and cavernous corridors. Each temple had room enough for at least 200 people to live permanently, and thousands upon thousands could be crammed in each one without the slightest feeling of discomfort.

Visiting the temple is generally a play in three acts: viewing the idol, listening to the ritual chants by the pujari (priest), and taking prasadam, the ceremonial consecrated food. (The taking of prasadam has now acquired a symbolic property, but in times past, this used to be the only source of food for many destitutes.)

As I stood in one of the innumerable temples, listening to the ritual chant, I turned and looked at the person behind me. His eyes were tightly shut, as he mouthed the chant the priest was performing. His face betrayed a look both of pain and ecstasy. The mysterious force behind that look is undoubtedly the reason for Hinduism’s longevity. It is an enigma I fear I will never pierce.

I visited Chennai’s vast coastline the following day, and overheard an interesting conversation during the ride there. My father was amicably chatting with the rickshaw driver about India’s political situation. Politics in India have always been a turbulent affair, to put it mildly.

With the 1947 partition riots as a starting point, they have remained a maelstrom of political assassinations, complex webs of party alliances, and deft subterfuge. Until very recently, the Congress party ruled almost without opposition, and in 1975 the democracy was nearly dismantled altogether.

Yet for all the blows to its integrity, Indian democracy remains as vibrant as ever. This particular rickshaw driver was busy lamenting to my father about the current local leadership, accusing the regional minister of being soft on corruption, engaging in cronyism, and being a generally poor leader. He contrasted this with the reign of the previous minister saying (in so many words) that in those days, things got done. I was curious to know why the previous minister lost re-election, for all his virtues. He sadly responded that whenever anyone starts to do some good, ‘they’ will find some way of eliminating him. (He left who ‘they’ were unsaid.)

Yet the driver still believed in democracy, still votes in every election, and encourages family members to do the same. “If we do not choose our leaders,” he explained, “they will be chosen for us.”

My final day in Chennai was spent in George Town, at the center of the city. The imperial-sounding George Town was the nucleus of British operations during the latter half of their rule, and most of their structures still stand in the center square. The gothic Victorian architecture stood out sharply against the drab, rectangular constructions of post-Independence India.

George Town was packed with shops and shoppers, but they were largely of a legitimate sort. Burma Bazaar, on the far end of George Town, however, told a far different story. There I saw a scene which would have made a Federal Trade commissioner weep. For miles the street was lined with 3-foot wide stalls selling every conceivable manner of pirated good. Bootleg movies were the most popular item, (and what a selection!) but there were also knock-off electronics, imitation watches, perfumes (of a dubious origin), and many other items. The selection of cheap DVDs was dizzying and every other shop seemed to be bulging with them. Many offered titles (such as Transformers) that had not yet been released even in theatres.

Everywhere I went I was followed by the hungry gaze and shouts of the shopkeepers. “Please sir, I have top movies for you!” “Would you like to buy Rolex? 250 rupees!” “I have Calvin Klein perfume!” I don’t know what about my manner suggested purchasing power, but every shopkeeper there seemed to take me for an easy mark.

I left Chennai by rail. Indian Railways! One of the lasting vestiges of British rule, they stand as a packaged microcosm of the country as a whole. As I stepped into the station, surrounded by coolies, beggars, travelers, and officials, I was overwhelmed by the swirling chaos. Platforms choked with travelers and well-wishers, an army of eager porters, swarming to whoever looked as though they would pay, tearful reunions and partings, all contributed to the atmosphere of the station.

The train to Hyderabad arrived, and there was a mad scramble on the platform to board the train. As it pulled away from the station, I stole one last longing glance at the coastal city.