How is your trip to India going? That’s a question I’ve been asked often, the first time almost as soon as I got off the plane from Sydney. I’ve only just checked in, give me a little time, I told this initial enquirer.
Three months on, it’s like I’ve been caught up in a whirlwind. A lot has happened. I’ve had a wealth of experience and a store of anecdotes that will find their way into my weekly articles from time to time.
I am now over the initial shock of riding pillion on a scooter in traffic so dense I felt like a robot being transported through a mechanised forest. As a sideline: I am not sure if this experience will alter my approach to driving when I return to Australia. But I understand now why driving instructors in Sydney complain about bad driving habits exhibited by learner drivers from the sub-continent. For instance, in New South Wales there are ‘Stop’ signs at specific crossroads. Drivers are expected to bring their vehicles to a complete stop at such intersections, at least for three seconds, before proceeding; drivers must not continue to roll the vehicle forward poking the car’s bonnet gradually into the crossing, then sneaking in and across as soon as a minute gap presents itself. Anyhow, that’s left to be seen when I return come October.
I have also, in Pune, got used to being treated like royalty. (There’s precious little chance of that ever happening in Sydney, take my word for it. A lot of Aussies wouldn’t allow it in the first place, I imagine, seeing how we are reminded that Australia is a classless society.) But here, in Pune, as the guest of a school principal, one simply, for example, gets into the car and sits.
Earning his livelihood
The rest takes care of itself. One doesn’t even open the car door, this is performed by the driver who takes mild umbrage if you open the door yourself, it’s like he’s been disallowed from performing his duty for which he may be held liable later. It has left me cringing, nevertheless.
Years ago, passing through the city of what was then Calcutta, I was (and still am, in my mind) conflicted whenever called upon to use a rickshaw that was pulled by the rickshaw operator. It just didn’t feel right. But that meant denying him a right to earn his livelihood. I don’t know. As they say, the jury’s still out on that one, long after the hand-drawn rickshaw has, mercifully, been withdrawn from the roads.
I’ve also got used to people telling me they don’t enjoy poetry as such, but they were, for one reason or another, drawn to pick up a copy of my novel in verse, Double Cream, Memsahib? One lady said she was intrigued to come across a book title that had a question mark in it.
S. Muthiah, Chennai’s celebrated historian and chronicler, confessed in public, and that too over the microphone at the book launch, that he didn’t enjoy poetry (at which I, the author, waiting my turn at the mike to promote my work, quailed. How does one recover from a public damning before one has had a chance to utter a word in defence?) “However,” added the doyen, “I thoroughly enjoyed this book and recommend it highly.” Now, that’s one of the best postscripts an author can ever expect. That was in Chennai, of course, in the middle of a heat wave. Fortunately, from my 12-year experience in Dubai, I’m acquainted with heat.
Midway through the holiday I’m still marvelling at the buying power of the dollar. And what I’m buying most, nearly every day, is a healthy serving of street food. How’s the holiday going? Vada pao, pani puris (Indian snacks)…bring them on. Meanwhile, somewhere in the back of the mind is a story… stirring, simmering, materialising. It’s what a writer does, I suppose, even on holiday.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
