India (Part Two): “For Whom the Horn Honks”

The following narrative chronicles the four-hour journey from the city of Mysore in the state of Karnata to Ooty, a hill station 2, 240 meters above sea level in northern Tamil Nadu. From there, a second journey is begun, once again by car, this time taking thirteen hours, from Ooty to Varkala, which is situated on the southwest coast of Kerala. Much vomiting ensues.

20 hours ago

There’s some guy dancing on the roof. He’s dancing, clapping, shouting; the loud rhythm of African drums in the distance fueling his manic movements.

It’s dark. I’m tired. I just want to sleep. And eat. I’d really like something to eat. Something bland. Tasteless. Some white bread maybe. Or else, if I could handle it, if my stomach could handle it, a big, juicy burger with blue cheese with mushrooms and caramelized onions and two fresh slices of tomato, fresh lettuce and topped with a slightly toasted sesame seed bun. And greasy onion rings. Must have onion rings; the kind that are pre-frozen that you can get at Harvey’s. Who am I kidding? I can’t even keep a bag of lightly salted Lay’s potato chips down. What chance would I have with deep-fryer grease? Do they even have deep fryers in India? Probably not.

God this bag is heavy.

He’s suddenly there. The dancing man. He’s standing there halfway up the stairs. How did he do that? How did he move so fast? Andrea and Laura walk past him, following the man who was to show us our room.

“You have a room?” the dancing man asks me. Wait, why are you asking me this? Who are you? Of course I have a room. Why else would I be here? I don’t have time for this. I’m tired. Hungry. Got bread?

“Yeah, I got a room,” I reply, ensuring that my utter contempt and disgust at this man is apparent in the tone of my voice. Is this guy going to try and sell me something too? Listen pal, just because you know that the capitol of Canada is Ottawa and that the Canadian dollar is called a ‘loonie’ (two dollars being a ‘toonie’) I’m still not going to buy that crappy necklace.

Great, now he’s following us to our room. Who is this guy?

We are shown the room but there is one problem: there’s one bed and three of us. Laura had told them there would be three people in the room when she called. Where’s the other bed? A mattress even?

“We need another bed,” Laura says. “A mattress even.”

“I can get you a mattress,” says the dancing man. Why is he talking to us? What is his involvement in all of this? Does he work here? “I will have to come get it at seven o’clock tomorrow morning to bring it to another room though.”

“What?!” Laura exclaims.

I can’t deal with it anymore. I drop the bag and collapse on the bed. I pray that this gets worked out. Somehow. All I care about is sleeping. Wake me up when it’s over.

“No way,” says Andrea in disbelief. The other guy, the one who showed us the room, is talking on his cell phone, not offering much in terms of help.

“I’m sorry, I have no choice,” the dancing man continues. “There is a man coming tomorrow, he very crazy. He a mad man. He will want this mattress.”

“But we booked this room for three people,” Laura argues.

“This crazy man, he have a big family. If he doesn’t get the mattress by seven he will be very mad. He’s a very mad man.”

The girls negotiate for him to come at nine to pick up the mattress. Nine is when the mad man and his family are due to arrive. I don’t really care. I just want to sleep. And eat. But I can’t. Don’t feel well. Not at all. Couldn’t even handle the Lay’s.

The girls go out for a Christmas Eve dinner. I go to bed.

54 hours ago

I’m in Tibet. At least I think it’s Tibet. No one’s actually told me that it’s Tibet. It sure feels like Tibet. Or maybe it’s Nepal. Same thing really. That’s a pretty ignorant thing to say.

It’s so beautiful here in Tibet. Or Nepal. Regardless, it’s beautiful. So many colours. The clothes, all so beautiful and colourful. Intricately detailed, handmade, embroidered with sparkling sequins in a myriad of psychedelic designs.

And the people! Smiling and waving. So beautiful and kind. Of course they’re kind! Have you ever heard of a nasty Tibetan? Everyone loves Tibetans. Except for the Chinese.

Snow covered Himalayas form the backdrop; red, white, yellow and blue prayer flags are suspended from one balcony to another across narrow streets, forming a cat’s cradle canopy above our heads; the flags flapping in the cool, Himalayan wind.

And Laura is there. Of course she’s there. It’s good to have her there. The two of us in Tibet. Or Nepal. Whatever.

* * *

I wake up shivering. It’s cold. Isn’t India supposed to be hot? God, it’s cold. Why can’t I stop shivering? I’ve got a mountain of blankets and sleeping bags on top of me. I’m wearing Laura’s tuque. I’m sure glad I bought that sweater from that Nepalese guy in Mysore. Or was he Tibetan? Doesn’t really matter. I’ve got a nice, warm sweater. Too warm. Now I’m too warm. I’m sweating. Got to get this sweater off. My God, the air here is cold! Back under the blankets. Laura brought me some toast from the restaurant downstairs. It’s still there. On the plate. Beside my bed. I reach out and have a nibble. Chew it slowly. The cold toast. Kind of soggy. I go back to sleep.


Fig. 2.1: Dreaming of Tibet
















Fig. 2.2 - The Himalayas (photo courtesy of long-time "World According to B." fan Madeline Tang).



10 hours ago

There’s a knock at the door. It’s the dancing man and he’s come to collect. Merry Christmas, Andrea, now get out of bed. Hope you weren’t too comfortable. Now help the dancing man bring the mattress next door will you? It’s the least you can do, really.

62 hours ago

We arranged with the clerk at our hotel the night before to have a taxi drive us from Mysore to Ooty. He’d actually told us that we’d be riding in a small bus with passengers from other hotels in the area, so this turns out to be a pleasant surprise. A little privacy in a country where there is none.

We’re all feeling a bit off. Laura and Andrea spent the night in their respective rooms splitting their time between the bed and the toilet bowl. I seem to have escaped whatever it was that hit them, thank God. Although, it is a bit strange, you’d think, considering that we’d all eaten the same things at the same time.

Odd.

Still, I did have that diarrhea this morning…

61 hours and 45 minutes ago

Oh God, oh God. Stop. Stop the car now. Pull over. Now! Don’t you understand the gravity of this situation? I’m trying to do you a favor here! I’m trying to avoid spewing all over the interior of your nice little taxi. I can’t imagine what the cleaning bill will be. Alright, man! It’s now or never! I don’t care where, just do it!

I fling the door open and crumple onto my hands and knees, the contents of my stomach at once becoming one with the ancient, dusty soil of Mother India.

61 hours and 30 minutes ago

I let loose a second wave. The smell of this morning’s chai wafts from the ground beneath my face. I stare at a partly digested Gravol tablet. An ox and cart pass by leisurely and an old man, skin weathered like an elephant’s, stops to gawk at yet another statistic.

“We should really get this all on video,” I mutter to Laura as she pats my back while stringy dribble hangs precariously from my lips.

Fig.2.3 - Seeing the countryside










9 hours ago

We’re dressed and ready to go. I’m very excited at the prospect of eating a real meal. Like toast and jam. Well, the toast anyway. The jam might be pushing it. We’ll see how things go.

There’s a knock at the door. Again. It’s the dancing man. Again.

Why can’t he just leave us alone? I really have no patience for this guy. Really. None. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather not see right now. All I want is my toast, maybe jam.

He needs us to fill out the registration documents (done in triplicate), which are rather comprehensive due to the Draconian police bureaucracy in this town, or so we are told. He wishes to have us dictate our personal details, but I suggest writing them out myself considering I have to spell out each word two or three times before he actually gets it right.

“Is there something wrong with your hand?” he asks as I write my name and home address.

“No,” I say, looking down at my hand just to check that I hadn’t suddenly developed a gaping, bloody lesion since they last time I’d looked at it. “Why do you ask?”

“You write funny.”

That is true. I tell him that despite all the efforts of my primary school teachers to get me to do otherwise, I could never change the fact that when I write, it looks like I’ve got my pen firmly enclosed in a fist. It was a point of contention for years, with most report card comments from grade one to four centering on this issue alone. That and I didn’t talk enough.

“Oh, I see,” says the dancing man. “Here in India, if someone writes like this, people think he is handicapped. I thought you were handicapped.”

Did he really just say that? Who says that to someone? I seek clarification and get the same response.

“No, I can assure you that I’m not handicapped,” I say, and return to filling out the paperwork.

Andrea comes out of the room and sits on the floor of the balcony where we are sitting. He asks her if her hair is falling out or whether she cut her hair that short on purpose.

Is this guy for real? Is he a hallucination induced from the Mefloquine? He seem more fiction than real. No real person would possibly act like this. I decide to call him Balram after the protagonist in Aravind Adiga’s novel The White Tiger, due to the fact that said character and the man sitting across from me both appear to be ever so slightly unhinged; your best friend one moment and slitting your throat the next – all the while with a smile on his face.

“What do you do for a living?” he asks Andrea.

“I’m a dietician.”

“Really? You’re pretty fat,” he says without batting an eye. It’s all I can do to not burst out laughing. I continue to write, pretending to have not heard a word.

“Thanks. That’s pretty rude,” mutters Andrea, glaring at him incredulously.

“Yeah,” laughs Balram, seemingly unaware of his social trespasses. He turns to me to see how the paperwork is coming along.
“Make sure there are no mistakes,” he says.

“Why’s that?”

“My boss, he’s an evil man.”

“An evil man?”

“Yes, very evil. One mistake, he fire me.”

“Pity.”

“Yes, so no mistakes!”

“Gotcha.”

He sits back in his seat and looks off in the direction of the road. He seems to be contemplating a very deep and sincere concern. “Sir,” he says, turning to face me once more, “ my behaviour to you is okay?”

Like I would tell this guy the truth. Right. I’ve already brushed with death far too many times this trip. I’d rather not tempt fate further. “Oh yes,” I say, “perfectly fine. Nothing strange or unusual at all.”

“Good. Maybe you can help me get a visa to Canada?”














Fig. 2.4 - Pictured here is Maple Ridge's very own Chandra Balikrishnan, who is nothing like the Balram of this story, but who bears an uncanny physical resemblance.


50 hours ago

I can’t do this. I can’t go on. How many times has it been? Five? Ten? Fifteen? I’ve lost count. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing left. No more of me to share with Mother India. Nothing. Not even water. But I’m heaving anyway, and it really hurts.

At least I can say I saw India. I mean really saw it. Studied it. Right down to the very molecules that comprise even the most insignificant speck of dirt or petrified shit and the effect that my saliva and bile has on its shape and colour, each droplet expanding in a super nova of bodily fluid as it comes in contact with a soil as old as time.

We have stopped at the side of the road, as we have countless times before during the last three and half hours. This time we’re in the middle of a wildlife sanctuary in northern Tamil Nadu. The thought of being mauled by a tiger while otherwise engaged in wrenching whatever is left inside that isn’t nailed or bolted down crosses my mind. Briefly.

Other cars have also stopped at the side of the road. Tourists get out to stretch their legs, basking in the beauty of an India that is free of mangy dogs, potholes, excrement in the streets, noise, and piles of burning smoke, its’ toxic fumes forming holes in lungs, ozone layers and sidewalks (that explains it!). Such a serene India this is. Trees in abundance populate the landscape, and tall grass sways lazily in the cool breeze, lacking concern for the possibility that at any moment a stray cow could come along grazing, because it wouldn’t happen. This was tiger country.

And elephants.

Oh God.

What if this is it?

What is this is my chance to see one elephant and I can’t even enjoy it, to take it all in, to bask in its awe-inspiring beauty, because I’m here on all fours, my abdominals straining against my diaphragm’s desire to push whatever it is (what could possibly be left?) that my stomach is wanting removed?

Laura comes over to offer her sympathies, to see if there is anything she can do. Mutant teleportation powers would be nice. I’ve had enough of this ride. I’m spent. I’ve nothing left.

A tall German - white hair receding from his scalp, sporting the socks and sandals look, a Canon SLR proudly resting on his belly - saunters over and looks down at me. “Looking for insects?” he asks.

Did he just ask me if I was looking for insects? What? Is that what this looks like? Do grown adults really do that, on the side of a busy road no less? Besides, I’m in India – I don’t need to be looking for insects, they find me. Who is this guy?

“He’s actually sick,” says Laura, indicating with her tone that the guy must have his head firmly shoved up his ass not to see the difference between vomiting in public and insect collecting in public.

“I am so sorry,” he stutters, “ it’s just that, well – we’re so caught up in looking out for animals, I just – that – well – oh, I’m very sorry.” I can tell by the look on his face that he’s terribly embarrassed. He really was that stupid. Not his fault. He was born that way.

“That’s okay,” I manage to get out, my voice raspy and strained. I manage to crack a weak smile. “That was pretty fuckin’ funny.”

Fig.2.5 - Looking for insects.










Now

We are sitting on the beach in Varkala. The cool ocean breeze washes over us and the crashing waves provide a soundtrack that is calming, relaxing, hypnotic. Red, craggy cliffs behind us form a protective barrier from the chaos and carnage that continues unabated beyond its precipitous edge. Protection from an India we never thought we’d escape intact. In one piece. Sane.



Fig. 2.5-2.7: The red cliffs of Varkala








33 hours ago

I cling to Laura. We’re in the backseat of a taxi, winding down the countless hairpin turns, braking for nothing, weaving in and out of incoming traffic in our descent from one of the highest summits in the Western Ghats. My head nestled in her lap. Tuque pulled over my face. Doped up on Gravol.

The night before, the girls decided it be best to get out of Dodge, to hell with the hill station. Shit town according to A.G. I wouldn’t know. I never saw it. All I can remember is cold floors, cold toast, cold air, and the vague memory of reciting a poem that sadly was never finished:

“’Twas the Night Before the Night Before Christmas”

‘Twas the Night Before the Night Before Christmas
And all through Ooty
Not a creature was stirring
‘Cause it was too freakin’ cold.

Laura in her kerchief
And me in my toque
Had Just settled down
For a night without puke.

Andrea was nestled in her small, single bed
With visions of fresh fruit and vegetables
Dancing in her head.

Regardless. This was our one ticket out. A taxi. All the way to Varkala, to the coast, to the beach! A veritable paradise even! One with fresh fruit juices! With bland pasta dishes! But first we had to get there. This was our one way ticket out. All I had to do was hold on to my stomach and the very little that was in it.

25 hours ago

Why? Why are we not there yet? It’s been eight hours! I signed up for eight hours. That’s it. That’s all I could handle. That’s all I can handle. I thought we were almost there! I swear I saw ocean a few kilometers back. If we’re near the ocean, how come we’re not there yet?

Everything’s making my stomach churn. The exhaust. The smoke. The urine. The spices. The spices? Good God, how is it even possible to distinguish the smell of spices when barreling through pothole riddled thoroughfares in a goddamn taxi?

And the honking.

The honking!

The honking!

They really aren’t afraid of using that feature here, are they? Have horn, will use. The most underused feature in an automobile in the West. Not the case in India. A car’s success on the market is solely determined on the quality of the horn. Does it have good volume? A unique sound? A solid punch?

It’s an endless wave of honks. Relentless. One honk blending into the next, one becoming indistinguishable from the other, creating one solid, impenetrable wall of honking madness.

Of course, to the carefully trained ear, each honk has a specific purpose and serves as an integral method of communication on India’s roadways. These are the honks:

1) One long honk, one short: “I’m coming up on your right. Get out of the way.”
2) One long honk, two short: “I’m coming up on your left. Get out of the way.”
3) One long, sustained honk: “I’m going to pass you despite the fact that there is a full-size truck careening towards me in the oncoming lane so get out of my way.”
4) Three short bursts, followed by a long sustained honk: “Oh please! Look at you! Where did you learn to drive? My mother can drive better than you and she has no legs! Now get out of my way!”
5) Two sustained honks followed by three short bursts: “Whatsa matta for you? Can’t you see I’m drivin’ over here? Get out of my way!”
6) Two short honks, followed by one short: “See you at six at my place for dinner. Don’t be late! You don’t want to see how made my wife gets when someone’s late for dinner!”

That’s it. Pull over. Pull over! Why isn’t he pulling over? Dammit. He’s sure taking his time. Did he hear us? Is he going to pull over or what? Oh shit. Here it comes again.

End of Part Two