scenes from india #1

psychedelic honeycomb donut

After six hours in Abu Dhabi’s psychedelic honeycombed donut of an airport, I am finally on my way to India. The Ethihad Airways flight to Chennai is nearly empty, so I stretch out across the three seats in my aisle and promptly fall asleep. I had hoped to stay awake and catch a first glimpse of India far below before the last yawning rays of daylight disappeared, but alas. My first glimpse of India is the runway at Madras International.

Disorientation is an understatement. I don’t know where I am or what day it is. I tumble out of the airplane and across the lighted tarmac, following the small crowd from my airplane to the customs and immigration stands. I visit the toilet first, and much to my delight find western accommodations, though without toilet paper. No worry, I thought ahead and brought my own (pilfered from my mother’s cousin’s house on Long Island the day before . . . two days before?).

I am prepared for a hassle with immigration, but there isn’t even any idle chat. The man stamps my passport and waves me through. The airport is a ghost-town, though it’s only about 8pm. I head to baggage claim. With a 90 L backpack, huge rolling duffle, and rolling carry-on, I make my way to the exit, looking out for a cheery Indian face holding a sign with my name on it.

There is no sign. No cheery face. I walk up the row of waiting chauffeurs, and then back down it. Looking for some recognition. I realize I am the only white person in the airport, the only white person on my flight. Surely I stick out like a sore thumb. I try to make a phone call with my new Indian SIM card, but there is no credit on it. Panic slowly sets in. Everybody is staring at me. I try to go back inside the airport but the guard says something to me in Tamil and shoos me away. I walk up the line of chauffeurs again, and back down. No sign. I look around for a payphone, and realize I don’t have any money. There are no ATMs, and the money changer appears to be closed for the night. The bag on my back must weigh at least 60 pounds. It is stifling hot and humid, there are mosquitoes feasting on my flesh. Tears begin to well in the corners of my eyes. Just breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. Just breathe.

I position myself against a wall near the exit from the airport. There is a metal railing separating me from the chauffeurs. Another flight arrives and another wave of men with signs appear on the other side of the railing. Businessmen exit the airport and quickly ally themselves with their respective drivers. I stare back at them, like a deer in the headlights.

Suddenly I hear my name. “Jana? Jana?” A short balding man with a big grin and a handwritten sign – JANA, Welcome to India – pushes through the crowd and waves at me from the other side of the rail. I blink twice, wipe my eyes and breathe an audible sigh of relief, as we struggle to meet up on the far end of the railing.

I say a lot of words to the man before I realize he doesn’t understand any of it. He hands me a note: “Hello Jana, welcome to India! This is Kalliappan, our chauffeur. He will take you by bus to Shikshayatan. Please call me when you get this message. Love, Aruna.”
“K-Kalliappan?” I say to the man. He grins and wobbles his head. Before I know it we are piled into a friend’s car and driving through the highways of Chennai. I am completely disoriented. Looking out the window I am thinking, this isn’t as shocking as I expected. We stop for some fast food and I snap my first pictures of India. We wait for two hours for the express bus to Thiruvarur – I sleep in the car. This is a fancy bus; I get a reclining chair in the front, a blanket and even a bottle of water. I pull the blanket up over my head but I can’t sleep anymore. Drifting in and out of consciousness for six hours, we reach Thiruvarur around 4 in the morning.

Thiruvarur bus stand at this time of the morning is something more of a shock. It has been raining, so all the goats and beggars are crowded under the shelter of the stand. The stink coming from the men’s latrines is overwhelming. I sit on my luggage and stare back at the small crowd that has gathered to stare at me. A man comes with a bell and a bicycle and a jug full of tea. “Chai! Chai!” Kalliappan asks me if I’ll have any, but I refuse. I’m lactose intolerant, I tell him. He smiles and wobbles his head.

After about 40 minutes another bus comes. We are the only passengers. The roads are flooding. Everything is wet. This is a shorter bus ride, but I sleep so I can’t tell how long it is. After a while, Kalliappan taps me and tells me to get off. I squint out the windows but I can’t see anything. I pile off the bus on the side of the road with all my luggage, and a man with a shock of white hair greets me with his small tan hatchback. We stuff all the luggage into the car and drive down a short dirt road to a well apportioned house.

Out of the car, a plump woman greets me with a hug. “Welcome to India!” I thank her through a few unexpected tears. We drag my bags inside and the white-haired man point up the stairs to a bedroom. I trip on the way up, banging my shin on the stone steps. It is 5 in the morning. I sleep for 20 hours.