After the last film, some of the young festival goers took me to "their bar" a marvelous labyrinth of rooms painted bright red up to waist height and brilliant yellow form there upwards. It's obviously a sleezy dive for middle aged men to drink alcohol (without their women folk and away from prying eyes) that had been adopted by young festival goers for the duration of the festival. Ranks of Kingfisher beer bottles lined up on the table around which a bevy of young men and one brave young woman were lounging. They had been carousing between films all day.
Jitidj, my half Namibian, half Indian friend, dropped out of University because, he said, he was learning nothing. He told us at length three days ago, as we stood in the queue for one of the films, how he'd been walking the length and breadth of India, bare footed, sleeping in temples when he could, in his tent when he could, in the railway station when they would let him and how here, in Kerala, they wouldn't let him do any of those things, so he was trying to couch surf.
"It's not easy couch surfing in India if you are an Indian man," he said. "The hosts all want foreigners, preferably women, preferably young women, preferably blond young women. I have to beg and plead with them before they'll let me stay."
"I have exactly the opposite problem," I tell him. "Too many men want to host me, and too many for all the wrong reasons. I tend to delete their offers."
Our waiter, a skinny old man, is drunk, much to the amusement of my companions. He's still managing to take orders and carry the drinks, but cannot any longer control the expression on his face or the slurring of his speech. Jitidg told me he was going to the Jaipur Literature Festival.
"You can't get there in time if you keep on walking," I said sceptically.
"No. I'll catch a train." So much for walking the length and breadth of India!
After a while my companions headed to the courtyard at the back of the bar to smoke cigarettes. Drawn by the sound of singing, I went with them. We found a group of young men singing their hearts out, standing in the courtyard. An old man joined in. They were singing traditional songs, keeping in tune for verse after verse. It occurred to me that this musicality and memory, so common among Indian people, might go some way to explaining why they learn languages with such apparent ease.
We left around six, and I headed to the station to wait for my train at half past midnight: a long wait. I tried sitting in the first class lounge, but got so cold, for the air conditioning was set way too high, that I started snuffling and sneezing. So I went to sit in the booked tickets waiting room, where a fan was grinding and clattering like a steam roller and an old Sadhu was lying on the floor inconspicuously behind some seats, fast asleep, scratching his private parts vigorously without waking up. Young men dressed in black came in and sat down.
I went to the station food outlet and ordered a little vegetable pasty. It wasn't very nice but I ate it anyway. More of the young black clad men came in, so I got up to leave. No one brought me a bill, so I went to the cashier to pay.
"One veg pasty," I said
"Chappatti?" he asked me.
So I gave up and walked out onto the platform.
The station was full of black clad pilgrims. It seemed that any kind of black clothing would do: traditional floor length dhotis, black jeans, black lycra shorts, just so long as the clothes were black.
"Where are you going?" I asked a group of young pilgrims.
"Utta Pradesh," they answered, meaning that that was where they had come from.
"Four days walking. Padmanabharhti Swami temple near Charlor Harack" I think he said "One time eating a day." Just then there was a train announcement and the group took off, racing up the stairs to catch their train back to Utta Pradesh.
Behind a low wall on the platform pilgrims lay sleeping neatly in rows, lined up like sardines, tightly packed together. Jitidge had mentioned that he could have joined them if he'd found some black clothes to wear. These were very different from the pilgrims I saw in Amarkantak in February. Those were all wearing traditional Indian clothing, old and loose, draped about their bodies, carrying a little cloth bag, a thin blanket and a stick, while these black clad pilgrims were wearing shiny new clothes and carrying large rucksacks. They'd come for a big festival that'd been going on while we were all trotting from one cinema to another.
I sat on a seat on the platform beside a couple of young women carrying a sports rifle in a big plastic box.
"It weighs twenty kg," one of them told me.
"They let you take that on the train?"
"I have licence. You know Olympic games? I at Olympic games"
"Did you win anything?"
"Seven lakh. Oil company gifted me this gun. German made."
"So very expensive"
"Yes very expensive"
"Better take the lift up to the bridge."
"No. We strong."
And they galloped up the stairs carrying their luggage and the gun.
I boarded my train at midnight, unrolled my sleeping bag on the top bunk and slept like a baby until the morning.
Jitidj, my half Namibian, half Indian friend, dropped out of University because, he said, he was learning nothing. He told us at length three days ago, as we stood in the queue for one of the films, how he'd been walking the length and breadth of India, bare footed, sleeping in temples when he could, in his tent when he could, in the railway station when they would let him and how here, in Kerala, they wouldn't let him do any of those things, so he was trying to couch surf.
"It's not easy couch surfing in India if you are an Indian man," he said. "The hosts all want foreigners, preferably women, preferably young women, preferably blond young women. I have to beg and plead with them before they'll let me stay."
"I have exactly the opposite problem," I tell him. "Too many men want to host me, and too many for all the wrong reasons. I tend to delete their offers."
Our waiter, a skinny old man, is drunk, much to the amusement of my companions. He's still managing to take orders and carry the drinks, but cannot any longer control the expression on his face or the slurring of his speech. Jitidg told me he was going to the Jaipur Literature Festival.
"You can't get there in time if you keep on walking," I said sceptically.
"No. I'll catch a train." So much for walking the length and breadth of India!
After a while my companions headed to the courtyard at the back of the bar to smoke cigarettes. Drawn by the sound of singing, I went with them. We found a group of young men singing their hearts out, standing in the courtyard. An old man joined in. They were singing traditional songs, keeping in tune for verse after verse. It occurred to me that this musicality and memory, so common among Indian people, might go some way to explaining why they learn languages with such apparent ease.
We left around six, and I headed to the station to wait for my train at half past midnight: a long wait. I tried sitting in the first class lounge, but got so cold, for the air conditioning was set way too high, that I started snuffling and sneezing. So I went to sit in the booked tickets waiting room, where a fan was grinding and clattering like a steam roller and an old Sadhu was lying on the floor inconspicuously behind some seats, fast asleep, scratching his private parts vigorously without waking up. Young men dressed in black came in and sat down.
I went to the station food outlet and ordered a little vegetable pasty. It wasn't very nice but I ate it anyway. More of the young black clad men came in, so I got up to leave. No one brought me a bill, so I went to the cashier to pay.
"One veg pasty," I said
"Chappatti?" he asked me.
So I gave up and walked out onto the platform.
The station was full of black clad pilgrims. It seemed that any kind of black clothing would do: traditional floor length dhotis, black jeans, black lycra shorts, just so long as the clothes were black.
"Where are you going?" I asked a group of young pilgrims.
"Utta Pradesh," they answered, meaning that that was where they had come from.
"Four days walking. Padmanabharhti Swami temple near Charlor Harack" I think he said "One time eating a day." Just then there was a train announcement and the group took off, racing up the stairs to catch their train back to Utta Pradesh.
Behind a low wall on the platform pilgrims lay sleeping neatly in rows, lined up like sardines, tightly packed together. Jitidge had mentioned that he could have joined them if he'd found some black clothes to wear. These were very different from the pilgrims I saw in Amarkantak in February. Those were all wearing traditional Indian clothing, old and loose, draped about their bodies, carrying a little cloth bag, a thin blanket and a stick, while these black clad pilgrims were wearing shiny new clothes and carrying large rucksacks. They'd come for a big festival that'd been going on while we were all trotting from one cinema to another.
I sat on a seat on the platform beside a couple of young women carrying a sports rifle in a big plastic box.
"It weighs twenty kg," one of them told me.
"They let you take that on the train?"
"I have licence. You know Olympic games? I at Olympic games"
"Did you win anything?"
"Seven lakh. Oil company gifted me this gun. German made."
"So very expensive"
"Yes very expensive"
"Better take the lift up to the bridge."
"No. We strong."
And they galloped up the stairs carrying their luggage and the gun.
I boarded my train at midnight, unrolled my sleeping bag on the top bunk and slept like a baby until the morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment