One Day In Sadhana
We walked out to the motorbikes, or mopeds as they are known here. I
was wearing a green lungi wrapped as a full-length skirt and a white
singlet, and because that meant my shoulders were bare, I wrapped a
cream silk scarf around them. Fumbling through my silk bag, I took the
keys and put them in the ignition, turned it and then kicked the
pedal….
The engine roared to life and I slowly backed out to turn the
moped around. At first a little wobbly, I was off! Through the gates
to Sadhana forest about six people lounged against the jackfruit tree.
Because smoking and any stimulants are forbidden in the community, the
tree had slowly become the smokers’ spot. They laid on each other, amongst long armpit hairs, dreadlocked and dressed in tie-died drapes. A little further up the
bumpy dirt track I passed the mud pool. A couple of volunteers were
bathing and playing with a group of Local Tamil boys. They were all
garbed in only there underwear and a thin string of red tied around
their waste, signifying their low caste. Catching site of my on the
moped they all started jumping on each other and yelling “Hello! Hi”
and “What is your name?”
The way to our restaurant lead through a little village, cows
meandered along the side or across the road. Women in brightly
coloured saris lifted big bundles of sticks onto their heads, whilst
others slapped and washed the same saris on the relatively clean
bitumen. Some smiled, some looked up from their daily duties, and
others frowned and glared through dark and distrustful eyes. This
village consisted of small mud huts and keet roofing, bicycles, the
odd car and many people. Out the front of every door, a white chalk
mandala had been scribed that morning for prosperity and health. Kids
played with roaming chickens, and I always kept my eye out for the
boy-girl; a little girl who always dressed in pretty colours and
dresses, and had her hair tied back into piggy tails, but who
occasionally, through sitting and playing in the dirt or with animals
revealed that she had an unmistakeable penis. It always confused me,
in what to me seems like a patriarchal culture…
Recently the villagers were trying to raise funds to build a temple.
And every time they heard the hum of a moped, they would crowd the
road and look to see if the driver was local or a westerner, and in
the case of the latter would make an impenetrable wall so that we
would have to stop, and then ask for donations for the construction.
Aviram, the founder of the forest community had warned us that he
already had donated a hefty amount, and no more was needed, so I would
politely walk my way through with a big smile and apologize and get on
my way once more.
A little further up the road we reach the second village. I have two
favourite men here, the petrol man who gives me such a big smile and
head wiggle every time I drive past, and also the chai wallah… both
of their names are Ikaliamutti. The Chai shop is only about a meter
and a half in width and perhaps a metre in depth, but is fronted with
a shelf that is littered with many candies and home cooked biscuits.
Inside is a narrow bench that we can sit on whilst he makes the tea.
He speaks no English but smiles and head wiggles and is an amazing
chai creator.
Finally “civilization” finally hits on Koot Road; crazy drivers,
busses, motorbikes, trucks, bicycles and pedestrians all weaving
around each other loudly and with absolutely no organised system
whatsoever. Eva told me when we went to get fruit juice at Deveraj’s
the other day that she saw a cyclist get hit by the bus. Someone began
to scream and the bus stopped, but the man was out cold. She couldn’t
tell if he was dead or just unconscious, and was carried away blood
free but limp on a stretcher.
But its ok, because the Dhaba is close by and only requires minimal
weaving and dodging. When I arrive, I smile and wave (yes a bit dorkily) to the man who is cooking on the barbeque out the front; he is making parota, dosa,
omelette and upadam: a doughy thick pancake, a think crispy fermented
flour pancake, eggs, and a moist, rice onion and tomato pizza.
We have been coming here for a while and so are familiar faces. I’m
greeted with many hellos and how are you’s and head wigglation. After
washing hands and sitting down, Selbo the main waiter approaches and
with a slap on the back greets me with a giganormous smile. “Hello,
how are you?” “Good, how are you? Yippera ikuringa?” at this he laughs
at my attempted Tamil and with the attention of many surrounding
Indians, rubs my newly shaven head and says “friend!” and we both
laugh, and I reply “Dost!” and we laugh again at our limited but
light-hearted communication. Selbo is short with a large potbelly, and
is like no other waiter I have had previously. He brings a banana leaf
to eat off and encourages me to clean it. Then, serving with his bare
hands asks “two? Three?” – he already knows what I eat. “Today three!”
I reply and he smiles and head wags, whilst passing four parota with
his hand. Then he picks up a three tin contraption with different
samba’s and chutneys. Usually it is a spicy coconut, a tomato and a
mixed vegetable. He takes a scoop and then holds it, hovering inches
above my banana leaf and looking at me, waiting for eye contact and
the signal. I look at him, smile and head wag and he pours it onto the
leaf… and so we go through all the chutneys. Sometimes the parotta is
too hot so using his hands, he breaks them up into small pieces for
me. In India, you can only eat with your right hand, as left hands are
traditionally used to clean away stool and urine after toilet business
and disgusts the locals. Having lived in this manner for a number of
months now, it comes naturally and I can break the parota up one
handed fairly well.
The dhaba is a mess, the walls are stained and running with black
grime, and smoke wafts in from the kitchen out the back. But the food
is great, the tables are clean, a whole meal is about one Australian
dollar and the staff are so friendly, actually refreshingly friendly.
Through experience; perverted eyes, groping and general rudeness, my
personal philosophy with Indian men is guilty until proven innocent.
Perhaps it is harsh, but so be it. It is evened out with my love of
Indian women; in my eyes they are so powerful and strong. When
channels are being dug, I see women doing the work, when roads are
getting built I see women doing the work, when sticks are being
carried it’s the women, and washing the clothes is also the women. But
I will give the men some credit, when its chai that needs to be drunk,
its always the men, when its standing around on the street it’s the
men, or owning a shop and cheating all tourist customers, its always
the men. The women too, are the ones that need to be completely
covered, at risk of appearing like a whore, and who must be demure,
and quiet and polite, and it is the men that shit, piss and spit on
the street, drive out of control and control the women. Of course this
a generalisation, but it still leaves me with utmost love and
appreciation for a woman’s smile, and cautious air around any man that
hasn’t proven his kindness and gentility, or given a warm smile, head wobble or any slight motion of friendliness.
madib