Kevin and I in India Page 7

  ‘Oh good,’ chortled Kevin expectantly. ‘Here come my chips!’

  But they weren’t chips at all. The waiter had brought him two large plates of soggy potato crisps.

  To stop Kevin assaulting the waiter, I whisked him and Maryke off to the Thirumalai Naick Palace. It was closed. On the walk home however, proceedings became lively when a record crowd of twenty-three local Indians gathered to watch us have a cup of tea. They wore a uniformly blank look of curiosity. To cheer them up, I gave them a spirited rendition of several jolly English music-hall songs (the Lambeth Walk, the Hokey-Cokey etc) but their faces remained just as blank as before. Even when Kevin went round with the hat for a collection, there was no change. They continued to stand there and stare like a row of waxwork dummies.

  It was Kevin who finally startled the silent assembly out of their trance. He suddenly leapt up and bolted over to an old man sipping his tea nearby. Seizing the astonished geriatric’s shaven pate in both hands, he began joyfully massaging it.

  ‘This guy’s got a head just like my father’s!’ he cried. And to prove the resemblance, he jammed a photo of his paternal relative under the confused old Indian’s nose. Light dawned, and the aged sage broke into an excited stream of chatter. As the photo of Kevin’s dad quickly passed round the crowd, the awful silence was broken and we were unexpectedly surrounded by a sea of smiling, laughing faces.

  ‘My father’s got a head just like yours!’ Kevin stated with triumphant finality, and all the Indians nodded eager agreement. We had just made twenty-four new friends.

  But Kevin had only just started. Today saw his star rocket to the highest point in the Indian firmament.

  It all began when we travelled to the Mahdu cinema, six kilometres out of Madurai, to see James Bond in Never Say Never Again. Moments after climbing out of our rickshaw, Kevin suddenly discovered that he was a film star. Hordes of shouting, cheering men, women and children were flocking from miles around to see and touch him. The reason for this? Well, they all thought he was Sean Connery.

  There were billboards all over town with the red, bloated, sardonic and generally dangerous features of Sean Connery painted on them (for this is how he is depicted on Indian film posters!) and the crowd instantly decided Kevin’s features were identical. Their mistake was quite excusable. Kevin had just been overcharged (again) by a rickshaw driver, and had disembarked looking a dead ringer for Sean Connery. His face was red, it was bloated with rage, its lip was curled back in an ugly sneer, and his right eyebrow was raised in cynical contempt.

  It was exactly the same ‘look’ worn by the film-poster Sean Connery. That ‘look’ was known to everyone in town, and here was an Englishman who had it off to perfection! There was no doubt about it: this Kevin must be Sean Connery!

  As he was slowly sucked into a swirling whirlpool of adoring Indians – all of them insisting he shake their hands or bless their babies – Kevin gave a surprised shriek of alarm. Then he was completely lost to sight until, long minutes later, he was hauled free of the jostling masses by the rickshaw driver. He sat Kevin down, and asked him if he would like to go home now. Kevin shook his head weakly, and said that all he wanted to do right now was take a leak somewhere, and quick.

  The rickshaw driver obligingly pointed him to a dark slit-trench on the side of the road, and Kevin stumbled gratefully off to it. But it wasn’t his lucky night. No sooner had he unzipped his trousers in the dark ditch, than a large rat leapt out at him and nearly seized his assets. Running back out into the road in a state of terror, he was once more engulfed by the crowds.

  Word of the Second Coming of Sean Connery had now reached the cinema itself. Consequently, as soon as Kevin appeared, everyone in the ticket queue stopped staring at Maryke (because she was an unaccompanied Western woman) and swivelled round to gaze wonderingly upon him. Not content with this, they began climbing over the ticket barriers to stand next to him, and a near-riot ensued. Finally, a bodyguard of sympathetic Indians formed around him, and he was ushered up to a private ‘box’ in the upper circle without further harassment. Here, he gave a long sigh of relief and lay back in his seat, thinking his ordeal over.

  But it wasn’t. One determined fan had slid past the bodyguard and into our box. He crept up silently, and slipped into the seat next to Kevin. Hardly able to credit his good fortune, this sallow-faced little man nuzzled contentedly into Kevin’s shoulder, staring at him with unashamed adoration. Kevin gazed back with a look of undisguised horror.

  Maryke and I spent the whole of the film fighting a losing battle against fleas and sleeplessness. Kevin, however, spent the whole of the film fighting off the affectionate Indian. He moved his seat three times to escape his devoted slave, but it was no good. The little man followed on doggedly on each occasion, collapsing back onto Kevin’s shoulder after each move. Kevin made us repeated desperate requests for assistance. But we couldn’t do anything. If this was the price of fame, we told him, he would simply have to learn to live with it.

  February 4th

  ‘What I want is a cheese sandwich!’ groaned Kevin as he fell out of bed this morning. ‘I’d give anything for a cheese sandwich!’ I tried to keep him happy with a bar of chocolate, but it was white and mouldy with age and he immediately returned to inventing imaginary English breakfasts, with cheese sandwiches topping the bill.

  We had not eaten properly for days. The intense heat, and the often greasy Indian food, had combined to rob us of our appetites. The restaurants’ menus did not help matters. Take the Hotel Kannimara, where we had breakfast, for instance. Just one look at the menu – offering such unsavoury-sounding dishes as BOILER EGG, CASTARD, TRUTY FRUITS and (worst of all) BRAIN OMELETTE – and we were off our food for the rest of the day. The final straw came when a two-inch cockroach scuttled out of the restaurant sink and dived happily into my stuffed paratha.

  Giddy with hunger, I spent most of breakfast with my head between my knees, as I waited for my brain to start working again. The only thing that got me moving at last was the cockroach falling off my plate and down the back of my neck.

  Today we visited Thirupparankundram Temple, eight kilometres south of Madurai Junction. Stepping inside this temple –which is built into the mountainside and surmounted by a huge wicker tower with smoky ‘prayers’ to Shiva drifting out – is like travelling back a millennium in time. The massive central hall resounds with the mystic intonations of priests, the devotional prayers of the faithful, and the hollow boom and echo of massive drums and bells calling all present to the innermost shrine.

  The place was packed with Indian families, each member bearing tiny bowls of coconut, fruit, vegetables and incense. Each bowl was lit by a very small, flickering oil-lamp. When the bells summoned all to prayer, the head of each family broke the coconuts and waited till all the milk had run to the ground. Then he or she opened small packages of grey and red powder, and smeared the marks of Shiva into each person’s forehead, right down to the youngest infant. Later, their devotions completed, the family would come down to the temple ghat, purchase a small bag of boiled rice apiece, and cast it into the water as an offering to Shiva. The waters here frothed and foamed, as masses of tiny leaping fish rose to the surface to devour the rice donations.

  The bus back to Madurai was packed solid. We stood in the crush for a while, then two seats became vacant. We had these for a minute or two, then surrendered them to two Indian ladies. Seeing this, two Indian men insisted we take their seats. Kevin found himself next to a young Indian girl, whose embarrassment at sitting next to a foreign man sent her into a fit of giggles. A few minutes of this, and Kevin was out of his seat again. He was immediately offered another seat, courtesy of another polite local, but this new berth left him crushed under an entire Indian family, so he crawled over to share my seat. For a few moments, all was now well. But then we discovered we were sitting on a nest of ants and fled the bus altogether.

  February 5th

  After saying goodbye
to Maryke (who sadly had to go north) we took the night bus out of Madurai and travelled south to Kanya Kumari. The six-hour bus journey was pleasant enough, but we only achieved a minimum of sleep. Hence, by the time we booked into the Lekshmi Tourist Home at dawn, we were dog tired. Also, we hadn’t eaten a solid meal for five consecutive days. Both of us therefore woke after a four-hour nap feeling even more horrible than when we had retired. Our limbs felt like water, and our stomachs were groaning from lack of food.

  Dragging ourselves from our beds, Kevin and I shambled into town like two walking cadavers. Our eyes were haggard, our faces pinched and pale, our hands swinging uselessly at our sides, our jaws hanging slack and open, our whole bodies crying out for food and rest. People crossed the road to avoid us. Even beggars left us alone. Many of them backed off into doorways, or averted their eyes in superstitious fear.

  We reached the end of the so-called high street (nothing more than an extended dirt-track) having seen no food-houses whatsoever. I clutched weakly at the shirt of a passing French traveller, and croaked: ‘Restaurant...where is restaurant?’ But he just gave me a blank look and replied: ‘Restaurants? There are no restaurants in Kanya Kumari!’

  Despondent, we fell into a nearby cha-house. The most sustaining fare on sale here was Horlicks. I spotted a tin of the nourishing beverage sitting on a high shelf. It was rusty and dented, and evidently hadn’t been taken down for years. But I decided to chance it anyway. Five minutes later, my Horlicks arrived. It was totally undrinkable. The cha-man had made it with cold water.

  The only good news we got today came from Andrew, who had followed us down from Kodai. He told us that we had narrowly escaped death. The bus which left Kodai for Madurai on February 3rd – i.e. the bus we would have caught had not Kevin’s stomach pulled us out a day early – had plunged off the cliffs, leaving fourteen passengers dead and the rest severely injured.

  Andrew then demonstrated the highest proof of friendship, guiding us to the only place in town which served food we could actually eat. Of course, it was just thali and chapatis, but in our starved state we devoured it with eager relish. We now understood how it was that so many long-stay travellers in India went into raptures over thalis!

  Andrew shook his close-cropped head in puzzlement when I asked him his future plans.

  ‘You know something?’ he remarked. ‘I’ve been right round the South-East Asia circuit now. I’ve been to Sri Lanka, to Thailand, to Burma and every other damn place – and I’ve found all these places pretty much alike and very easy to get to grips with. But India! I’ve been here over a month already, and I’m still no nearer to understanding it than when I first arrived! I expect I’ll have to hang around until I do understand it...’

  With the approach of dusk, we came to the viewpoint by the shoreline. Here masses of Indian tourists had gathered to see the sun set and the moon rise at the same time. Well, it didn’t happen. The cloud on the horizon was a thick blanket, and the sun retired to bed beneath it long before it was due to set. We went off, only mildly disappointed, to a coffee bar which sold cashew nuts. I’ve always had a weakness for cashew nuts. But these were inedible, being very soggy and very bitter. I washed the taste away with our only good purchase of the day – a delicious fresh pineapple.

  Kevin was still going on about cheese sandwiches today. The only time he stopped talking about them was when a dog-sized rat scampered down the main street and dodged between his ankles on its way back to cover.

  February 6th

  After a restless night tossing and turning beneath the powerful glow of the Full Moon, Kevin woke me to view the sunrise from the lodge rooftop. Spectacular though this was – the huge orange orb of the sun bursting over the ‘three seas’ of this southern tip of India (Bay of Bengal, Arabian Sea and Indian Ocean) – it wasn’t half as fascinating as the activity on the other hotel rooftops around us. These were packed to capacity with wildly gesticulating Indian tourists, all swivelling back and forth to take in the rare sight of the sun rising and moon setting at one and the same time. As the spectacle achieved its maximum point of beauty, they all commenced hacking and spitting their approval, then began shouting a running commentary across to each other from one rooftop to the next.

  Putting this pandemonium out of mind, I concentrated instead on the more restful sounds of the morning – the hypnotic chant of the Muslim mueddins, the calm drone of prayers drifting over from the nearby Catholic church, the sleepy chatter and clatter of the village folk below coming awake, and the slowly diminishing conversation of fishermen putting out to sea in small dhow-type boats for the morning catch.

  Walking out, we discovered – just a few hundred yards away from the busy tourist precinct – the native part of town. This was a complete contrast to where we had just come from. Here dwelt a small community of fisher-folk living in plain, simple huts of mud, thatch and wood, carrying on their lives in much the same way that they had for many hundreds of years. It was completely unspoilt and untouched by the nearby commercialism of Kanya Kumari proper. The local villagers, dressed mostly in ragged dresses and loincloths (or nothing at all) greeted us with warmth tinged with surprise. They evidently didn’t see many tourists. A group of naked, aboriginal fishermen beckoned us over to help them push their long boats (just three 20-foot planks lashed together) out to sea – their way of telling us we were welcome, I suppose.

  The sea here was rough, most unsuitable for swimming. But the coast itself was beautiful – the sand was as smooth as silk, the palm trees were lush and green, and the sun was warm and mild, gently easing the tension of travel out of our necks and shoulders with tender, caressing fingers. We spent the rest of the day playing cards with some local children on the beach. They cheated abominably.

  February 7th

  I found Andrew and Kevin waiting outside the lodge this morning. They were studying a strange four-eared pig which was sleeping under a truck. I suggested we go out sailing, and they jumped at the idea. So we went back down to the fishing village in search of a boat.

  Along the way, we dropped into the 16th century Catholic church, and found a marriage in progress. It was a very unusual marriage. To start with, the church didn’t have any seats or pews and all the wedding guests were sitting or squatting on the bare floor. All their children, meanwhile, had torn their clothes off and were romping nakedly round the altar rail. Ignoring this, the officiating priest went through the ceremony supervised by a massive neon-lit statue of the Virgin Mary, which beamed down benevolently on him from its perch above the altar.

  We found a party of fishermen on the beach willing to take us out in their boat for twenty rupees. The long, wide canoe they owned comprised five large tree-trunks welded together with pitch and tar. As soon as it had breasted the incoming tide, as soon as the large triangular canvas sail (mounted on a lone spar) had been set aloft, and as soon as we had seated ourselves precariously on the damp side-beams, the crew of pirates bombarded us with requests of cigarettes pens, spare rupees and English coins. They also wanted their photograph taken. Then they insisted that we take turns steering the boat. This, despite the uncertainty of balancing at the back of the vessel with only a thin tiller to hold onto, was actually a very enjoyable experience. And the view of the mainland of southern India from a mile or so out of sea was quite magnificent.

  The grinning sailors let us catch a few fish each with their strong nylon lines, and then their demands for more money became pressing. They showed no signs of returning to land. Andrew didn’t expect to get back at all. ‘Well,’ he remarked cheerfully. ‘This is one way of getting to Sri Lanka!’ As for Kevin, he wasn’t deterred in the least. He loves the sea, does Kevin.

  I tried to distract the fishermen from their financial demands by taking an interest in the necklace brooches they were wearing. Each small locket had a tiny picture of Jesus or the Virgin Mary in it. Of course, they misconstrued my interest completely. They thought I wanted to buy their devotional objects. In f
act, they were so sure of making a sale here that they turned the craft homeward. We cruised in through a series of deadly shore-reefs and back onto the beach, with two of the crew daubing my sun-tan cream on their faces like war-paint and the other two trying to sell me Jesus. This aside, the outing had been a great success. Kevin wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. For the time being at least, I heard nothing more about cheese sandwiches.

  Part Two

  Mowgli and the Wild West

  February 8th

  Today we went back north, and as we waited for the 6.30am bus to Kovalum, Kevin went back to the subject of English breakfasts. His preoccupation with food was approaching its climax.

  It was indeed odd, I reflected, how the subject of food (particularly English food) was coming to dominate our thoughts and to assume such disproportionate influence on our conversations. But who could blame us? After all, we hadn’t eaten a good, solid meal (discounting yesterday’s thali) for over a week. And the strain was beginning to tell. Both of us looked forward to Kovalum (an apparent oasis of good grub) with the desperation of exiles awaiting repatriation.

  The bus passed through Trivandrum, a noisy town with only one memorable road-sign (the ASIAN TOOLS AND GUILT CENTRE), before coming at last to Kovalum Beach at 10am.

  Kevin, who had spent the entire journey in morose silence, immediately sprang out of the bus. He had seen a restaurant a mile back up the road. He swept aside the little Indian who had appeared to offer him accommodation with single-minded contempt.

  ‘I don’t want a room!’ he mumbled, striding purposefully in the direction of food. ‘What I want is breakfast!’

  The diminutive guide gave chase, and told him this restaurant was closed. He introduced himself as Babu, and led the darkly muttering Kevin to the Moon Restaurant, which was open.