india, adieu.

No doubt my descriptions of India intimate how foreign it was for me, but after having spoken with other travelers who had the courage to view the country by their lonesome, I am even more convinced that I must return and see it in its full glory (but I'd prefer to go with a buddy). I had intended to spend almost two weeks in South India after the wedding, partially to prove to myself that I could and also to see the terrain in Kerala that I'd heard spoken so highly. There are tea plantations where you can spend a week learning about processing green tea leaves with the women who work there; there are houseboats that travel the backwaters and show stilted houses where remote fisherman and rice farmers live. But in the end, there is a great deal stress attached to traveling alone (as a girl) in India and though I have every confidence I could do it, I opted not to force stress or discomfort during a vacation that should be about relaxation and enjoyment (a decision that has since been validated by every female traveler I've spoken to in regards to India). So, with only a few days left in Chennai, I decided to see the sights Madras has to offer and take a break from being driven by drivers in exchange for my own two feet.

Relaxation post wedding. Aparna and I spent one blissful afternoon escaping the heat at a rooftop pool on the 8th floor of The Park Hotel. The whole time we were keenly aware of the frivolity of our day, especially compared to the poverty we could see just beyond our poolside seats. It was interesting, though, that much of the walls were covered with mirrors which conveniently prevented guests from seeing the lives led by the less fortunate members of the caste system below but instead looking at their own reflections. I find great value in having seen so many sides of India, including heading to the cheaper markets to track down what a local assures me is the best coffee powder in Madras. I purchased three kilos made to my aromatic specifications and two filters which I have been instructed on how to properly use for potent caffeinated drip. It works as a sort of percolator and french press synthesis and makes some of the strongest coffee this side of the U.S.

Temples, temples, and more temples. I can honestly say that my fascination had less to do with the temples' age or construction but everything to do with learning more about Hinduism. Mahabalipuram is a bit over an hour from the center of town and requires driving on a two lane highway at high speeds. Have I talked about the driving yet? It's madness. The acclimation to driving on the left side of the road is nothing compared to the video-game like maneuvering drivers do (and do well). They honk constantly, not as a sign of aggression but either to 1) inform other cars of their presence and approach or b) warn pedestrians and bicyclists they are turning a corner...I still hear honks when falling asleep each night. Within the city center, the driving is certainly crazy but crashes are only fender benders due to their slow speeds. On the highways, it is different. Two lane roads are converted to four or five lane roads because drivers use the shoulder and the opposite lane of traffic to pass slow vehicles in what seems like a game of chicken. While driving to Mahabalipuram, there was one instant in which our driver and front passenger simultaneously buckled their seatbelts (something I had not even considered in my entire stay in Chennai) and, when we went to mimic the action, discovered they had the only two seatbelts in the vehicle. But, the point of this post is the temple[s], the most famous of which is called the Shore Temple and now shows much wear based upon its proximity to the wind and salts of the ocean which have left salt deposits nearly a half inch thick on the sea-facing walls. The history is unaffected through, as you can still smell the fire smoke in the ceiling and the sculptures of the gods are safely concealed (I was most intrigued by Shiva, which is represented by a simple cylindrical shape with a rounded top as compared to Vishnu, who is often shown as a crawling child but here shown reclining).

The Mylapore Temple was much more indicative of what you saw on the streets of Madras, only in much smaller replicas. They remind me very much of gingerbread houses painted with frosting made of powdered sugar + dye (lumpy and a little off). But its symbolism was very beautiful and included such things as a wishing tree where people visited primarily to wish for a successful marriage union or fertility, and sat adjacent to the cow corral. It was in an area of town that was surrounded by kiosks selling trinkets only tourists might want, but so far as I could see I was one of three tourists in the area and, as such, stood out. Upon entering the temple, an old man tried to approach me and I've learned enough to know he would try to hassle me for money so I kept walking. He found me minutes later and insisted that he was not looking for money but was a man of the temple and wanted to teach me something of its significance. He was quite informative, if not rehearsed, and I was saddened by the end of the tour in which he demanded 200 rupees for his time and insisted that he had informed me of this at the start. I should have assumed from his disfigured feet that he was a gypsy, but his assurance of being a religious man swayed me otherwise...in the end his treatment was so forceful and rude that I gave him nothing, but perhaps selfishly left with an amazing portrait of him.

Mangoes...and more mangoes. Almost two years ago, I got in touch with my friend Abi's mother Latha to discuss some particulars about their newly purchased mango farm, which I hoped to use as the source of a project I was conducting on small farm economic viability. Since that day, and due largely to the culmination of hours spent on the project, I had hoped to visit the farm and see the details in person. Having since had the good fortune to do so, I can easily see myself living on such a farm (if it weren't for the management salary that Abi's father offered as "unlimited mangoes"). There were an excess of 20 banana varieties, with almost as many mangoes, and a proximity to nearby villages that very much remin me of the heart of Indian culture as it was and (in some places) still is. I'm grateful to have made this visit since for me it was a source of closure for a project that proved to by trying, frustrating, and perhaps not so rewarding as a half day spent on the Kuthambakkam Farm with the Devans.

knot tied.

After the Sangeet, there were three remaining events: an official engagement ceremony (in conjunction with a ceremony that prepares the couple for husband and wife - dom), the reception, and the tieing of the knot (which is in fact quite literal). The first and last of these three were the most traditional, and the middle event consisted of a long line of 3,500 guests (yes, that's right) invited to greet the couple. The rest of us who didn't have the obligation to stay headed to a local hotel where there was air conditioning (sarees are frightfully hot, given they involve wearing petticoats) and the World Cup semi-finals. Though tired, the following morning's event was remarkable and full of traditions which I have yet to understand. It was presided over by two priests that have grown up with the family and, apparently, are incapable of not cracking jokes in Tamil for only the family to hear (for instance, when Mayura's mother Bhavani was given the rope with which to "tie the knot", one priest repeated "WWW" when handing it to her, which we later learned meant "wife with whip"). Speaking of Mayura's parents, can I say "father in-law envy?" Kumar is spectacular, a true gem of a person with charisma oozing from his white hairs. I am hardly the first to take note, as his house is full of photos of him with Queen Elizabeth, Tony Blair, Yasser Arafat, etc etc etc. But the wedding...one of the most interesting things from the ceremony (and truth be told much of it was only decipherable by those who had been to Hindu weddings before) was a gesture Anirudh made where he wafted his hand through a plume of smoke and across each shoulder and then his head. I later learned that a fear in the Hinduism is the "evil eye", or so the cousins call it. It's believed that when much attention is focused on an individual, he/she becomes susceptible to the eye's harmful devices. I've heard this before with respect to Kieran, who is undoubtedly the prince of the family, but shortly after the wedding I too was able to participate in the event meant to purge the eye's presence.

A man came to Paati's and prepared what appeared to be a watermelon with a hole cut in the top, and added a substance to the hole which, when lit, emitted smoke throughout the room. We were not meant to look at it until asked, but rather stay in a separate room while each nuclear family had completed the ceremony. This was one of two remarkably memorable events with respect to Hinduism in India, the second being a special visit to Paati's home to say goodbye. We had a phenomenal conversation, especially considering the language barrier which separated us: the sincerity we both felt was comforting, and the explanation of her piety was inspiring. She said that the body is unimportant, that it is merely a physical structure that risks self-involvement at the expense of faith; no matter the religion, Hinduism or otherwise, there is one God which unites everyone and who everyone pays tribute to (Allah, Vishnu, Jesus, etc); and with every meal, every gathering, every breath, she thanks him/it/her. I don't say this as a believer, but as a person that is humbled by her faith and simplicity. Her family is so gracious with their willingness and want to provide for her, but she explained that all she wishes for is a small bedroom, a small kitchen, and perhaps a fan. No TV, no A/C, no waste...just faith.

I suppose that in writing this, I've skipped much of the narrative of the family themselves. I adore them. Always have. In fact, one of the most memorable moments of my entire time in Madras was the moment when, standing in the reception line, Anirudh very sincerely expressed his happiness that I came to celebrate his wedding. It calmed many fears I'd had about attending, and made me feel that my presence was valued as much as I value him (if you're reading this, thank you). His family is a gracious as he is, and I became aware of this earlier in my visit by way of Chitthi Paati, which translates to younger sister of Paati. She had invited Aparna, Kieran, and myself to come for lunch early in my visit and within minutes invited me to stay with her while in Chennai, as Paati had many houseguests and Chitthi Paati none. Though I did not have the pleasure of doing so, I find a great comfort in her. Her husband recently passed, less than a year after Paati's husband, and the sisters felt a bond in their grief (Chitthi Paati didn't attend any wedding events, as you are meant to grieve for one year following your lover's passing as well as wear exclusively white). I am also continually fascinated by the naming systems in Indian (and SE Asian) cultures, as many customs overlap. For instance, Kieran has 8 uncles who are all referred to by their first names and then "mama"; he also has 5 aunts and uncles who are all referred to by their first names and then "paati" or "thaatha", respectively. The maternal grandmother has separate terms for older and younger siblings (such as Chitthi) but the paternal grandmother has only one term. Such are the things you learn in Tamil Nadu and for which I am forever grateful.

40 hours.

Two novels and forty hours later, I finally made it to Madras. Every person to whom I've told my travel time cringes, since it took nearly twice as long as it should, but I'm convinced that having taken a series of naps between three plane seats and countless metal chairs during layovers (7 hours in Manila, 9 hours in Bangkok) prevented jet lag from setting in. That and an overwhelming number of things to stimulate the senses.

The first hilarious anecdote of the trip happened in the Bangkok airport. Flights arrive on the second floor and depart on the third floor, but the fourth floor is this strange shopping center with a series of West - East fusion restaurants...by which I mean Thai food served at coffee bars. To cross floors, you must pass through a small security checkpoint and, in so doing, I was pulled aside for my second search of the day. The guard, who spoke no English, was perplexed by a pack of tampons and demanded that I open one for her to see. Still confused as to their purpose, she asked me to explain but our language barrier necessitated a great deal of gesturing, much to my embarrassment and the amusement of the other travelers passing by.

On the flight between Bangkok and Chennai, I was one of only four white people on the 737, and the only one both without a mustache and traveling for a purpose other than business. I stood out. It wasn't until I disembarked the plane and passed through customs that I received my first introduction to the "staring" I'd been forewarned about. Piles and piles of people waiting at the arrivals gate, most wearing white uniforms from their hotel driving jobs, all enduring the high humidity and looking at me. I cannot express the comfort I felt when spotting Aparna, Usha, and Charu's friendly faces in a sea of intimidating ones. The late night drive home was a rush of "new" for me: rubble lining the sidewalks (if they can be called as much), store fronts with dilapidated signs and entries, a lone wondering cow, streets that look as if they weren't planned so much as hurriedly laid. Once home, sleep was welcome...especially because I knew that I would see Sudhi (Aparna's brother) and Kieran (Aparna's son) in the morning when they awoke just a few feet from me. I am staying in one of the family's three homes, each of which has its own nickname: M.S.R., Tivoli, and C.I.T. (this refers to the district of Chennai and also houses the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu and more importantly Paati, which means grandmother in Tamil). She is remarkably kind and finds comfort in tradition. Each morning, she marks her doorstep with a design dedicated to the god Vishnu, one of the three main gods of Hinduism: Vishnu is the "protector", Brahma is the "creator", and Shiva is the "destroyer". Those who worship Vishnu mark their foreheads with a vertical line, Shiva with a horizontal one...and Brahma, I understand, does not have many followers and I am eager to learn why. A great many Hindu traditions take place in the kitchen, such as separating eating dishes from cooking dishes and never the two shall meet (not even by way of a spoon); a meal is prepared for Paati separately from the rest of the family, which she eats alone once everyone else has finished; hands and dishes are washed in the "wet kitchen" to the side of the house and you are only allowed to enter the cooking area if clean.

Mornings are my favorite. The first day (and every day since), I woke to the sound of a woman riding a bicycle while balancing a tray of fruits and yelling something I can only assume to be "mangoes, papayas, coconuts for sale"...in fact I can hear her now. Down the street is a corner that looks very much like 1950's Havana (or so I project) and just a bit further is a man who works late into the evening sewing on an industrial machine. And all of this I enjoy after my first cup of coffee. It only took a day for Paati to learn of my coffee addiction and, as a caffeine snob, I was amazed to find that Indian coffee puts Western coffee to shame! Surely the boiled whole milk has something to do with it, as does the metal tumbler and bowl used to expedite cooling by pouring between the two in long steady streams. Once out for the day, I try to acclimate to the stares and, on occasion, revert to my sunglasses as a very effective invisibility shield.