Emotive Articulations, Part 2

One of the thrills of Chennai is the late-night rides on the back of Anees' motorcycle. Anees is one of the partners of Cyber Regency. This is a grand-sounding name for a new Internet cafe that opened across from the Thousand Lights Mosque. [I never see any thousand lights over there.] Anees is a 20-year-old Moslem. Besides running Cyber Regency, he's a full-time college student. He's been fasting for Ramzan (a.k.a. Ramadan), the month when observant Moslems abstain from food and drink during daylight hours. Somehow, he still makes time to look after me. He gives me rides back to my hotel after midnight when Cyber Regency closes for the night. He says it's improper for ladies to be walking the streets after 10 pm, and that an autorickshaw driver will charge me double at that hour.

Walking the Chennai streets at night, when the traffic has subsided, *is* terrible. One night I attempted walking the few blocks between a concert hall and a movie theater to see what was playing. When drivers saw me, they came to a stop and then slowly cruised past me. One time a window was rolled down, and the men poked their heads out, scanning me, trying to decide if I was prostitute material. Bicycle riders slowed down, stopped in front of me and swiveled their heads around to check me out. When I would pass them or cross the street, they repeated the process. Autorickshaw drivers pulled up next to me and drove alongside me, entreating me to get in. Men standing around in groups called me relentlessly. I no longer walk the streets of Chennai after 10 pm.

The rides on the back of Anees' bike are hair-raising. We're not wearing any helmets, of course. After a big rain, the water comes halfway up the wheels because of Chennai's poor drainage systems. All kinds of debris go floating by, but I try not to look too closely. On dry nights, he opens the bike full throttle on Anna Salai [Cow Street], Chennai's main drag, and we go zooming down at 70 kph. I'm sure that's not fast for experienced riders, but I'm scared. I'm hesitant to put my arms around his waist because of the Moslem proscription against men and women touching. With sweaty hands, I grip the back rail as tight as I can and pray to Allah and everyone else that we don't hit any potholes or cows. Anees would be upset to know I'm this frightened. I could ask him to slow it down. But somehow these rides are part and parcel of the whole Chennai endurance test.

We have great talks at the front gate of Dayal De-Lodge. There, under the street light and the stare of the sentry at the Police Commissioner's Building just opposite, Anees tells me something about the conflicts in India between Hindus and Moslems. He also talks about the pressures of meeting the expectations of his parents, his peers, himself.

He bravely fields my questions about relations between the sexes in India. Unmarried men and women are not permitted to consort much. As a result, the men have very little exposure to women, apart from their sisters. This helps to explain their overheated reaction to Western women. They derive a false impression of what we're like based on U.S. mass-media imports. Plus, in their eyes, the fact that we don't wear sarees, with yards of cloth covering our chests proves we're sexually available. I continue to alternate between feeling sympathetic towards the plight of Indian men and feeling angry that their approaches are assaultive, not gracious.

I must ring the bell at the hotel's front gate in order to be admitted after 10 pm. I wake up the security guard who slowly shuffles his way down the driveway. He looks Anees up and down and disgustedly tells him off in a babble of Tamil. I'm amazed Anees puts up with this abuse night after night. He just stands astride his motorcycle, folds his arms and looks heavenward with a superior look on his face until the security guard lets up and unlocks the gate. I ask Anees what the fuss is about. The guard doesn't think I should be out so late. He doesn't approve of my hanging around with a local man. And he thinks I should give him a tip.

One Sunday, Anees takes a break from Cyber Regency to accompany me to a movie. We go for a Malayalam-language film--that is, a film made in Kerala, his native state, which borders Tamil Nadu. This is an unusual outing for Anees. Unmarried Indian men and women do not attend the cinema together unchaperoned. They must have a third person present because unmarried couples don't sit alone together in the dark. People are staring at us, but I don't care. I trust Anees. He's a prince among men.

He provides a rough interpretation of the story. It's about a rivalry between neighboring families. They are to compete in snake boat races on the Keralan backwaters. Families with any status must enter a boat in the annual race. Unfortunately, the protagonist's family is short on cash because of some treachery wreaked by a rival family. Like "Mudhalvan," this film stars a tall, fleshy Indian hero and a slender, unremarkable heroine. The male actor is named Mamooty, and he's one of Kerala's two superstars. Even with Anees' help, I can't quite follow the families' feud, but the boat race itself is exciting to watch. Around 50 rowers per boat are paddling like mad--an orchestrated symphony of movement. And I can see that Kerala has lots and lots of coconut trees.

When we return to Cyber Regency, Faizal, the 17-year-old shop assistant, asks me if I like Mamooty. "Mamooty, superstar!" he raves, giving me a thumbs up. Faizal is also a Keralite. His English is improving by the day. His vocabulary at first consisted of, "Tea, madame? Coffee? Lime juice?" I told him, "Faizal, quit calling me Madame!" Lately, he's progressed to, "Shop helper, USA, salary?"

Suniel, Anees' best friend, also works at Cyber Regency. He's yet another Keralite, but he's a Hindu. Everyone teases the duo by calling Suniel "horizontal" and Anees "vertical." Suniel is slightly stocky, while Anees is tall and slim. When I return from the Mamooty film, I tell Suniel that I don't understand why he's always being called fat, when he's no fatter than Mamooty. I inform Suniel that he's more handsome than the superstar, which he is. Suniel is delighted and makes sure that everyone in Cyber Regency has heard my pronouncement. Most of the customers don't even glance up from their monitors. They're huddled in their cubicles in twos and threes, downloading pages of naked blonde women.

Every Indian state seems to have its own cinematic superstar. Tamil Nadu's is Rajinikant--Rajini for short. He's made more than 150 movies. I've been trying to understand the Rajini phenomenon. Rajini is short and boxy with a mischievous face. He's more of an icon than an actor. He's admired, in part, for his trademark mannerisms-his way of flicking a cigarette into his mouth, how he combs his hair back with his fingers, and how he rotates his eyes from side to side. His face is plastered everywhere-not only on movie posters, but also on signs for barbershops, tailoring shops and other businesses. During my time in Chennai, the city has been in the throes of Rajini25, a celebration of Rajinikant's 50th birthday and his 25th year in cinema. A retrospective has been screening at one of the cinemas and an outdoor expo has been installed at MGR Film City in suburban Chennai, a studio where many Tamil films are produced.

To check out Rajinikhant in action, I go to see one of the films in the retrospective. It's "Gayathri," dating from the mid '70s. The film was shot in black and white. The sets look like they were taken from old Dick Van Dyke shows and littered with Indian kitsch. The plot is surreal. From what I can tell, Rajinikhant plays a rogue who marries this woman Gayathri and then keeps her prisoner in the house. He employs a sinister Chinese security guard for this purpose. When she objects to being kept prisoner, he slaps her and she falls to the floor. The audience claps at this part. Some relatives are hanging around, but they're as twisted and devious as the Rajinikhant character. He starts bringing home prostitutes.

Gayathri manages to get an SOS message smuggled out of the house by sticking a note between the pages of some magazines that are getting resold to a paper recycler. Some heroic type finds her note and decides to save her. The rescue effort takes a good hour in cinematic time to arrange. By this time, Rajinikhant is trying to force Gayathri to act in homemade porn films. The rescuer finally gains entrance to the house through some business ruse. When he enters the living room, she is in the process of being raped in the bedroom by the man who's the costar in the porn film. In an ensuing fight, the mirrors around the circular bed are shattered. Gayathri is knocked down, and she crawls through the shards cutting her hands and feet. In abject humiliation and despair, she stabs herself with a piece of broken mirror. The rescuer arrives in the bedroom too late to save her from bleeding to death.

"Gayathri" didn't establish Rajinikhant as a superstar. That would happen later through his more swashbuckling roles. Maybe this film violated too many codes of proper Indian conduct. On the other hand, maybe it helped *create* Indian codes of conduct. What do I know? I'm just as ignorant about Indian mores as I am about Indian cinema. I decide to go to MGR Film City for the Rajini25 Expo.

The publicity has been tremendous. Schoolboys on the street are clutching Rajinikhant pinups. Rajini25 posters blanket the city. The newspapers have been full of it. Special pull-out sections herald his contributions to Tamil cinema. Other film stars have given testimonials. His directors say how enjoyable he is to work with. Biographies tell of his humble beginnings as a bus conductor. His wife Ratha, a portly, ordinary-looking women, is interviewed. She says he's a wonderful family man. Friends emphasize his devoted spiritual practice of meditation and his contributions to various charities. (He established some ashram somewhere.) People I ask in my wanderings tell me what a kind and generous person he is apart from being a superstar.

Security is tight at MGR Film City for Rajini25. Everyone is frisked on the way in. Cameras are not permitted. Along the walkways are mannequins of Rajinikhant in various costumes. People are paying onsite photographers to take pictures of them posing with the mannequins. (Are personal cameras forbidden because they'll cut into the revenue stream?) There is an audiovisual display consisting of movie posters and stills hanging at such a distance from the barricade that they're impossible to see. A Tamil-language tape loop in the exhibit vaunts Rajinikhant's career. Vendors are selling all sorts of Rajini25 commemorative items such as watches and handkerchiefs. A concert of light Indian classical music is staged on a relic of an Italianate movie set. And the highlight is a stunt show, performed several times a day.

I file into a circular arena with hundreds of people to see the stunt show. Benches are set up bleacher-style, surrounding a large dirt patch with some dead grass in the center. There are many more people than there are seats to accommodate them, but people keep pouring into the arena anyway. They are seated on the dirt in front of the bleachers. Then more people are seated in front of those people. The stunt show is billed as a re-creation of action scenes from Rajinikhant's films. Instead we are treated to a cheesy version of Evel Knievel meets Bruce Lee. Some kids fake swordplay and other martial arts. Others perform some minor acrobatics.

The climax is to be a motorcycle act. Four drivers are revving up their engines. With all the people seated on the ground, there's not much room left for the motorcycles. First, two pairs of bikes are positioned on two ends of the circle. At a signal, they drive towards each other, past some kid who's standing in the middle. I think it's supposed to look like a close call for the kid.

Then the four motorcycles reposition themselves on four sides of the arena, drive towards the center and pass each other and come to a stop. They repeat this, bringing their bikes to a stop by skidding sideways on the ground. This time, one of the drivers loses control of his bike. The motorcycle flies through the air towards the crowd seated on the edge of the circle. People scream and leap out of the way. A dozen guys jump out of the audience and block the bike with their bodies. They subdue the bike and bring it to the ground. Oh, so *that's* the stunt. Show over.

A couple of days after meeting Sofia, I give her a call. "What took you so long?" she asks. We meet for tea and to my delight we have an immediate rapport. She thinks I'm funny. I think she's funny. Her English is exquisite. Sofia is a Moslem but not a very observant one because she's not fasting for the month of Ramzan. I wonder if there's any significance in the fact that the two people I've clicked with in Chennai are both minorities-Moslems in a Hindu town.

From now on, Sofia wants me to call her every day to let her know what I'm doing. She can't imagine how I fill my days. The life of a backpacker is so fluid. Her days are filled with family, work, chores. She's the provider for a household consisting of her four-year old son Farhan, her mother and her "uncle" Basta, who's developmentally disabled. She's between permanent jobs, though she's been offered a position in Bangalore as a business reporter for a prestigious newspaper. She'd like to take the job, but she doesn't want to live apart from her family. Her mother is too old and sickly to relocate. She's trying to decide what to do.

I tell Sofia that I've been invited to a Hindu wedding. The son of the proprietor of my hotel, Dayal De-Lodge, is getting married in a week. The proprietor, Mr. Dayal Prasad wants me to stay another week in Chennai to attend the wedding at the beautiful Hotel Palmgrove. I haven't a thing to wear. One afternoon, Sofia takes me shopping for a salwar khameez, an Indian outfit consisting of balloon pants, a shin-length tunic and a dupatta-a long scarf that covers the chest. Each end of the dupatta is flung over a shoulder.

Within an hour, Sofia finds me a respectable salwar. It's more manageable than a saree, but I can't imagine how Indian women put up with all that fabric. I feel like I'm walking around in a set of curtains. I insist on having the tailor create a pocket for me in the tunic. Otherwise, where will I put my tissues? Where do I put my money? In your vanity bag, says Sofia. My vanity bag? Yes, you must carry a vanity bag to hold your essentials, not a backpack. And you're not wearing *those* shoes to the wedding, are you? Being a female in India is far too much work.

At the end of the shopping expedition, Sofia tells me, You are coming home. Huh? I'm thinking she means to the U.S. What she really means is that I'm to come stay with her family. They live in the neighborhood of Ana Negar, just outside the city center. When are you coming home? I don't know Sofia, when am I coming home? In two days. What do I bring? Your toothbrush.

The Hindu wedding is not the effervescent affair I expected. I've never seen a more morose couple than Mr. Rajkumar and Miss Bhuvaneswari. The marriage is an arranged one, but that doesn't account for their glum faces. Most of the young Indians I've talked to prefer arranged marriages to "love marriages." They say that arranged marriages last longer because the extended families are more invested in making sure the couple stays together. Plus, these two had even known each other for a while. Some couples meet only once or twice before they're married.

The bride is decked out in a gleaming green saree and cascades of gold jewelry. The groom looks like he's on lunch break from his desk job. He's sporting a button-down shirt tucked into gray trousers. They sit on the floor of a raised platform, under a canopy, waiting out the priest's incantations. The guests seem oblivious to the proceedings. They flap about socializing, the men in the men's section, the women in the women's section. The men wrap their arms around each other. The women talk, compare outfits. I'm seated next to a French woman who's also staying at the Dayal De-Lodge. She's filling my left ear with her plans for a documentary film. It's about Western tourists who come to India seeking spiritual enlightenment. A novel idea.

When the priest has finished, the wedding couple pick themselves off the petal-strewn floor and circle around the sacred fire under bridal canopy. In a flash they're married, and it's time for lunch. The guests seat themselves in long rows at long tables. A banana leaf is placed in front of each person, and a huge South Indian meal is served. The guests devour their drippy rice and vegetables at the speed of light and make for the door, where they're handed oranges and hard candies on the way out. Everyone leaves before the photo shoot has finished, except for Peter from Dayal De-Lodge who's running around out-photographing the official photographer.

The guests are invited back that evening for some musical entertainment and another meal. Reluctantly I come back, but late-I was hanging out with Sofia. I've missed the band, but I'm in time for dinner. I'm sitting next to a member of the bride's family, who's giving me an oily smile. His name is Preethi. He's balding, probably in his 30s, and wearing tight jeans and a polo shirt. He doesn't look like a typical Chennaite. Turns out he's from Hyderabad (in central east India), another burgeoning high-tech city. It's close to overtaking Bangalore (in central south India) as the high-tech capital of India. Microsoft is building a new campus there. Preethi, like other Indian men I've met, has multiple careers. His seem related: He's an undertaker, a granite dealer and a real estate salesman. He tries to talk me into coming and staying with him. I can't say I'm charmed into going to Hyderabad.

On the appointed day, Sofia comes and collects me in an autorickshaw and brings me to her apartment in Ana Negar. She fixes me biryani, curd and other "homely" dishes. She had described her son Farhan as "a terror." When he returns from day care, he lives up to his reputation. He draws in crayon on all the walls of the rooms, he destroys his toys, he throws tantrums. Sofia is crazy about him. I've had very few dealings with four-year old boys, so I don't know what to say. Inexplicably, he decides he likes me.

Mrs. T. (Sofia's mother), Farhan and Sofia all sleep on the floor on mats in one of the bedrooms. I'm to sleep in there alongside them, but on a mattress on the floor. The other bedroom is not used for much. Basta, the uncle with a developmental disability, sleeps separately. Mostly, he spends his days making tea and watching TV.

The next morning, after breakfast, Sofia and Mrs. T. decide it's time to do something about my hair. It's a disgrace. I neglect it terribly, they say. So they give me the full Indian spa treatment. First coconut oil is massaged into my scalp. Then my hair is carefully combed. They take turns because it's such a lengthy project. I only comb my hair about every three weeks, so it's a knotted mess. They lecture me. You are still young. You don't want it all to fall out, do you? You must put oil in your hair two or three times a week. You must comb it every day, like this. They give me elaborate instructions. You must take better care of it. Here, come sit in the sun. Let the sun warm your scalp.

Then I take a warm-water shower and wash my hair in apple shampoo. Sofia decides that it's uneven in the back. She goes and gets a pair of blunt kitchen scissors and cuts some off. Then Sofia and her mother comb it again. My springy curls have turned into waves of fluff. Sofia says she doesn't think I should wear my hair dry and curly. She thinks I look like a saddhu, a holy man who walks around unbathed and unshaven. Mrs. T. asks, do you know how to plait your hair? No. She shows me how. Every night you must comb your hair and then plait it before going to sleep. That way it will not become so knotted.

Before she retired, Mrs. T. was a physician. She was the breadwinner in her family and supported her two daughters. Sofia's family belies all the stereotypes about Indian families that I've learned so far. Sofia, how many of your friends are happily married? Only one couple. One by one she tells me the difficult stories of the married people in her circle of friends and family. I am *so* lucky to know Sofia.

She tries to help me with my questions about Tamil culture, but her opinions only serve to complicate matters even more. She tells me, for instance, that her journalist friends hang out at Gatsby's, one of the few upscale bars in Chennai. There, they regularly see Rajinikhant--the Tamil superstar, ashramite and family man-picking up young women. As a Westerner, I wouldn't expect anything different from a superstar. Even though I can't make sense of Tamil culture or mores, at least I have a friend.

Sofia introduces me to Anwar, the producer of a Web site that reviews Indian photography. Anwar is a photographer himself, and his favorite subject is classical dancers. He tells me that if I want to learn about Karnatic culture, I have to hit the temple trail. I should start with the Shore Temple, a World Heritage Site, in the town of Mahabaripuram (55 km south of Chennai). From there I must continue south, inland and then south again to the tip of the subcontinent. Only from seeing and studying the temples will I begin to understand southern Indian history and culture.

He says that all this business about East-meets-West in art is hogwash. He thinks that Indian art should retain its purity and remain free of international influence. He sincerely believes this despite the fact he's a photographer for The Other Festival, and the producer, Anita Ratnam, is a friend of his. He tells me Anita knows his opinions on Indian art. In truth, I admire his passion for the classical tradition. At first I'm surprised to find such a strong traditional streak in a modern cyberguy. But isn't that just so Chennai?

Furthermore, he thinks that contemporary Indian artists who churn out Western-influenced canvases for foreign collectors are charlatans. For good visual art, he says, I need look no further than the kollams. These are hand-drawn designs made by sprinkling colored powders directly on the ground. They decorate the entrances of homes--both humble and wealthy--in towns and villages throughout Tamil Nadu. Kollams are often abstract, symmetrical patterns, but sometimes they depict animals, landscapes or people. Women draw them early in the morning after sweeping and rinsing the dirt or pavement in front of their dwellings. It's a Hindu belief that deities only enter the home through the front door, so entrances must be made clean and attractive.

He advises me to stay in Chennai for another week in order to catch a bharata natyam by Malavikka Sarukkai. He claims she's the best in the biz. So I do, and he's right. She's older, around 40, but the other dancers don't hold a candle to her. At times, the younger dancers would totter in their balancing poses, break concentration or somehow come undone. She's the first dancer I've seen who makes the dance look effortless. I'm completely convinced of *her* Shiva rapture.

Copyright Wonderlandİ 1999