Around India in 80 Trains (13 page)

Embarrassed to be seen carrying the cages, we hurried towards the temple and found a clearing inhabited by one elderly goat with infected udders that swung like two footballs in a bag. She glanced up briefly, but went back to chewing her Amul butter box. By now the birds were throwing their multi-coloured bodies around the cages. Feeling like Mary Poppins, I sat on a bench, opened the door and waited for them to soar into the sky, before swooping back to place a flower behind my ear. Instead, they fell out one by one and rolled around in the sand. Their wings had been clipped. And that was not all. On close examination, the source of their colouring also became clear—they had been coloured in with felt-tipped pens. Fortunately for Passepartout, his birds were in better shape and zoomed straight out of the cage like doves at an Olympic opening ceremony. With a little effort, my breadcrumbed stragglers managed to hop into the bushes beneath the watchful eyes of a pair of hawks who were circling.

Panting, I faced the last stretch of 437 steps that led up to the top of the Rock Fort temple and winced as a pocket-sized lady, older than God, sped ahead of me holding up her sari in one hand. She flashed a gummy, toothless smile on her way past. Eventually I reached a levelled platform where two little girls slept peacefully in an alcove beneath a series of notice boards educating visitors on the marvels of the temple:

‘It is a proven fact that those who worship the God will be blessed with children and that pregnant ladies will have an easy delivery
’,
and ‘according to geological research this mountain is 3,500 billion years old
.
’

It was hard to determine which of the two was more impressive. It was not unusual to come across tremendous fabrications. To their credit, Indians are extremely quick thinkers, but rather than admit to a lack of knowledge, they have a tendency simply to make things up on the spot. The Sri Rangam temple management confirmed that the Sri Lanka story was a myth and for safety reasons visitors were not allowed up to check. Harbouring a constant sense of incredulity made every day in India a new adventure.

Once again non-Hindus were not allowed into the Vinayaka temple at the top of the hill—though a greased palm sometimes waived this rule—so I cut the visit short and we stumbled down the steps and arrived back at Trichy Junction for Chinese food, before boarding train number 13, a passenger train to Thanjavur. Indian Chinese food, or ‘chindian’ food, was of hakka origin and tasted little, if nothing at all, like the authentic Chinese food, but it was delicious. Dishes often came in gravy and were flavoured with typical Indian spices like cumin and coriander and the key ingredient, a healthy dose of chilli, which catered specifically to Indian taste buds. Chinese was fast growing as the most popular choice for dining out in India, and London’s Yauatcha was soon to open a second branch in Mumbai after Alan Yau noticed that a large chunk of his dim sum diners were Indian. Trichy station’s upstairs restaurant was a few grades off the Soho teahouse, but did great ‘Schewzen’ noodles, vegetable ‘chowmin’ and American ‘chopsaucy’.

‘Neenga engirundhu varinga?’

I blinked.

‘ Neenga Tamil pesuvingala?’

‘I’m sorry I don’t speak Tamil.’

‘Amrika?’

‘No, I’m English.’

‘
Yingland
, ah?
Appadiya
?!’

Thrilled to bits, my interrogator clapped his hands above his head and the entire row sitting opposite us hooted with delight and clutched each other’s elbows. Apparently I did speak Tamil. The passenger train to Thanjavur was jammed with workers on their way home and our compartment housed a group of eight co-workers, an elderly lady and her two granddaughters, three students and a sticky baby with limbs like sausage links, whose parents had dumped the big-eyed bundle on my lap. This was a large number of people for an area that could comfortably take eight, but four dangled from the luggage racks and one man sat happily on his friend’s knee, stroking his leg. If I so much as touched Passepartout’s arm, every pair of eyes would stare at me, but jiggling around in another man’s lap was perfectly acceptable.

The rest of the group squashed against one another, holding briefcases on their laps, tickled by the intruders in their compartment. I felt like the new kid on the school bus. Nobody spoke much English and my limited understanding of Tamil went back to one long and boring summer holiday when my brother and I would call up the speaking clock and pretend to order soft drinks from the automated voice. We would let her finish her tongue-twisting spiel before clearing throats and replying:

‘Mmm,
rende
Pepsi,
rende
7Up,
romba
thanks,’ before collapsing into giggles.

Memories of this early role-play helped when it came to buying things in twos, but at this moment verbal communication was stunted, though gestures were fully operational.

From the mass camaraderie it was evident that the group worked at the same office and this was their regular commute. It was unclear what they did, but they were firm friends despite their ages ranging from early 20s to late 60s. There was also a clear hierarchy. My interrogator, an elderly man with buckteeth, was head boy and sat in the centre of the row. His loyal prefects flanked him and the juniors sat in the overhead racks, open to good-natured bullying, which involved the odd pinch and name-calling. Having established that I did not understand Tamil, they combined forces to elicit as much detail as possible, poking at the cameras and pointing at my diary, which I readily handed over.

‘Writingwriting,’ said one of the prefects.

‘Yes, journalist,’ I replied, adopting a suddenly ridiculous accent.

‘Jhurr-nalist?’ said the other prefect. ‘Oh-ho.’

A combination of photographs, hand gestures, sketches and passing around the stack of train tickets, revealed the nature of our travels to the group.

‘
Aiyyo
!’ exclaimed the head boy, slapping his palm to his forehead and then thrusting it up at me. It was an elegant expression that meant, ‘you moron’. The whole compartment broke out into laughter.

‘
Appa
name?’

I knew that asking my father’s name was a disguised attempt at finding out my caste, which I could not help them with. I had never known it, nor did I care. But in India it is important to establish certain facets early on in a conversation as it sets the dynamics for the ensuing relationship. To most visitors to India, this is just the Indian way of making conversation, in the way that the English cannot resist discussing the weather, or Americans, discussing themselves. In truth, this is often a more measured process. Each question establishes where the other person sits on the social spectrum: surnames give away caste and social standing; jobs indicate earnings and therefore power, as does revealing where you live. Once they have all the answers, they can assign people to categories and gauge how useful the acquaintance will be in the future. In this situation, our new friends were simply having fun with us and I loved their unabashed game. But I too could play the game.

‘Rajesh,’ I said, knowing full well there would be confusion. There was. The head boy frowned and shook his head.

‘Monisha … ?’

‘Rajesh.’ I repeated, bringing out my passport to stir things up a little. Four people leant forward, grabbing its corners. Rajesh was indeed my surname, but it was actually my father’s first name. Our surname should have been Naidu, but trying to explain why, would have been futile. After a few minutes of playing dumb, I conceded.

‘Naidu.’

‘TELUGU?!’ shouted the head boy, his eyes like saucers.

I nodded.

Elated, the entire group cheered. It turned out that we had come upon a compartment of Telugus in the middle of Tamil Nadu. We had also just pulled into Thanjavur. Miserable that the journey was over, I gathered my things, wrestled back my passport and clambered over everyone to the doorway. On the platform we turned back to wave. Three of them had come to the doorway and were taking photos on their phones while the rest poked heads through the barred windows and waved.

The sun was still asleep when we arrived at the entrance to the Brihadishwara temple, bats flitting overhead. In the damp morning air, the enormous Dravidian structure loomed majestically through the darkness. Known appropriately as ‘the Big Temple’ the Brihadishwara temple was commissioned in 1010 by Rajaraja Chola, who established the Chola Dynasty that reigned across South India, as a show of his devotion to Lord Brihadishwara, an incarnation of Lord Shiva. The UNESCO World Heritage Site is considered one of India’s architectural marvels and was celebrating its 1000
^th
birthday.

Unlike most other temples, the structure is built of granite, using stones that interlock without cementing. It had rained the previous night and the stone was cold under my fingers as I worked my way around a pavilion that housed a serene but hefty, 25-tonne carving of Nandi, Lord Shiva’s bull. Above his head was a series of midnight blue and yellow frescoes, scratched and fading, depicting details of the Chola lifestyle.

There was a notable elegance to the temple and its surroundings. It was quiet in colour and demeanour and reflected the majesty of its founders. But like many other Indian sites of wonder, was home to yet another myth. A favourite story told to visitors, was that the shadow of the Vimana, the 66m pyramid-shaped tower above the inner sanctum, never touched the ground, but this also proved to be untrue.

As Passepartout watched the reflections of the tower in the puddles filling the compound, a bell beckoned me into the sanctum that housed Lord Shiva. I reached the front in time for the puja and joined the queue to receive prasad. The priest handed over a ladoo and some dried fruit. I took it with both hands and he held out his hand.

‘Ten rupees.’

Bags were forbidden inside the temple and I had no money on my person. He took the prasad back from me and placed it in the hands of the woman next in line, waving me along. To my knowledge, the Vedic origins of prasad were explained as an act of generosity and this was the first time I had ever seen a fee demanded. The hole in my stomach had started to grow again and I jumped down the steps, dragged Passepartout from his puddles and left.