It's still early morning as I look up from my book and out the bus window. Not far beyond the shanty towns and palm forests are rows and rows of jagged gray mountains; neglected teeth chipped and snarling. These are The Western Ghats.
We're coming into Coimbatore, our first pit-stop in Tamil Nadu, and traffic is thickening. It's a city of 1.5 million, our largest yet, and an utter mess. I've yet to see a traffic light; buses take the slow and steady approach, while scooters and rickshaws dip and dodge. We arrive at the station just as a bus north to Mettupalayam is pulling out. I run and jump, grabbing the hand rail, Indians pull me inside and I turn to help Court on; Vegar manages to swing aboard just as we're gathering speed.
Bad news at Mettupalayam, the steam train that we were planning to take up to the hill station of Ooty, has been canceled for the past two days and we won't know for hours if it'll be running tomorrow. We throw our bags in a room near the station and set out to hoof it around town while we're waiting. The city is buzzing near the bus station; it seems like half of this nation is continuously coming or going by bus. The stations are chaotic places of seemingly little organization. Signs aren't often posted in English, so you need to ask around to get anything done. Asking directions from an Indian isn't an easy task though. It's common knowledge that Indians don't like to say "No" or admit that they don't know, so you have to be careful how you word your questions. You can't ask "Is the bus to Ooty over there?" and indicate a certain direction, because even if they don't know they'll say yes. Instead you have to ask "Where is the bus to Ooty?" not giving anything away; but still be weary, because even if they don't know they're liable to just point anywhere. To confuse things even a little more, Indians also have a head wobble. I know this sounds funny, or that perhaps it's an isolated thing, but really, it's nationwide, and done by the young, elderly, men, women, rich and poor. It's a kind of side to side, bobble-head nod they do when they speak and are being spoken to, but in no way does it mean yes, no, or anything in particular; it just is. So when seeking directions or help from an Indian, it requires all sorts of code breaking and interpretive skills; assert caution, one misread head nod could send you two states over.
We head away from the bustle of the transit area, veering off down a narrow street that's home to a wilting veggie market. Tarps are strung over the path for shade and lethargic stall owners sit amongst their surplus of produce. The only thing buzzing around here are the flies.
Out the other side and we're on a quiet, clean street lined with blue and white stuccoed walls. Behind open doorways we can see small yards and the homes beyond. Soon we catch the eye of the neighborhood kids who all want to see themselves in a photograph (I've long since given up trying not to look like a tourist, my fat Canon strap hangs forever around my neck). This goes on for sometime, take a photo and a dozen grubby hands fight to see the screen. Some of the more outgoing children insist on getting behind the lens and take photos of us, grinning with pride and accomplishment. They continue to march us down to the river, our numbers swelling, where men and women are beating clothes on smooth rocks, then laying them to dry on the pebbly shore; I might be doing my own laundry from now on, this isn't normal "wear and tare."
Back up the hill we go, and straight into one of the kids' homes for tea. The home is simple but very tidy; four rooms around a small open courtyard with a water spicket for washing up. We are sat in the father's room, complete with bright lemon walls, and handed a cup of tea. Two minutes later and a girl grabs my hand, placing it in her lap and begins drawing mehendi on my palm with henna.
I feel like I've just stepped into a play, I'm surrounded by a bunch of characters, each cast superbly! The father of the house is 80 years old, and in what appears to be good health, carrying a big belly on him, with a long white beard. His two daughters and their families live here, the head count totaling ten. One sister is big, round, with large features and a bit serious, the other is tiny and wiry, with mischievious eyes and a loud mouth; though she hardly speaks English she's chatting away, grabbing and slapping our hands as she laughs like crazy, exposing more gaps than silver capped teeth. The larger one disappears for a minute. While she's gone her sister makes her arms into a circle and with a head nod towards the door, says "Big Mama," then goes off into hysterics, taking the rest of the room with her.
I've been watching the girl paste floral and paisley mehendi patterns on my palm and fingers and hadn't noticed the room filling with people. There are now at least 30 bodies crammed in the make-shift living room and even more struggling to get a head in the door. "Big Mama" comes back, the seas parting to let her through in her yards of pink silk sari, and she's brought biscuits. My hands are full, one being painted, the other with tea, so she starts dipping biscuits in my tea and then feeding them to me, soggy and dripping. She lets out a deep chuckle, thoroughly enjoying playing with her brand new American Girl Doll. I'm being plumped up; just as long as she doesn't start poking me with a stick and stoking the fire, Hansel and Gretel style.
I look back just in time to catch two heads popping up and down in the window, vying to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Every few minutes Big Mama shoos the crowd back into the hallway and onto the street, then refills our small metal cups and feeds us more biscuits. There's a saying around here about three cups of tea; one and you're acquaintances, two, friends, three and you're family; we've had ten. The family is Muslim, and Zakat, or alms-giving, is one of the five pillars of Islam; they appear to be fairly well off, so it is obligatory to extend their good fortune to those around them, including us travelers.
We've now long since exhausted their English vocabulary and my mouth is aching from non-stop smiling. I don't think I can swallow another sip of sweet, milky tea, even to wash down a mouthful of fried dough. Much to my relief Big Mama grabs my arm and says "You, sari." Oh dear, now comes the dress up part, seems her new "American Girl Doll" came with a change of clothes. I'm led to a back room where there's a wardrobe filled with saris, every color and print you could imagine, light catching sequins and diamond encrusted folds. I'm stripped, put in a long plain cotton skirt and a short midriff blouse, or choli, with hook and eye closures down the front; Big Mama buttons me up. It's deep red with diamond flowers sparking all over, and pretty baggy, but nothing a safety pin won't fix. Then comes the wrapping of the matching sari. Sari's are a strip of unstitched cloth, from four to nine meters in length and draped around the body in various ways. She begins by tucking a knotted end into my waist, then wraps it around me, gathering it to make a sort of fan at one side, then brings it over one shoulder, a long bit trailing down my back and nearly to the floor. Finished! I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself, I belong on the Bollywood red carpet (Bollywood being India's Hollywood). Big Mama is laughing uncontrollably as she leads her doll, glittering red from head to toe, out the front door and into the cheering crowd.
The village's all here, laughing and clapping, pushing right up to have a feel (perhaps an American in a sari feels different). One woman tosses me her baby and I can't help but feel slightly like Angelina Jolie, ethnic baby in hand, towering over a crowd of locals, wearing traditional garb; the only difference is I'm not taking this baby home...and perhaps a few other things. Another woman brings the tail of my sari up over my head, Muslim style, which brings another round of cheering.
Court has managed to stay out of the limelight for the moment being, but soon they spot her and away she's whisked, emerging a few minutes later dripping in silk and smiling ear to ear. After a brief photo shoot, much to the amusement of the crowd that's fighting to get an arm in, we are disrobed, reclothed in "American dress," and then tugged two door down. We're sat again in a tiny living area, this time without a fan, where more tea and biscuits await. Again the small talk and staring and smiling, until someone decides that the timer's gone off and it's their turn to feed the foreigners.
This goes on for hours, and at the last house we're served Sweet Burri; a fried dough puff filled with sugar and coconut, which I can hardly appreciate, as I've been near to bursting and about to go into a sugar induced seizure for the past three hours. One of their daughters is getting married next week and we're given an invitation and made to promise we'll be there; Saturday at 4 pm we're to arrive at the house to partake in pre-game ceremonies and then the wedding at 10 am the following day. We exchange phone numbers and assure them that we wouldn't miss this opportunity to get a better glimpse into their lives and culture for anything (in fewer words), and bid our farewells while shaking hands with everyone in sight. We take off into the night with our care packages of Sweet Burri and salty mangoes, the children escorting us skipping and shrieking down to the main road.
We're thoroughly exhausted, can't even look at street food stalls we're passing, but smiling from toe to hair. This has just turned into one of the best days ever. We hurry back to the room and then high tail it to the bus station, we need to catch the last train north to Ooty. We get there in time, but the bus is full. I convince the ticket-taker to allow us to put our bags in the aisle and sit on them; a few extra rupees for him and he's sold. Soon we're slowly crawling up the mountains, the air cooling as we gradually ascend. I'm glad it's dark out because the roads are crap, the bus is 30 years past it's prime and there are no guard-rails between us and the valley floor far below.
But India, today I love you.
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