Poitu vare

Death of a micro-philanthropist
Triplicane, Chennai, Tamil Nadu

It's been a sobering day in Tiruvallikeni (aka Triplicane,Chennai- aka the Trip Hood) as I discovered Robert Purser, author of the now-semi-famous website Street Kids of Madras,who had been AWOL for some years, had died in an accidental fall from a ladder in America.   

At first this seemed impossible ("Mister Robert" was always overly cautious) and I suspected it might even be a ruse to get rid of the street kids' constant demands for money (it's been 10 years now - 10 years of endless "relatives who need surgery," and the usual stories).

But no, I checked with V. Prabhakaran at the bookstore (one of the Good Guys) and he showed me an obituary mailed by Robert's sister in El Dorado, California.  Robert fell from a 15-foot ladder on June 24, 2008 while trimming trees on his property.

I hadn't heard from Robert since about May 2008. A number of Western Indophiles had written me, asking what had become of him.  Since my last visit to Chennai in 2006,  he had continued supporting the kids, even sending Prabhakaran 7000Rs or nearly $180 monthly (according to Prabhakaran) and Nagamma, who lives on the street constantly abused by her ne'er do well husband 1800 (a very respectible sum considering the husband may have earned 2000 a month at work, if he even worked). 

Today, Nagamma was sporting an\open wound over her left brow, and a black eye.  I asked what had happened and she replied, "Fighting."  Prabhakaran says it's her husband who constantly beats her.  Shehas one child, a boy about 1.5 years old now.  

 Robert always said 'if anything happens to me, you have to make sure the kids get my money,' but Prabhu produced a letter from the sister saying there was no provision made.

Though Robert's website became somewhat legendary among Indophiles and backpackers, Robert himself hated India.   He once told me, "I enjoy being with the kids. I have never enjoyed India."  Yet his observations and insights about the country and its street denizens were astute.   His page "Am I Doing Any Good?" should be read by anyone hoping to "change things in India."

In case you're wondering, the kids are all still there - but they are no longer kids. 

Kumar is driving a rickshaw. Prabhu still lives with his grandmother (who must be over 80 now) in Jaiz Complex and works at a printer shoppe.  Beautiful Mumtaz has been married with 2 kids for years, with a husband and proper house (those of you who know Triplicane will know what this means).  Mari likewise has been married with 3 kids.  Jennifer is still, amazingly, unmarried (she was so beautiful and sweet!) and working in Mylapore at a print shoppe as well.  Prabhakaran, the Good Guy who runs the tabloid magazine stall, is still the responsible big brother on his block, keeping the straight and narrow, raising his 8-year-old son and shooing away the glue-sniffing teenagers. 

And Vela still lives on the streets, acting as "native tour guide" for her many Mister Roberts who appear fresh each season in front of the Broadlands Lodge.  Vela was always the most clever of the kids, and has managed to line up a few "sponsors." 

  In short, not much has changed in Triplicane except the "Magarajah" restaurant has been replaced with a pseudo-posh "Hotel Firdouse," which is not nearly as good.

Sad and weird news from India - so what else is new??

Howrah now?

Life's Rich Pageant
Notes From Calcutta

As you may have read in last week's blog, my friend G. ended up staying in a place called the Howrah Hotel, out by Howrah Station in Calcutta. The famous nearby Howrah Bridge (sorry, I have no photos) is a great place to contemplate the human condition and your place therein. I recommend standing on the side of the pedestrian path near sundown, when the bridge literally groans with the weight of commuters.

It's like a parade of every vehicle from every century has reconvened for a slow crawl in the purple smog....bicycles, pony carts, stray cows and dogs, pedestrians, cycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, private cars, Ambassador taxis, trucks, and the traditional Bengali-style long boats glide silently beneath. You begin to feel very, very small....as well you should.

On the same note, I had a psychedelic experience in Howrah Station itself. No drugs necessary - just immerse yourself in the crowds whirling about you. I became disoriented, though I was standing in one place. Finally I had to sit down on a wooden bench and just gaze at the glowing-green, shifting electronic timetables. The Bengali script started to fuse with the English and Hindi and I really didn't see individuals anymore, just forms of energy.

It will happen if you stay in India long enough. If you are lucky, that is. "Why do people go to India to find themselves? India is where you go to lose yourself."

The Howrah appears to be one of the old-school die-hard budget hotels, much like the famous (or is it notorious? ) Broadlands Lodge of Chennai. G. said it was a near-clone of the Broadlands, which is high commendation coming from a Carnatic music buff. Except, he noted, everything is dirtier - it IS Calcutta - and for those who know the Broadlands, that is really saying something.

Anyway, here are G.'s photos of the Howrah and beneath them, my photos of the Broadlands. Almost twins. I love that distinctive, garish Indian Blue paint (never seen it anywhere else, except possibly the Caribbean, where it is said to ward off evil spirits). The above are all photos of Howrah Hotel.

Below is the Broadlands. If you need to find these hallowed halls in Chennai, just tell the rickshaw driver "Star Cinema."

Missing in traction

There was a crooked (wo)man
Still in Kathmandu; Letter from Chennai

Yes, it's true, I haven't written in weeks. Din din ne, ek naya samasya aunchhu (every day, another new problem comes).

No sooner did I get rid of the Colonic Critters than a new health problem arose. Lumbar spondylosis with marginal osteophytes means my lower spine is growing crooked and has little bone spurs sprouting from the vertebrae. It also means I have to lie on my back and side a lot. Kind of hard to type upside down.

Since I'm not traveling at the moment, I'm filling space with snippets from friends who are.
My friend G. wrote from Chennai (land of fabulous fluffy Idlis and world-famous Meals Ready and Madras coffee) to tell me about his Calcutta lodging situation, and why he was going to Chennai at an otherwise unlikely time of year.

G. ended up staying at a place called the Howrah Hotel, which he describes as a sort of Calcutta version of the famous Broadlands Lodge of Chennai:

Howrah Hotel is across the road from the station if you come off the bridge you bear a bit to the right where there is a nasty vegetable market and the hotel faces that and a single room is 265 rupees with attached bath. It is dirtier than Broadlands, and of course you are in Howrah. But there are some "higher class" Indian places walking distance away with a/c restaurants and decent food. One the Asoka hotel has a speakeasy bar with a plasma screen tv and very cold beer and thalis and all sorts of food.

Why Chennai/Madras in August?

Why Madras in August. ... the weather is cloudy, rainy, not hot at all, better than muggy Thailand. The train south was a killah; I am just too soft from Thailand where everything is easy. BUT THERE IS NOTHING LIKE THE IDLY WADA AT RATNA CAFE on Triplicane High Rd.!

Turns out there is a rather unique South Indian Music Marathon concert "for world peace." That could only happen in Chennai. (A few years ago the Carnatic musicians congregated to sing nonstop in Amritavarshini raga for some 36 hours in hopes of bringing the rains.)

Indian music tradition holds that various ragas can produce not only various moods, but specific effects. I wonder whether there are specific ragas to produce VishwaShanti (world peace)?

There will commence today a 5 day Carnatic marathon of nonstop concerts with all the available major artists performing one hour segments AND A PRIZE WILL BE GIVEN TO THE RASIKA(fan)WHO LISTENS TO THE MOST SEQUENTIAL NUMBER OF CONCERT HOURS!!!!!!!!!! I wonder if he gets a ghee soaked kiss from Jayalalitha?

G. wrote a few days later to elaborate:

I am attending a few hours of the 100-hour marathon of Carnatic music for world peace. It is in a small temple in Mylapore. NO one knew where it was exactly, so I hopped a bus on Peters Rd which took me to Royapettah/Mylapore crossing and walked from there. All the living big shots were there, each artist playing for one hour. Good stuff.

Oh man, I know that crossing. Royapettah/Mylapore. I can taste the ghee poli now.

Mylapore is The Hood for Carnatic traditionalists. If you go, don't neglect to visit Karpagambal Mess on East Mada Street (I think), and get your card read by the Kili Jyotisham (man with a trained parrot who selects a card for fortune telling) in front of Kapaleeshwar Temple.

(My card was Saraswati. Don't ask me what Jesus is doing on the signboard....the cards were mostly Hindu deities.)
Mylapore is one of the last 'hoods for ultra-traditional South Indian Brahmins (above). While watching them tirelessly prepare for pujas on the ramparts of Kapaleeshwar Temple - bundling durva grass and reading Tamil astrological almanacs for the right tithis -- I always reflect that the men I'm watching may be the last of their kind. Will India's Generation Next find time to do duty for the gods, and do they even know how to wrap a dhoti or vaishti?

G. continues updating me on some old haunts:
I am sure you remember the old Maharaja restaurant in Triplicane. It is under new ownership and called the Suriya. It has been cleaned up, new chairs and staff. The food is good but the service is terrible. It seems they cannot find good staff. What they need is a waiter boss who can shout orders and make them scurry around. They are sleepwalkers now. A good meals hotel has to be in frantic action like Ananda Bhavan, where they slap on the sambar before you run out. Suriya does have a bit of style--the coffee comes with the proper foam on top and the added touch of a crisscross of coffee powder on the foam gives some points.

Then G. describes a less appetizing reality of Indian urban life. I witnessed this in Chennai couple years ago in 2006. If you are eating you should probably stop reading and looking now....

They are cleaning the sewers here so small black men descend into fetid pits of black goo and bucket them out on the sidewalk. Now there are huge piles of black stuff for several blocks. I can now hold my breath at least 3 minutes.

That's right - tiny Dravidian men practically dive into the reeking pits, totally naked save for a tiny loincloth strip. No protective gloves or mask, no disinfectant provided, nothing, and come out dripping in green-brown slime. My photos from 2006 are below.

In 2006 I was on my way to a "nice" restaurant when I saw these scenes just outside. I couldn't eat after going in, so I described it to a man working there. "Oh, the municipality gives them gloves and protective wear," he said, "but they sell it and keep the money." I'll decline to comment on that.