"Sahib", he explains, is really more an insult than a deferential title, being a contraction of an old Hindi word meaning "cow-dung". There is no understanding, he spits out, about compassion or love as we aim for. He spoke of mothers coming to him offering him their fortunes if he would deliberately maim their child for begging purposes. Calcutta has a special school for beggars – it’s quite a lucrative profession. Many doctors make quite a deal of money.
In his continual fight against leprosy he was forever frustrated by the caste system, ignorance and suspicion and the curious habit of many Indians continually picking their nose. One boy lost his nose after leaving the sanatorium at a crucial stage of successful treatment, because he wouldn't dare disobey his father, who wouldn't dare disobey his Brahma, who had a dream that the boy must return and bathe in the holy river. The family involved were educated, rich and influential. Out of the thousands of lives he has helped save, he says, not one person ever showed gratitude or thanked him.
I was thankful to my new friend despite his gloomy warnings, for his informative advice and several contacts. Travellers always have their ears alert for contacts. He now hopes to start a new life in America - a male friend is "adopting" him. When I last saw him, in a crowded market, he invited me to dinner at one of his favourite restaurants: "Have you had your noodles yet?" It turned into an epicurean feast with superb spring rolls, stuffed chillies, chunks of beef in oyster sauce, etc, finished with pineapple, pawpaw, rambutans, melon and durian. But people in this part of the world have a penchant for adding salt to their fruit. The meal cost me about five times my budget (about $6) but the treat was certainly worth it.
Goodbye to Thailand - one has to fly the next leg, overlanding Burma is impossible. Flying into Rangoon, Burma, where regrettably I had decided not to stay due to new prohibitive restrictions with visas and money - until now the black market could finance a week's stay if you sold your duty free Rothmans and bottle of Johnny Walker. Now you had to spend at least US$100.
From
the air, the famed golden temple stands huge and singularly impressive above the sprawling, decaying socialist city and its flooded rice paddies. Speaking to the friendly but obviously dispirited Burmese ground crew during the unscheduled 2 hour wait in the incredible humidity as our Fokker Friendship was getting "repaired" (I didn't mind waiting indefinitely if that was the reason!); they were dismayed about our reaction to the new regulations and claimed that it was all a Thai plot! I was sorry that I had decided against visiting Burma, but the sparse information from travellers was so contradictory and confusing, that I decided to play it safe.Calcutta - expected the worst and was not totally disappointed. Beggars and fierce stubborn Bengal independence and nowhere to hide shame. Sacred cows - I got thrown by a nasty bull on the footpath of a main street when my attention was momentarily diverted by a particularly grotesque deformed beggar. Escaping the humidity and the stench of human endeavour by visiting the Planetarium. A cup of sweet, milky tea in a disposable terracotta bowl (which you smash afterwards). Meeting an Australian medical student having a field day clinically examining the beggars to see first hand the exotic diseases that he would only see in text books. He claims that many of the deformities were not pathologically consistent with known diseases - supporting the deliberate mauling thing.
He tells me that anyone who dies on the streets is collected in the next morning’s rounds by the authorities. In the meantime, the body is prized by beggars, who temporarily pretend that it is their own relative in order to gain sympathy from passers by.
A sunset shared with an American family (friends for the next few weeks) clutching perfumed fuchsias while exploring the impressive Victorian Memorial - such a contrast to the squalor only a mile away. The intriguing Calcutta Museum with priceless anthropological artefacts. A display in the museum caught my eye: "These Birds Keep Our City Clean" - a collection of stuffed crows, vultures and buzzards.
We’ll return to Calcutta, but now we’ll head south by train.
Madras - the old city of the East India Company (Robert Clive is still revered) with proud Victorian buildings and English still very well understood. Vast, sprawled, hot and dry. Bus to Mahabalipuram on the coast where first century Dravidian temples are hewn out of huge boulders jutting out of the plains and the coastline. Sharing the welcomed cool evening sea breeze on top of the highest temple (the tourists had all gone back to their air-con hotels) with a band of cheeky monkeys, scudding around the rocks - all very Kipling!
India, with its countless social problems will never be able to adopt Hindi as its national language as the Tamils in the south will insist. English really did give a common medium for all the diverse provinces, and has since tried to be dropped. Signs are even painted over at the railway stations. This is sad, for most of the educated older generation speak English, and the cost of translating and republishing all the educational material will be enormous. Ah … the price of nationalism.
In the south of India, as well as Sri Lanka, acquiescence is shown by a delightful side to side wobble of the head, which can be quite confusing at it looks like "no".
A worse train from Madras to Ramesvaram - adopted a good "sleeping" position where a hot healthy hot stream of air would blow away the accumulated coal dust, which insidiously gets into eyes, nose, hair and every bodily crevice. And my meagre belongings in a sausage bag, padlocked against the leg of the train seat. Watching sleepily a diagonally striated desert dawn - its gonna be a hot day, a temporary companion remarks.
Indians tolerate insanity (after all 20 million are estimated to be mentally retarded, due to malnutrition, caste inbreeding etc.) and so when you meet a mad man from Manchester, running up and down the platforms, in and out of the carriages, shouting out the same vendor cries in the middle of the night, assaulting little boys, filching vendor's wares and refusing to pay, brutally aping beggars - then one just feels a little embarrassed and insecure in his company.
Nothing, but nothing would prepare me for the short journey by ferry from Ramesvaram, India, across the strait to Sri Lanka.
