"Driver Chacha" and I, and the cosmos. All about life ... and death

The cellphone text message informed me that I will be met by "Driver Chacha" at the Aurangabad station, and that he will carry a sign with my name on it.  Another bit of detail about him: doesn't speak English.

Over the years, I have gotten used to having delightful conversations with taxi drivers who speak little to no English. (But then perhaps my students also think that I speak little to no English, eh!)  Even after all these years, I can still picture in my mind the taxi driver in Italy who took us to a quaint restaurant outside of Florence.  I knew no Italian, while he at least knew a few words in English through which he described "beautiful California."  I was excited he had been to California, which is where I lived back then.  "No, saw on TV" he replied.

I got off at Aurangabad after the train stopped there at pre-dawn hours.  There was an older man, a couple of inches even shorter than me, holding a piece of paper that said "Mr. Sriram."  Aha, this was Driver Chacha!  He had on a white Islamic skullcap, and gave me a polite smile as I stopped beside him.

Over the two days, we "talked" a lot as he drove me to the fantastic destinations that I had planned on visiting.  Sometimes, Driver Chacha suggested we go to a certain touristy place, and we did even if I told him I was not keen on it.  He was hell bent on making sure I had a great time. 

"Ellora ke paas ek mandir hai (near Ellora is a temple)" is all I understood before he added a lot more in Hindi.  I told him that I didn't want to go to Shirdi--I worried we were going to make some serious detours and end up skipping things from my list. 

He smiled big time.  "Shirdi nahin. Ellora se dho kilometer ... (Not Shirdi.  Two kilometers from Ellora.)

It was quite an interesting scene: a Muslim driver keen on taking an atheist to a Hindu temple. 

I left my shoes and socks and backpack behind in the car, and walked with my camera to the temple entrance.  Of course, there was a board that made it clear that taking photos was not allowed.  "Can I take photos from the outside?" I asked the security guy there and invited his scathing look and a harsh negation. 

I wanted to head back to the car, but went in only because Driver Chacha was so keen on me going there.

Am glad I did, though.  For the first time in my life, I saw devotees performing the puja themselves, without going through an intermediary--the priest.  Even more fascinating it was to see that it was mostly women doing the puja, while the accompanying men stood or knelt down with folded hands. 

I didn't go inside into the inner sanctum because of the requirement that men had to remove all clothing from the upper half, and I was not ready to be a topless tourist there.  Once was enough for this trip--when I went with my sister and brother-in-law to the temple at Sucheendram :)

I reached the car after chugging down a cold soda to rehydrate myself on that hot and humid afternoon.  I handed Driver Chacha a cold Coca Cola I bought for him.  "Thanks, sir" he said.  And then added in Hindi that he would have that later with dinner at home, with the kids.  It was yet another reminder to me that drinking a Coke can be a special event to many here in India.

As we started driving back to Aurangabad, we passed what seemed like a couple of huge tombstone memorials.  Driver Chacha observed me staring at them through the passenger window. 

He gave me a long detailed explanation in between a couple of sarcastic chuckles, which I understood as: "they are the grave sites of a father and son, one of whom worked as the Regional Transport Officer.  They made money (illegally) and had built these for themselves.  While the Emperor Aurangazeb lay in a simple tomb, these small people want such huge memorials!"

Most people, be they small or big, seem to walk around with a mistaken notion that they are far too important, not understanding that the cosmos couldn't care.  As for my end, I visualize that the remains after my cremation will be scattered in the Willamette River. I will become one with the cosmos.

"Arre, what is the मज़ा (fun) when you travel alone!"

As the train picked up speed, the conversations also slowly picked up.  Naturally, the first question I tackled was "you are from?"

Over the past few weeks, I have come to understand that Indians immediately see me as a foreigner who once grew up in India, while foreign tourists are sometimes even surprised that I am a foreigner.  One Australian couple, who seemed to be in their late sixties, thought that I didn't have even a little bit of any American accent to show for the twenty-five years I have been in the US.

So, when the older Indian fellow passengers asked me that question, I promptly said "from America."  And then added after a pause "my parents live in Chennai."

"Do you speak Hindi?" was his follow-up, perhaps calculating that he might find conversation in that language easier than to continue on in English.

"Very little."

"So, only English and Tamil?"

"Yes" I replied with a smile.

After a few minutes of a lull period, he began "Chennai was good until Kamaraj Nadar.  MGR was ok. Even the lady now is ok.  But that other fellow, Karunanidhi was bad for Tamil Nadu."

I agreed with him.  I didn't want to qualify my agreement with how much I think MGR was also bad for Tamil Nadu.  I recalled the Nagercoil taxi driver strongly declaring that the state went to the dogs ever since the rise of the DMK and ADMK.

He then switched over to talking in Telugu with his relative, and from the names of people used, I understood that they were discussing Tamil Nadu politics.

He turned to me again and wanted to know where I was going.  "Aurangabad.  I want to see Ajanta and Ellora" I replied.

"I am very happy you are going to those places even though you are now in Amrika."  He appeared to be genuinely happy over the fact that I was going there.  "We are going to Shirdi" he added.  I suppose we were on our own versions of pilgrimages.

"Your family?"

I was very happy he asked the question as "your family?" as opposed to "your wife?"  With this question, I didn't have to deal with any lying, and I simply said "in America."

"You traveling alone?"

I smiled and nodded a yes.

"Arre, what is the मज़ा (fun) when you travel alone!" he remarked.

I merely smiled.  I didn't want to tell him that such traveling anymore is a reflection of my single status, and not something I had worked towards.  And, internally, I know that there is a lot less मज़ा when alone, and a lot more anxiety as well.  But, we play with the cards we are dealt with.

As long as the मज़ा is more than the stress, my travels will continue. And, of course, until there is money in the bank.  No money, no मज़ा for sure :)

Strangers fed me. At my dinner time. May their tribe increase!

"X" and "Z" came with me all the way to the railway station platform to see me off.  I was immensely happy they did, because I have no idea when I would see them again.  Waving one's hand as the train leaves friends or relatives behind seems like a real goodbye, which no airport experience can duplicate.

We reached the designated spot for my coach just as the train's engine made its appearance.  Right on time we were.  Even before the paranoid me could get to the chart to ensure my name was there, "X" and "Z" spotted it, where all the passengers' names were listed in Hindi.  "They have your last name as "खे" instead of "के" remarked "Z" prompting an explanation of how I ended up preferring "Khé" over "Ké" in changing to the identity that is now almost twelve years old. 

After dropping off my bag, I stepped out of the coach to spend the remaining minutes with X and Z.  "There are two older women there, and my lower berth seat has been taken" I told them.  It seemed like the coach was full of older people, perhaps all on their way to Shirdi.  After a few minutes of chit-chat, I jumped back into the coach and stood by the door as the engine's horn tooted, and the train started moving.  I waved out to "X" and "Z" until I could see them no more.

When I returned to my seat, the two older women had now been replaced by three older men.  One asked if I could trade my lower berth for his upper berth on the side.  "No problems" I said.  Perhaps he expected some other response; he started explaining his problem with his knee.  "I will take the upper berth" I interrupted him.  He expressed his appreciation through a firm handshake.

As I settled into my seat, and into the journey, it occurred to me that I hadn't brought anything with me to quieten my stomach at dinner time, which was only a couple of hours away.  I decided to merely sleep it off.

It was just about my usual dinner time when one of the older women, who was originally at my seat, offered me a plate full of lemon rice and a bonda.  "Oh, no, thanks.  I am fine" I politely lied.  She insisted I take it.  The man with whom I traded berths said in his loud voice that they had lots of food and that I ought to eat with them.

From the chit-chat, I knew that they were from Rajahmundry, and I worried that the lemon rice would be hot, hot, chili hot.  I carefully took a spoonful of that rice and ... no chilies at all.  Just the way I like it!

"Perhaps the bonda would be hot" I thought as I bit into it.  Surprise of it all--the filling was sweet.

I slowly ate this delicious meal, which was a wonderful surprise.  I was barely done when the woman appeared again to offer me another helping.  "Oh thank you so much" was all I said.

After dumping in the trashcan the well-cleaned out plate, I thanked the women once again for sharing their tasty food with me.  I then walked over to the gent to whom I yielded my lower berth.  "Thanks for the food" I told him.

When my travels began, I ran into wonderful people and hoped that I would meet only good people along the way.  It has been nothing but the best.  What an awesomely reassuring feeling it is to know that there are such folks, eh!

Yet again, I am reminded of Abou Ben Adhem:

Abou Ben Adhem
By James Leigh Hunt

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

May their tribe increase, yes!  Here is to hoping for more such stories when I meet "X" and "Z," whenever that might be.

"Stop crying now, ... or do you want me to smack you?"

The train was a half hour late.  By the time the "express" started moving, it was five minutes past ten at night. 

The three people across from me were already in their beds.  Next to me was a kid, perhaps about eight or ten years old.  And then her mom and dad.  They too had boarded the train at the same station and we were all settling into our seats, and were waiting for the ticket inspector. 

The kid and the mother were all decked up.  The kid asked for her book.  The father hemmed and hawed, and the mother opened up the bag and took the book out.  The kid seemed excited.  So excited that she merely held the book in her hand, and didn't bother to read it.

Soon the ticket inspector came by, and we were all clear to hit the bed.

The dad told the kid it was time for her to climb up to the top most berth.  The kid dragged herself, like the kids when they sing "so long, farewell" in The Sound of Music.

She took the book with her.  And that is when her problems began.

The dad told her it was way past her bedtime and that she had to put the book away.

It was sad to see the kid's reactions.  The excited, happy, joyful girl started crying.  Without big sounds.  Her shoulders started shaking and tears rolled down.

It is so bloody difficult to watch a kid cry.  And that too a young girl who only a minute earlier was such a radiant bundle.  But, parents need to do what parents need to do, I suppose.

The father sternly told her to stop crying.  She simply couldn't.  Which is when he issued an ultimatum:"Stop crying now, ... or do you want me to smack you?"

The mother tactfully whispered something to her daughter, and then asked her if she wanted to go to the bathroom before bed.  And off they went.

When they returned, the kid wasn't crying at all.  She was normal. All ok.  Kids are awesome that way.

She climbed up to the berth where her father had already done up the bed.  She lay down.

Meanwhile, we put up the middle berth where the mother was to sleep.  I got my stuff organized in the lower berth.

The kid called her father and said in English, "a cockroach is here."

"Not roaches again" I thought to myself.

But, she didn't cry about it.  Now, that is one brave girl!

There is another Taj Mahal in India? Ahem, yes. And, ahem, no :)

Ok, first the original, which is at Agra:

And now the second one, which is at Aurangabad:

The original is the "real McCoy" ... there is the Taj, and then there is everything else ...