4
Hamilton (1829):
“The approach to Madras from the sea is very striking; the low flat sandy shores extending to the north and south, and the small hills that are seen inland, the whole exhibiting an appearance of barrenness which is much improved on closer inspection. The beach seems alive with the crowds that cover it. The public offices and store houses erected near the shore are fine buildings, with colonnades to the upper stories, supported on arched bases, covered with the beautiful shell mortar of Madras, hard, smooth, and polished.”
Wheeler (1861):
“Tuesday, 11 July. The sea having for about 10 days past encroached upon this town, and we, hoping as it is usual, that it would retreat again of itself, forbore any remedies to keep it off; but now that instead of its losing it mightily gains ground upon us, and that without a speedy course be taken the town will run an apparent hazard of being swallowed up, for it has undermined even to the very walls, and so deep that it has eaten away below the very foundation of the town, ─ and the great bulwark next to the sea side, without a speedy and timely prevention, will certainly, in a day or two more, yield to its violence: it is therefore ordered forthwith that the drum be beat to call all coolies, carpenters, smiths, peons, and all other workmen, and that sufficient materials be provided, that they may work day and night to endeavor to put a stop to its fury: for without effectual means be used in such an eminent danger and exigency, the town, garrison, and our own lives, considering all the foregoing circumstances, must needs be very hazardous and insecure.”
Author (1989):
January 15. Madras at mid-winter. A return, by bus, from Anna Square (pronounced “Squire”), on this the last day of Pongal, first festival of the year. The streets are half-deserted. Not only a seat on the bus, but the bus half empty, half of those seated bearing in their laps dishes in metal canisters to deliver to relatives for the mid-day meal. The women dressed in silk saris, or, in the case of the poor, their best cotton. All have flowers in their hair, an air of expectancy.
We descend the beach road, where the pale blue of the Bay is visible under a mottled sky. It is cool, though not cool enough to prevent a half mile’s walk from producing a clamminess in one’s shirt. (Those sea breezes bring with them humidity ─ the edges of India rarely dry out.) Breakers roll in; from the flat perspective, and at quite a distance, they read as lacey fringe on a large coverlet, immersed in which, at even greater distances, are the tankers and other cargo ships that are always standing offshore. (One hears stories of delays of months to enter the port.)
Down on the beach one can see a small crowd, passing through the stalls set up in an allée: vendors of trinkets, sea shells, cosmetics; cool drinks, fried food, vegetarian meals. The indigent especially flock to the beaches on holiday, as escape from familiar confines. Its great breadth and length provide one of the fortuitous felicities that distinguish Madras from the other metropolitan centers.
Swimming, though, is not practical, for the beach is also used, at its border, and throughout as well, as a public toilet, by the slum-dwellers whose bustees line the back side of the beach road, some quarter mile distant. And one is told that the hazard of sharks is also a constant.
Nonetheless, on early morning walks, especially in the warmer months, one will see whole herds of water buffalo bathing, their herdsmen scrubbing away the accumulated filth. The wooden boats of fishermen, clustered together at intervals ─ frequently disassembled to prevent rot ─ line the middle section of the sandy sward.
The bus, on this vacated holiday, is being driven by a learner, accompanied by an old hand. The novitiate has mastered the mechanical operation of the vehicle, his bare foot on gas and brake, his hand grinding the gears, roughly though efficiently; but he hasn’t yet mastered the route, may in fact be studying it for the first time.
Rather quickly, then, we descend from the center of town, past cricket-pitch, roamed by goats and covered today with children at play, past official buildings ─ housing, taxation offices, water project ─ all drab but curiously cheerful in their mild disrepair. Policemen periodically break traffic to allow pedestrians, among them poor women with enormous aluminum water pots on their heads in search of public taps, to cross the boulevard.
Officially this stretch of ocean-side road, which traverses the length of Marine Beach, is known as Rajaji Salai, and extends to Besant Road, before arriving at which is a formal bronze statue of Annie Besant, situated in a small and usually dirty park. Its English, and still unofficial, name is North Beach Road. South Beach Road (officially Kamaraj Salai), carries one south past San Thome Cathedral (St. Thomas supposed to have settled and suffered his martyrdom here) and farther down to the Adyar River, as it debouches into the Bay.
But before we reach that more congested stretch of the Beach Road our bus turns west into Dr. Radhakrishnan Road, named in honor of the most distinguished philosophical mind of the Indian twentieth century. It is a modest avenue, unusually full of life, but today rather subdued. Within a block or 2 a mall bridge carries us over the Buckingham Canal ─ euphemism for open sewer (in the warm months one must hold one’s breath until it is passed), where one looks down in amazement to see women, amidst incredible litter, doing laundry in its stagnant effluvium.
On we pass along Radhakrishnan Road, its conservative advertisements in pale yellow, pale red, pale blue, on to the livelier intersection of Royapettah High Road (a stretch of which covered before in search of a publisher). Now we descend farther south, past Sanskrit College, past Luz Church Road, into Ramakrishna Mutt Road (“mutt” meaning monastery).
In the process we pass by the principal temple of Madras, Kapaleeswara, with its colorful gopuram of modest height and modestly skilful elaboration. On this festival day a sizeable group of devotees, their foreheads freshly marked with the U-shaped, dot-centered emblem of Vishnu (Krishna), stand at the bus stop and wait respectfully as well-attired older ladies, some with escorts in white dress, ascend the bus. Two bulls, decorated for the occasion in flowers, yellow markings and freshly painted horns ─ one with ankle bracelets as well ─ lounge to one side of the bus stop’s canopy.
At St. Mary’s Road we again turn west, entering upon another more official neighborhood. Here the narrow boulevard is lined with institutes, businesses, a bank, all interspersed with upper-middle-class homes. The decor is again rather drab, unpainted concrete and stucco, mildewed walls, random foliage. We pass for a third time over Buckingham Canal, which has meandered westward as we descended Royapettah High Road, where we had risen above it a second time. St. Mary’s Road, handsomely residential ─ with long red-painted brick walls ─ gives way to Chamiers Road, where the author sometimes (when the jam of traffic stops the bus) can descend at Boat Club Road. Today he must continue on past the fancy Adyar Park Hotel, get off, and walk back a quarter of a mile to the road off which his house lies.
Flashback of author’s own approach to Madras (1988):
Oklahoma City (Will Rogers), Chicago (O’Hare), New York (JFK); transatlantic to Frankfurt; Frankfurt to New Delhi; thence to Madras.
First major outing 4 days hence, 5:00 am, to Kapaleeswarar Temple. Sudden downpour with lightning rinses pavement, washing off garbage, excrement, dust, dirt into run-off rivers. Author out, awakening hotel guards who uncomprehendingly release him into the night. No sign yet of light.
Author up Poonamalee High Road (English corruption of Puvirinthamalee ─ the place of jasmine), dodging raindrops. Stops under shelter of large tree to consider prospects (rain recommencing). Sights coffee/tea stall opening doors across street. Enters. Guarded/curious reception by cashier in undershirt, 90-lb. customer, waiter, waiter’s assistant. Even cook looks through crevice from kitchen to examine this phenomenon.
Coffee arrives in stainless steel cup, stainless steel deep saucer, coffee too hot to drink, author as yet unwilling to use saucer-spill method of cooling it off.
Coffee shop in brilliant blue/white tiles, bright blue almost matching laminated table-tops and benches. Neon light, overhead fan, the latter muff-muffing the heavy, humid air. Cashier-owner, as though to indicate class distinctions, peremptorily orders a coffee of his own, ignoring the boy who brings it. Ostentatiously displays reading ability by flapping open the morning Tamil-language paper.
Author indicates coffee roll to waiter, who brings it to table, along with glass of water in stainless steel tumbler. Author indicates 2 eggs, smeared with straw and dung. Waiter takes them to cook’s crevice, inserts them. Coffee-shop audience beginning to approve of author’s breakfast activity; joined now by policeman, who remains standing for his cup. Joined again by boy with schoolbag, out of which emerges freshly drawn milk, liter, half-liter measuring cups.
Author to auto-rickshaw transition, light only barely beginning to show. Driver deftly avoids puddles, weaving in among early, barely visible cyclists, gearing up, gearing down, swerving across center line to pass pausing bus, already filled with swarthy faces.
Kapaleeswarar Temple dismount, breeze unusually cool. Light touching underside of fleecy clouds. Author to arena rail, 200-yard-by-100-yard moated shrine, moat freshly augmented by recent downpour. Author turns to view 120-foot profusely carved gopuram of ancient Shiva temple, figures all brightly painted in red, blue, white; orange, black, gold.
Attendant indicates shoe stall, where author removes cowboy boots to ancient one’s mild amazement, enters temple barefoot, following crowd of quieted middle-class devotees, who pause before side chapel to Kali Ma, raise hands to face-forward submissive posture, separating them to run them down the back of their heads.
Whole entourage passes twice about the little temple, proceeds to next station, where ash-encrusted rishi emerges, blessing devotees in red, green, gold, black saris. Author moves gingerly through puddles, hands behind back, careful to express deference. Exits to encounter older women kissing the flagstones before the temple’s entrance.
Second August scene, mid-day heat, author afoot as usual (on principle), turns corner, leaving the American Consulate, with its air-conditioned stability, wall-to-wall carpeted quiet, white-over-brown supremacies. Laying before him on the street, an elderly woman, shriveled, 80 years old (at least). Author barely glimpses her, averts gaze, as he attends to busy traffic of cycle, auto-rickshaw, bus, car); then, pausing, sees her again at closer range. Flies cover her face. On closer inspection, they also fill her mouth. Glancing again, as he gingerly steps past, author observes that flies completely cover one eye. Wrapped in a beautiful, rust-magenta sari, her bony feet rigid, the old woman is dead.
Author, proceeding, turns next corner in search of St. George Cathedral Road, site of second hotel. As he pauses to assay the traffic situation/geography, he is set upon, first by an 8-year-old girl, 5-year-old sister naked in her arms, begging. Stepping to avoid her, he walks into the arms of a leper, his fingers eaten away. Author offers coin, crosses street. Passing truck, rushing through muddy puddle left by early rain, splashes author from waist to pant-cuff.
Wheeler (1861):
“On the 21st January, 1731, Governor Macrae set sail for England, after an absence of some forty years. Without a wife, and without of course any legitimate child, he appears to have returned to his native land laden with a fortune popularly estimated at above a hundred thousand pounds.
“On Mr. Macrae’s arrival in England, his first object appears to have been to enquire about the fortunes of his family. It seems that his mother had been dead some years, and that his sister, who was still living at Ayr, had married a man named MacGuire, who gained a livelihood partly as a carpenter and partly as a fiddler at kirns and weddings. Mr. Macrae accordingly wrote to his sister at Ayr, enclosing a large sum of money, and engaging to provide handsomely for herself and her family. The surprise of Mr. and Mrs. MacGuire was unbounded; they are said to have given way to their delight by indulging in a luxury which will serve to illustrate both their ideas of happiness and the state of poverty in which they had been living. They procured a loaf of sugar and a bottle of brandy; and scooping out a hole in the sugar loaf, they poured in the brandy, and supped up the sweetened spirit with spoons, until the excess of felicity compelled them to close their eyes in peaceful slumber.”
October. A week of letter-writing, professional, vocational, personal. Twenty-seven letters in 5 days: to 2 Italians, a Saudi, a Taiwanese; to a scholar from mainland China; to a new acquaintance in Bangkok; to Americans; to many Indians: students, translators, professors, as well as to others who have attended lectures and wished to communicate.
One very quickly becomes removed from India, reabsorbed in the contours of one’s own emotional life, professional ambitions, verbal activity.
After finishing the last of the letters, I walk out this morning to find it all there again: the subtle pastoral neighborhood of broad streets, white mansions, asphalt sidewalks roamed by water buffalo, goat, cow, all rummaging the garbage bins; the gorgeous, relaxed denizens of Madras; the institutions of my nearby shopping district (Xerox stall, tailor, coffee stand, opulent vegetable display, miller, metal shop). No one threatening, everyone polite, their mild curiosity easily turned aside.
In 3 months I have absorbed Madras, or been absorbed by it. Returning home from my double errand ─ to mail letters and buy a present for the 14-year-old daughter of my servant, who has fallen and badly scraped herself ─ I encounter 2 cows on the sidewalk blocking my way. I think nothing of it, touch them in turn on their foreheads, walk on past and through my gate.
*
The Chinese custom: constantly propose a meeting but never firm up the invitation. “You must come to dinner.” Pause. “You must come to our house for dinner some time.” “Yes.” The appointment finally made ─ 6 months later ─ one can then expect a slight delay. The host is half an hour late picking one up. Or there has been a change of plan. Two people arrive for dinner instead of 3 or 4; 4 instead of 2. But there is a bearing of gifts that covers up for all this.
The Indian custom, it would seem, is the no-show. The student makes elaborate protestation of his inability to carry out his research without one’s assistance. An offer is made to meet him on this score. An afternoon is cleared away, perhaps a late luncheon invitation refused. One returns home at 2:00 for the appointment. 2:30, 3:00. No sign of the student, who is no spring chicken but a 35-year-old teacher and father of 2 children. 3:30, 4:00. He is simply not coming. No phone call, no message, nothing. Two weeks pass and still his prospectus, or chapter, or whole dissertation draft sits on one’s desk.
“Would you like to go to a wedding?” asks a “friend.” “Yes, I’d love to.” “Next Sunday I’ll come by at 6:00.” The wary guest prepares himself for the disappointment. The hour approaches. At 5:00 pm a knock on the door. Not the issuer of the invitation but his brother. “We tried to get in touch with you Friday but you weren’t home. This part of the wedding, I think, wouldn’t be of interest.” “Well, O.K.” “There’ll be another in a week or 2.” “Sure, let me know.”
*
The international community of Madras holds its annual fund-raising event: an evening in a public park with booths for each organization. Foods of the different nations, entertainment, things for sale. The Governor attends, arriving in a puny motorcade of 3 cars, their little red lights flashing off and on. A crowd of a dozen people follows him about.
The principal attendance, however, comes from the ranks of Madras’ wealthy, mostly their children. At the entrance to the fair: half a field of parked motor bikes. Circulating through, dozens of 20-year-olds in stone-washed jeans, expensive athletic shoes, all with outsized, metallic red, black, yellow motorbike helmets under their arms.
What a scene of flirtation, and frustration! Girls in gaggles of 3, 4 and more, nervously eyeing the boys, furtively engaging and disengaging. Always the last of 3 or 4 passing her hand through her (short) hair, as the group of boys moves off to make another strike. The girls are dressed in pajama top and pants; or western dresses; or jeans and tee-shirt, some showing bare midriff. Nary a sari to be seen.
At the end of the enclosure, to which one gains access with a 10-rupee ticket, a stage and several hundred chairs, set up to witness the performance by a troupe of 13-year-olds, in headbands, shorts, bright colored polo shirts, of the pre-erotic dance scene from a popular movie.
The surprising cleanliness of middle-class Madras ─ Myalore (the former village of ancient renown, port, sanctuary of Buddhists, home of great poets). The houses ranged, girt with walls, gut gestuckt, as the stuccoed homes of Wiesbaden, Darmstadt, Frankfurt. The living room with central table, chairs lining all 4 walls, a circular fan ─ no air-conditioning ─ in motion. Windows barred against thief; sign: “Beware of Dog”; Indian Morris Minor parked in drive before door, recently fallen leaves being raked by sweeper, her gnarled feet bare, a working sari wound about her graceful, aged torso. Meanwhile, passing down street, 2 doctors’ daughters, one in wine, one in alizarin sari, identical gold nose pins, identical black braids to mid-back. Observing the foreign phenomenon, who smiles gently, they tilt their heads back and, over their shoulders, smile at him, never missing a beat in their constant commentary.
“The first age, or satya yuga, lasted 1,728,000 years.” It is not yet 6:00 am “During this age man existed in his most perfect form.” I’m at home in Satyanarayana Avenue. “The whole race was free from any taint of corruption.” I sit at the end of my cavernous living-dining room at the southern window, tea glass balanced on the window ledge. “And each individual.” Under enamel painted bars. “Besides being of gigantic stature.” Through which I can see the 2 doorways of the adjoining house. “Lived 100,000 years.” The house, it appears, is not yet occupied but is rather in the process of renovation. Its yard has been cleared, its front painted white, a decade of dirt removed from the pipes installed to prevent cows from entering the drive.
“In the second age, or treta yuga.” To either side of me. “One-third of the human race had become corrupt. “Modes of Corruption in India and Its Extent.” On the granite floor. “And the duration of the whole period.” Two lively earthen vessels. “As well as of human life.” Used in the marriage ceremony. “Suffered a corresponding diminution.” “Central Government.” Both are painted white. “State Government.” The former being reduced to 1,296,000 years.” (“Bihar, Andra Pradesh, Haryana.”) “The latter to 10,000 years.” (“Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh.”) White-washed in fact. (“Orissa, Punjab, Tamil Nadu.”) Then configured with simple designs.
“In the third age.” (“Corrupt Legislators.”) “Or divapara yuga.” A row of bold flowers, geometrically represented, in yellow and red with schematic green leaves (“Assam, Bihar, Andra Pradesh.”) “Corruption still proceeding.” A band of chevron marks in black and red (above). (“Karnataka, Jammu and Kashmir.”) A band (below) with an alternating pattern of red, yellow and green tridents. (“Maharashtra, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal.”) At the lip of the vase an even older band of triangular forms repeats the colors. “The whole period was reduced to 864,000 years.” The whole pattern repeated in the second vase. “The latter to 10,000 years.” But with yellow substituted for red in the monochrome element of the overall design.
“In the fourth age.” (“Corrupt and Lazy Government Staff.”) The light of day has begun to emerge and with it the sounds of early morning activity. (“Armed Forces, Railways, The Import and Export Control Organization.”) “Or kali yuga.” The sound of servants conversing before daybreak in the courtyard gives way to the vague rumble of traffic noise on Chamiers Road, a kilometer distant. (“Income Tax Department, Central Public Works Department, Police Department.”) The insistent cawing of a crow. (“Corruption in the University Examinations, Corruption in the Judiciary, Corruption in Government Hospitals.”) Replaces, or overlays, the chirping of sparrows. (“Food Adulteration, Illicit Liquor, Corruption in Municipal Corporations.”) “Corruption became universal.” (“All-Pervasive Corruption.”) Overhead, a jet departing Madras International Airport passes. “And while human life has been restricted to its present maximum of 100 years.” A single piercing car horn enlivens the neighborhood. (“Though corruption in India has become an all-pervasive phenomenon in our daily life.”) “It has been predicted that the whole number of years now running their destined course.” (“It must be admitted that those who are corrupt have a code of conduct of their own.”) “Will not exceed 432,000 years.” (“Which they observe very scrupulously.”) The strokes of the sweeper begin, rasping the asphalt clear of leaves and other detritus. (Quotations from Beveridge, A Comprehensive History and M. Halyaya, Emergency: A War on Corruption.)
On the dining room table behind me lays a bright yellow-and-white table cloth. “Manu explains.” Brought out by servant during my recent absence. “That the waters were called nara, because they were the production of Nara (or the spirit of God).” Atop it, 4 place mats in black with single pastel iris designs (pale blue stems, pale yellow leaves, pale rose flowers). “And because they were his first ayana (or place of motion), he is named Naryayana (or moving on the waters). He then continues:” At the center of the table. “‘From that which is.’” Enclosed in glass. “‘The first course.’” A model in white pith. “‘Not the object of sense.’” Of the temple at Tanjore. “‘Existing.’” Delivered by the father. “‘Not existing.’” Of my student guide. “‘Without beginning or end.’” In my absence. “‘Was produced the divine male.’” All is illuminated. “‘Framed in all worlds.’” By the triple calices. “‘Under the appellation of Brahma.’” Of the opaque fixture high above. “‘In that egg the great power sat inactive a whole year.’” Outdoors the increasing light gives greater depth and body to the scene. “‘At the close of which.’” Near my window. “‘By his thought alone.’” Spread the star-like clusters of leaves. “‘He caused the egg to divide itself.’” From a tree whose branch nearly reaches the window. “‘And from its two divisions he framed heaven and earth.’”
As I write. “True knowledge.” The sound of a bucket beginning to fill with water in the court below. “Is derived from the great sources:” Beyond. “Perception, inference, and affirmation.” At the property line. “Or testimony.” An ashoka tree, its leaves uniformly drooping as its stately spine mounts out the frame of my window. “And comprehends 25 first principles:” The bucket having been carried to the north side of the house, I now hear the watery sweeping strokes of the servant ─ one of 6 ─ cleaning the main entranceway of the apartment below. “1. Nature or Prakriti, the root or plastic origin of all, eternal matter, undiscrete, destitute of parts, not produced but productive, the universal material cause.” Beyond the Ashoka tree. “2. Intelligence, the first production of nature, increate and prolific.” On into the next yard. “3. Consciousness, giving the sense of self-existence, and said to be the product of intelligence.” A lovely passage of lighter green foliage. “4 to 19, said to be products of consciousness.” Lit by the soft light of the sun-not-yet-risen sky. “Including 5 rudimentary perceptions.” The tree’s branches rise above the rooftop of the adjacent house. “And 11 organs of sense and action.” Whose electric-lit entrance ways have now faded into the general illumination of the yard. “20-24 are the five elements ─ space, air, fire, water, and earth.”
The servant. “The 25th and last principle.” Returns to the back (southern) court. “Is soul.” Where she deposits her water bucket with a thud, its handle thwacking against its plastic side. “Which is said to be multitudinous, individual, sensitive, unalterable, and immaterial.” I swat a drowsy mosquito as it lands on my leg, catch another in mid-air. “Neither produced.” I finish my tea. “Nor producing.” The day is underway. (Remaining quotations from The Comprehensive History.)
The monsoon. Much mythologized in one’s anticipation, one wonders what to expect. Is this a monolithic mood of Nature, or simply a spell of rainy days. There have already been a few scattered showers. In one’s absence it has rained in Madras rather heavily. Author waits to see what will happen ─ no newspaper, no television forecasts to lead the way.
Sure enough, the rains recommence the following day. By 8:00 in the morning a drizzle, by 9:00 a steady downpour. Half an hour later, at the hour he must leave for work, no sign of abatement. Umbrella in hand, duck-hunting shoes afoot (only ankle height), he sets out for the bus stop. Surely this will not be too bad. Down the middle of the street, where the crown of the road is not submerged in water; up over the curb to slosh through soggy grass. So far, so good. He has reached the main thoroughfare with only a spattering of raindrops on back and pants. But the thoroughfare ─ Chamiers Road ─ is a river, there existing absolutely no drainage system. Off the curb into a foot of water, immediately filling the shoes. The intensity of the downpour, as though on cue, ups a notch. Winds sweep sheets of rain across the road. He is soaked to above the knees. Having come this far, though, there is no turning back. Half an hour later the bus arrives, its windows shut with leather curtains against the rains. Inside, the normal humidity of 80 per cent has risen to 99 per cent. Only the great mutual respect of Madrasis makes tolerable the ride in tightly packed bus.
In Norman, Oklahoma, before coming to India, I had attended an Indian Night put on by students. The dancers danced with lighted candles in celebration of Divali. They were North Indians, the ceremony’s symbolism much preoccupied with the imagery of fire. Now I see: with the onset of winter ─ especially in the North, where winter means something, fires are kindled, magically to offset the death of nature, literally in the cool hearth or the darkening room at eventide.
In my own neighborhood, on the porches of poor dwellings, I observe candles burning, in an echo of the American imagery of Halloween or the European All Soul’s Night. In the rich neighborhood the imagery takes the form of lights strung (by servants) on house and tree, though unlike the green and red of Christmas lights, blue and yellow here predominate. In the evening, in fact far into the night (as at the Chinese Lunar New Year) firecrackers explode. The holiday lasts 5 days. Unlike the Christmas season, with its alcoholic, enforced religiosity and commercial program, Divali seems, at least in the South, a period of general friendliness and careless relaxation. Like Christmas, it is also the time for gift-giving, as I discover when my servant exacts 5 days’ salary for a new sari.
As I am witnessing these ceremonies of fire I learn that my garage in Norman, Oklahoma, into which I’ve packed all my worldly possessions ─ uninsured, since garage is not covered by renters insurance ─ has been going up in flames, a grand conflagration engulfing car, wedding presents, household effects.
The rain persists, but the monsoon, it seems, is over (Tamil Nadu is in its third consecutive year of drought). I get up early, walk about the house before 6:00, drink tea. The enormous quiet of my neighborhood is a great pleasure, the views from all sides of my apartment paradisal: trees dripping raindrops, the rasp of sweeper, the beginning of the day’s activities. At 7:00 a brief shower commences, then momentary break (it’s been drizzling since 4:30). Quickly I dress in my silver running shoes, my “Oklahoma” running shorts, my tennis shirt; and I’m off. The guard at the gate gives me the one-hand namaste sign. I’m out into the puddly street, dodging goats, for a run up Boat Club Road to Chamiers, down Adyar Gate Club Road, back up Boat Club; around for a second mile; and home. It has been cool, relatively traffickless, and delightful.
At 8:30 the rain starts again in earnest. At 9:30 servant arrives, coughing, her feet bare. She complains a little but gets directly to work: laundry, cooking, cleaning. I retire to write 7 letters, package 3 books, prepare for a trip. Lunch at 1:30. The rain has stopped. Servant ready to leave, I give her Vitamin C for her sniffles.
“The society at Madras is more limited than at Calcutta, but the style of living is much the same.” Mid-afternoon walk up Mount Road, sun at author’s back and therefore bearable. “Except that provisions of all sorts are much less abundant and greatly more expensive.” Though before long one’s shirt is thoroughly soaked. “During the cold season.” The avenue is strangely colorless, the poverty of Madras also a poverty of esthetic elements. “There are monthly assemblies, with occasional balls throughout the holidays.” Advertisements ─ especially those in English, not very high in style, or wit: “Life in the city is brisk,” reads an ad for insurance, “Let us take the risk.” Like the level of automotive design in India, the level of nightlife, the level of sporting activity, the visual is not a field that matters much. “Among the places of public resort is the Mount Road.” We are speaking of an official section of town, dominated by Government Welfare Office, a military recruitment center, large buildings for unexciting businesses. “Which is quite smooth, with banyan and white tulip trees planted on each side.” Still, a dullness, enlivened only by the occasional passel of saris, the maneuvering of “autos,” the appearance, as one approaches the center of town, of more physical activity: furniture stores, welders, sculpture studios.
Then, stopping for a cup of coffee, one enters a large “hotel” and all the color returns. Stairway with red, yellow and robin’s egg blue railing. A ceramic frieze with the goddess dancing in each individual tile. Two dirty mirrors. Behind the cashier’s counter, 3 attendants; behind the serving counter, 6. “It is customary for the ladies and gentlemen of Madras.” People enter in pairs, in threesomes. “To repair in their gayest equipages.” A man, who seats himself back to author, his wife and his sister-in-law. “During the cool of the evening.” The wife in darkest brown skin rolls her eyes at author. “To the Mount Road.” A quick smile. “Where they drive slowly about and converse together.” Wide-eyed glance, as she adjusts her sari. (Quotations from Hamilton.)
Indo-Soviet dance recital. I go together with Wilson, who wants to see the 19-year-old ballerina, R., perform. It is she we met one evening, trying to catch an “auto” on our way to dinner. R. had managed to hail one. She comes from a family of some wealth, if only in the grandparents’ generation. She has been several times to L.A.; likes rock concerts; has, as a ballet mistress, a Soviet ballerina.
The evening begins with our early arrival, at the dreary confines of the Soviet Cultural Center (dull photos of recent visit by Gorbachev to India, equally dull photos of his visit to America). But then, as we wait in the auditorium for the dancing to begin ─ unable to entice the dancer’s out of the stage door for conversation ─ a film of Russian ballet is screened. Its images all curiously dated but nonetheless not without poignancy. Milk-white ballerinas, their lips too red, their noses too prominent, stretch at bar, titter in hallways, perform (rather jerkily) on stage. A final shot, close in from telephoto lens, shows a wintry scene. Through the window of the Moscow ballet studio we observe the girls lining up for exercise. The camera pulls back. Large flakes of snow are caught in its field of vision.
I await Wilson, who is to come first to my house for dinner, then to show me the way by train to Tambaram, where he lives, and where I have lectures for the next few days. The time of his announced arrival draws near, but he of course will be late (this is India).
I take a seat on the granite ledge of my porch. Through a bright, late-afternoon sky, it begins to rain. From my vantage point I can view 3 incommensurate but strangely harmonious spaces at once: the lush courtyard (below), its brilliant potted tropical broad-leafed plants being rained and shone upon at once; the electric-lit space of my living room, where I had been reading, cool, under-furnished, immense, but modulated with deliberate taste (it is the home of an architect’s sister); finally, through another open door off the porch, a part of my bedroom, more brightly lit by western sunset: the warmth of bedspread, maple desk, my new leather arm bag and briefcase ready for departure.
As I write these 2 paragraphs, the sentiment as well as the scene alters. The skies have clouded over and darkened with evening. Now the only light in the courtyard is a bulb above the neighbor’s white car, stationed in adjacent carport, dimly, rather sadly lit by its diffused light. The rains intensify for a minute or 2, then abate. But the courtyard steadily darkens, until even the outlines of potted plants are indistinct. Suddenly the living room seems more cheerful than before, if also more mysterious, a single 100-watt bulb, hidden from view, weakly illuminating its enormous recesses. Through the doorway from the porch a thin line of yellow light outlines a wall. Large shadows issue from behind 2 dark armchairs.
The bedroom, meanwhile, has fallen into almost total darkness. The ensemble of desk, desk chair and curtain, their relationship, even their identities are not entirely certain. The rain recommences, spattering the broad-leafed, invisible plants below.