Madison Morrison's Web / Sentence of the Gods / Happening
8: Madras

8

Of the terrible doubt of appearances,

Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,

That maybe reliance and hope are but speculations after all,

That maybe identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,

Maybe the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,

The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, maybe these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, andthe real something has yet to be known . . . .

 

Never again will there be a place like Madras. I have suffered shocks this year (and also good changes of fortune). But in every passing moment, on every venture forth into the city’s streets and byways, I have found the serenity and delight of a high culture such as I have never seen before. It is this that I tried to explain to myself earlier in the day as a three-fold list of desiderata: polite people, beautiful women, intelligence. It is really but a figure for Aphrodite, for Parvati, for the Gentler Muse.

Now the bats (the “night-birds,” as they are called in India) are circling, diving, tempted each evening by the large overhang of the porch where I sit (and have sat once before) to write. Again the light is failing. Will I achieve that something I seek: or am I in the midst of achieving it? I read lines of Whitman from an anthology, truly a separate poem but in fact a section of the “Song of Myself.” It for a moment renews the American poet as a great figure of humanity, a Universal Sage. And yet his rhetoric, so fully formed, so perfect here, is after all only mortal and, because mortal, susceptible of imitation and absorption. I too am Whitman, a Whitman in Madras, Madison Morrison in the arms of Aphrodite, in the loving solicitude of my servant and her sister ─ of unearthly brown beauty ─ who tended the house all day as the 3 of us awaited even-as-yet unarrived guests.

 

Visit to the dentist, I. A filling has come loose and dropped out, leaving a sizeable hole in one of my back teeth. Moreover, I haven’t had a teeth cleaning for over half a year. I inquire at the consulate after the names and addresses of dentists in Madras. A list is produced. Several are dismissed on the grounds of a lack of hygiene, one as “a butcher.” Finally, 2 names are offered, along with phone numbers.

I call the first, nearer in location to my house, and introduce myself by name ─ a practice which, though apparently not the custom in India, I retain for the sake of clarity. I am, at any rate, not understood by the receptionist, who turns me over to the doctor himself. Quickly communication is restored, an appointment made, directions given.

Next morning I hail an “auto” and, with the help of pedestrians, locate the office. The waiting room is crowded. Luckily I am accorded special status ─ could it be my appointment? ─ am ushered in, past moaning patient in chair, to the doctor’s inner office. Here I sit, amidst diplomas, a shelf of tablets, the general disorder of journals, mail, desktop paraphernalia, till the moaning subsides. Instructions to the treated patient complete, I am summoned by one of the 3 assistants to the chair.

I have lost a filling? Should he “fill it in”? By all means. Much discussion of the patient’s status in India, as 2 of the lovely assistants, one 24 (in cream sari), one 18 (in purple) patiently look on. I glance nervously, as the drill is brought forward, for signs of Novocain. None appears.

I am told to relax. In fact the drilling is superficial: just enough to clear the cavity of residual filling. With 3 assistants attending now to their various tasks and responding to instruc­tions: “Lower! (the chair), “Water!” (for the patient), “Cotton!” (for the doctor), the problem of filling the tooth is addressed and dispatched efficiently. At each stage the 2 younger assistants lean heads forward, standing on tiptoe, to peer into the foreigner’s mouth. I smile (as best I can) at each in turn. They have never seen such behavior. Within 3 minutes all are smiling back. But still no direct communication. I inquire if either has plans to become a dentist. The question is treated as an oddity.

The first task complete, I await an opening in which to raise the question of prophylaxis. “Your teeth are clean,” says the dentist. There follow comparisons between the condition of my teeth and those of a typical Indian my age (the build-up of plaque described by simile with the Himalayas). “If you want a cleaning before you leave the country, for a psychological lift, then we can give you one.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll return.” The doctor smiles. I am getting the hang of things in India. “The charge?”

“Seventy-five rupees [$5.00].” The girls look on as I gladly accept the bill. “Normally we charge 100.” says the doctor. “The last American thought I meant US$100. He was prepared to pay.”

 

Visit to the dentist, II. Within a week the filling falls out. I phone for another appointment, return within another week. The dentist is all smiles. No problem. He will fill the cavity again for no additional charge.

 

Visit to the dentist, III. Within several days the filling falls out again. I return to the consulate to seek the name and number of the second dentist, which I had discarded. He is attached to a clinic, where the standards of hygiene are higher, at least in appearance, the equipment a little more up-to-date. His diagnosis: the tooth has been so badly cracked that it will not hold a filling. It will, instead, require a crown. I inquire as to cost (about $35). When can the procedure be done? “Right now.” A dose of Novocain. The drilling begins, painfully. Another dose. Still more pain, as the tooth seems to be virtually disappearing under a cloud of cal­careous dust. More Novocain. The pain subsides. The assistant produces half a handful of gold. Much tamping, muscular exertion. I arise from the chair exhausted but apparently treated success­fully. My teeth have also been cleaned.

 

Visit to the dentist, IV. Six months after return to the U.S., a trip for a teeth cleaning. “That gold crown will have to go. Its shoddy technique allows for food to be caught up under it; its bridge to adjacent teeth does not allow for flossing.” (“Americans,” the first Indian dentist had said, “are obsessed with flossing.”) After 3 weeks of appointments, removal of the gold, preparation of a new crown, its fitting, the damage is repaired. The bill: $485.

 

Outing to see a movie, Asian-style. The Tamil film industry, a large, flourishing operation centered in Madras, is loathe to issue new films in this election season, when interest is directed elsewhere. One learns from the paper that not a single film has been released in 3 months, none even to the censorship board. Yet, on the last day of Pungal, with all other forms of entertainment ex­hausted, the festive crowd decides to see a movie. Wilson and I agree this time it should be an American film.

But we are late in our decision, check a newspaper only to find that we have less than an hour till show time (in Asian theaters one must buy one’s ticket in advance). Nonetheless, we set out at once, arrive at the enormous triple theater in Mount Road, as an exiting crowd fills the alleyway entrance. This makes access to the ticket stalls almost impossible. The crowd is bustling with animated conversation, high spirits. One of the 3 American films, called Evil Senses we decide against; the second, Three in Love, for like reasons. This leaves us no choice but an L.A. teenage gang movie.

Having fought our way through dozens, hundreds of people, we at last reach the ticket window to find that the film is sold out. “We’ll buy on the black,” says Wilson. No sellers are visible. Before long, however, a balding scalper appears. Quickly other potential buyers assemble. To avoid a crush, the scalper signals the 2 of us to leave and rendezvous at some distance. There we negotiate 2 seats for twice the listed price. As the transaction takes place, a crowd forms, not about the scalper but about us; the other prospective buyers think it is we who have the tickets for sale.

Deal concluded, we must now waste half an hour before the film begins. Spotting a crowded restaurant, where a festive crowd ─ including foreigners ─ leans over idli, dossai, coffee, tea, we order parotha ─ large ropy pancakes ─ and mutton curry, 2 soft drinks to slake the thirst brought on by heat, crowd crush, nervous anticipa­tion. Service unusually slow, our order arrives 5 minutes before show time. We wolf our food, ascend a spiral staircase through 6 or 7 levels, arrive at our places to find ourselves seated next to the scalper. Having been told the movie will begin at 6:45, we notice that we are among the first few hundred in an immense auditorium of perhaps 2000 seats. Slowly the other patrons file in, scarcely a woman among them (they, it explained, prefer­ring Tamil movies ─ conventional, sentimental fare). At 7:00 a small-screen national history survey begins: black-and-white footage of Ghandiji, Nehru, Nehru’s funeral. The speeches are all in Hindi, voice-over in Tamil. Wilson, who has only once been out of Tamil Nadu, never to Delhi, Calcutta, Bombay, expresses surprise that these great figures of modern history all speak Hindi. Finally we approach the present: color footage of Mrs. Gandhi; her assassination; the nation in mourning; her son’s accession to power. The showing is punctuated by warm applause from the crowd.

Suddenly the curtains open and the stage goes wide-screen. A violent grade-B Hollywood musical score accompanies a long leader scene of dark, stylized gang-police warfare, followed by still more formulaic footage of East L.A. Three story lines methodically merge: (1) A father and his 8-year-old daughter, the latter gunned down by black-shirted gang member, his gun affixed with enormous silencer, as the little girl returns to protest that an ice cream vendor has given her the wrong flavor. (2) Notorious criminals in transit to execution are transferred temporarily to Precinct 13, where a siege on the station, situated in deserted neighborhood, is activated by the vengeful father’s killing of the hood who had killed his 8-year-old daughter. (3) The father pursued by the hood’s friends, whereupon he seeks refuge at Precinct 13.

Doors locked, windows barred, the full gang assembles to lay siege to the station, in command of which a newly-arrived lieutenant on first assignment, assisted by 2 big-breasted secretaries in yellow, pink sweaters. Their efforts at resistance occupy the next hour, the audience thoroughly enjoying itself. Finally, the 2 cons, deposited earlier at the station, must be released to advance against the even greater evil of amoral teenage America.

Narrative finished, the audience gets up to leave, ignoring the all-meaningful closing shots, over which the drumbeat of violent musical score recommences, augmenting the starkness of blood-red credits. Everyone files out in an orderly way, back down the spiral ramp, into a street still crowded, where bus after bus is packed, hangers-on filling both their portals. No question of getting an “auto” either, we set out on foot down filthy Mount Road, past tawdry shops, through sidewalk sand and rubbish. I ask Wilson if he regards Madras as dirty. Quite sensibly he responds that he would have to know other cities first for comparison. After a mile or so he finds a bus stand that will serve to return him home. A few blocks more and author realistically gives in to an “auto” driver’s demand for double fare.

 

The handle of my Rs 1000 briefcase ─ an extravagance, but for the constant traveler, a necessity ─ has come unglued. Boots, last re-heeled in downtown Delhi ─ at a cost of 60 rupees ─ need re-heeling. With typewriter, loaned by the USIS, sent for repairs 6 weeks ago and still not ready, on a day when I cannot write letters, write lectures, or do other tasks, I seize the sunny skies as good excuse to tend to these chores.

Out, then, into Satyanarayana Avenue, past the guards at 3 adjacent gates, I display briefcase and tall pair of cowboy boots ─ impossible to conceal. Conversation, which had been proceeding at a lively pace, stops altogether, as the foreign phenomenon passes. Out of earshot ─ so they suppose ─ the commentary commences. It is, after all, strange enough to see a “master” afoot in this neighbor­hood, where everyone has at least one car (only for constitutionals would one go strolling, and not at mid-day ─ certainly not with a pair of cowboy boots in hand).

Author continues to make way through entire neighborhood, past other guards, past female servants in their beautiful proud modesty, who also sneak a look at the boots. Once out to Chamiers Road, in proximity to the Adyar Park Hotel ─ a 5-star Sheraton, the blond presence is not so staggering. Still he must move along to avoid too many stares. At last he arrives at the cobbler’s “shop” ─ a pile at curbside of as-yet-unrepaired chappals, a piece of newspaper for cobbler to sit on, a box of rusty nails, a shoe-iron. The patient craftsman is occupied with 2-rupee repair jobs, as customers wait, one or 2 at a time. Seated in his plaid longhi and white shirt, a 3-day growth of graying beard, he presents a distinguished image. Business is conducted with extraordinary tact. I take my seat on a flat stone, awaiting my turn.

Meanwhile, the cobbler’s wife joins him, his 2-year-old daughter scampering behind her mother’s skirts. She peers out, opening saucer-like eyes in surprise at the sight of the stranger; retreats into mother’s skirts; ventures forth again; laughs, at the stranger’s prompting. The game continues. Before long her head is turned sideways, this way and that. She is bathed in giggles, to the pleasant dismay of her parents.

The cobbler, my turn come, addresses me in Tamil. For reply I simply hand him my briefcase, indicating the problem. He studies it, quickly decides that glue will be insufficient and, with a deferential glance for approval, begins to stitch through the handle’s cork interior, securing both its leathern sides to it. As he works, his wife sits opposite on her haunches, 3 feet from him, 2 feet from me. A marvelous woman of 36, her mien is sober but her manner lively, sympathetic, erotic. With a quick smile she responds to the 2-year-old, who has lain down in her lap to giggle and harass her mother. Dumped out, she returns to press her back against the mother’s back, for mutual pleasure. The mother never once takes her eyes off her husband’s work. Within a foot of mine is her bare foot, its dark brown skin, a double gold ring on second toe. Carefully she takes out a purse and rolls herself a pan. Her quick smile soon shows red, as she turns gracefully to spit the betel-filled juice over the curb. Now baby wanders to shoe pile, where she places sandals atop her head to get attention. Quickly, briefly reprimanded, she stops; returns to mommy for comfort and approval; is given a piece of sugar cane.

The briefcase handle stitched, examined, tears elsewhere discovered and duly repaired, this job is finished. Next one again must await turn for the re-heeling of boots, as 2 or 3 customers holding single chappals are served. Thongs re-in­serted and nailed, heel put back on, toe piece re-sutured, the cobbler is ready to inspect author’s outlandish footwear. He adopts a professional attitude of indifference, one belied by the manifest difficulties of fitting the boot over his 4-inch shoe iron for nailing. Old heel removed, the boot must be crushed down by force. No matter. The pieces of leather are painfully fitted and neatly nailed in place.

All for a growing crowd of returning school children’s attention, they attracted at first by the sight of westerner seated on sidewalk, then by his strange boots, finally his engaging glances. For how can he resist having fun with such gorgeous children? ─ skinny-legged 9-year-olds, one his arm around the neck of his compeer, white teeth flashing smiles from both; girls of 14 in skin-tight, breastless white shirt tops, flowing blue ankle-length skirts, dazzlingly black, tightly-woven braids, animated eyes. They too all touching one another, their slender brown-black arms bent vertically at the elbow, or lifted at an angle to scratch a part, or slanted to cup a hand at another’s ear ─ 2 pairs of almond eyes now gazing with respectful if slightly anxious curiosity. Adult pedestrians also pause to observe the scene.

First boot finished, the cobbler presents it. All look on as author approves the job. Facing the crowd, he shakes his head sideways ─ Indian version of the nodded yes. Audience breaks out in laughter. Little boys shout approval. Two passing 13-year-olds nervously voice their amusement. “Atcha, white man,” says one, rather playfully. The cobbler reprimands him with a glance, but the author salutes the lad, as he scurries past on barefooted skinny legs.

Now a bull ambles into the scene, one horn painted red, the other blue, around his neck a garland of yellow flowers, down his spine the markings of devotional dye. He sways his head, searches the gutter for edible debris, ambles back into the street, to the horn-honking of car, rubber-bulb-horn squawk of “auto,” to the patience of bus driver, forced to delay as the bull completes his passage.

The cobbler is nearly done. Briefcase and boots deposited at his feet, author takes out his wallet. Both cobbler and wife avert their limpid eyes. The decision will be the patron’s. He proffers a 20 rupee bill, about twice the going rate. The fee is received with pleasure. He adds a 5, pointing to the briefcase handle. After the fondest eye contact, author takes his leave.

*

“Monday, 25th July, 1687. The General Letters and Commission from the Right Hon’ble Company were perused, and the President finding by said Commission that Elihu Yale, Esq., was constituted Presi­dent, and President Gyfford’s Commission revoked, he delivered up his charge. . . .

“The latter years of the Governorship of Mr. Gyfford and the early years in Mr. Yale’s administration are marked by circum­stances which belong more to the general history of India than to the domestic annals of the Madras Presidency. . . .

“The great domestic event in the Governorship of Mr. Elihu Yale was the institution of a Mayor and Corporation.” What does my account of Madras leave out? “The political significance of the municipality has hitherto been but dimly apprehended.” What, that is, might be included that has not been ─ for my book is still in progress? “Mill, the most philosophic of all the historians of India, passes it over as a matter of slight importance.” Accounts of the lives of her inhabitants. “Whilst his commentator H.H. Wilson offers no remark upon it whatever.” Novels upon novels, stories, plays, movies. “The originator of the scheme was Mr. Josiah Child.” Accounts of family life: marriages, happy and otherwise; quarrels and their consequences; divided loyalties. “The great Governor of the Board of Directors.” The animosity of brother toward brother. “The genius of this man.” The genial tales of dynasties; the interweaving of Brahmin fates; the history of the city’s growth. “Is stamped upon the records of the time.” What Balzac or Dickens or Tolstoi would have found ─ or invented ─ to write about. “Here and there we alight upon passages from his pen.” Of the political life of the city there is scarcely a mention. “So pregnant with political wisdom.” Its turbulent parties, their popular struggles. “That we frequently regret.” The figures of glamour, repute, ill-repute. “That our task is confined.” Its great hierarchy of honor: “To unfolding the domestic annals.” Priest and scholar; philanthropist and educator; men of esteem and propriety from every walk of life. “Of the Madras Presidency.” Then the worlds of corruption ─ such as they are in the well-ordered, chaste confines of this society. “Rather than to reviewing the whole history of British India.” But at least tales of greed, fraud, connivance. In short, the world of crime and punishment.

And the world of public issues ─ apart from the purely political. “The concluding years of the governorship of Mr. Elihu Yale are occupied by the proceedings connected with a serious rupture between the President and his Council.” The issues that govern the conversation of the respectable:

“‘To the Honorable Elihu Yale, Esq., President and Governor of Fort St. George.

“‘Hon’ble Sir, ─ You delivered us a paper last Council day stuffed with evasive arguments and false affirmations.’” Educational reform, social welfare, community values. “‘To blind the Right Honorable Company and cloak your brother’s frauds . . .’” The life that sustains the ladies in their garden clubs, their sewing circles, the endless round of dinners, luncheons, meetings. “‘That confused flashy pamphlet, being a mixture of froth, lies, wind, nonsense, and insolent abuses, signed to by Mr. Thomas Yale, and delivered us by your Honor.’” I have scarcely looked into any of this. “‘We shall take no further notice of.’”And yet push my constant implicit claim. “‘Than to tell your Honor that we expected something more to the purpose . . .’” For some capacious view of things. “‘The respect and honor due to your place.’” How narrow-minded of me! “‘Has kept us from writing in your own abusive strain. . . .’”

“No answer was received from Mr. Yale” (Quotations from J. Talboys Wheeler, Annals of the Madras Presidency).

 

9: Trivandrum, Kottyam, Calicut