Rain

It is the dry season at present in southern India. The big rains ended back in November, and the land was lush and green through December and January. The Northern winter, or at least the early part of it, is the best time of the year here in the south: sunny days, but not hot, cool evenings, and everything green and pleasant. That is why this is the time when all the overseas Indians return home for visits and weddings.

There are weddings every night during the wedding season. The wedding halls are always booked; as you around town, you often see the banana trees lashed to gates (signifying a wedding in progress).

In February summer begins. It becomes hot both day and night, and very, very dry. the landscape becomes dusty and parched. The kites circling overhead seem more ominous, carrion eaters that they are.

Yesterday Lakshmi was convinced it was going to rain. She made me bring an umbrella with me to work, despite a fairly sunny sky. A patch of ominous clouds had passed by earlier in the morning. So I brogue the umbrella with me to work, and back home again, all the while sweating in the parching heat.

Today it was humid and cloudy in the morning. I have an exciting day of data entry ahead of me--analyzing two years worth of birth records to see if the initiative we instituted in 2006 to decrease the episiotomy rate has had any effect--so I had settled into my usual spot, near an outlet and a window, and turned on fan # 1.

As I began to work, I realized it had gotten quite dark. I went to turn on the tube light, and suddenly the heavens opened and the rain poured down. Beautiful, glorious rain, in sheets and buckets, not a mere sprinkle but a downpour. It became suddenly quiet in Vellore. The sidewalks emptied, and the traffic disappeared. Here in the hospital everyone went out to the balconies and walkways to watch the rain, and to luxuriate in t he cool breezes.

And then it was over. The noise returned, as buses roared and autos blasted their horns, as bells jingled on the horns of the bullocks, and the town quickly repopulated. And I now understand why the Indians so love the rainy season, and revel in the monsoons.

Goats

Many years ago, when I first came to Vellore, I wondered why the movie (and other) posters hanging on the walls of town had been removed from the bottom 2 to 3 feet of the wall. Perhaps it was some obscure ordinance or wall regulation.

Then one day I discovered the reason:


Vellore is teaming with goats, as is most of India. They are nature's garbage disposals, at least in a land where much of the population eschews pigs and pork. They are not picky eaters, and they wander about town disposing of piles of garbage. And they seem to particularly enjoy posters advertising Bollywood's newest and best.

That's why all the posters are missing up to the level of a goat's chin.

Clean Vellore, Green Vellore

When we were driving around today, I came across this sign:

An example of wishful thinking at best......

Avinash tells me an environmental joke: "A worker call his supervisor to show him the new sign he has erected. It reads 'Be environmentally conscious!' The supervisor commends him on the quality of the sign, but asks what happened to the tree that used to be there. 'It was in the way. We had to cut it down to place the sign' he is told."

Such is the state of environmentalism in India.

Beedies

One of the major industries in Vellore is the production of beedies, which are thin, often flavored, cigarettes made of tobacco wrapped in a tendu leaf, and secured with colored thread at one end. Beedies, though smaller than regular cigarettes, produce three times more carbon monoxide and nicotine, and five times more tar. Tobacco content in beedies is 10-20% and, unlike regular cigarettes, beedies do not contain added chemicals.

(Remember those horrible clove cigarettes that were popular back in the 80s? Those were beedies.)

Beedies are bad for your health, but an important source of income for many people in India. Beedi-rolling is a cottage industry and is typically done by women in their homes. The process of rolling a beedi is similar to that of a handmade cigarette.

Samad and Goat Mark are the two big brands locally; their billboards used to be found prominently throughout town, but have gotten much more rare. This is one of the remaining billboards in the main market.

Rush Hour

Vellore is not a big city, but it is big enough. As India has grown more prosperous, more and more cars have joined the melee that passes for city traffic. All sorts of vehicles vie for space on the roads: autorickshaws, bicycles, pushcarts, motorcycles, cars, trucks, buses, and, of course


the ubiquitous bullock cart!

India at Last

Map of Tamil Nadu

Walking out into a Madras night was like walking into a steam bath–hot and muggy. Madras–or Chennai, as the government now officially calls it–is located on the coast of the Bay of Bengal, an dis all tropical lowlands. By the sea itself one may have pleasant, cooling breezes, but here, inland, there is only the sultry tropical summer night.

Because summer comes in February in Madras, and just a bit later as one goes inland to higher elevations. It is still early summer, mind you–the true heat and misery make themselves felt in April and May, when even the locals complain and life shuts down. In colonial times the British would abandon lowland cities in droves and hie themselves to the "hill stations" of Ooty and Kodaikanal. Now the Indians flee there in droves; those who can't leave slow down, turn on the fans and AC, and make do.

But it is still early summer, not yet too unpleasant and still tolerable. And I'm off to Vellore, in the Eastern Ghats, and once mighty mountain range that time and erosion have worn down to a series of rocky hills.

It's a fairly quick two hour drive at night, as there is little city traffic, and the National Highway connecting Chennai to Vellore has been largely completed. In years past, it would be a pleasant four hour meander through small towns and villages; now the drive is about as exciting as any highway in the US, except with lots of slow-moving trucks without any rear lights to add a bit of interest–and danger. Still, a shorter drive is not necessarily a bad thing when you're tired and sleepy.

I arrive in Vellore at 3:30 in the morning,and the town is almost unrecognizable–small town India is one place that still truly shuts down at night. The streets, which team with people, vehicles, cows and goats during the day are eerily empty. The shops, which stay open fairly late, are all shut. And there is that most rare of Indian occurrences–silence.

But CMCH is unmistakeable, despite its constant evolution. Once inside, getting to Jiji and Prasad's house is more difficult than I'd imagined. Jiji had told me that they had moved since my last visit, and gave me detailed directions to the new house, but the driver would simply not believe me when I tried to direct him. He insisted instead on taking me to their old flat in the X block. I convinced him, though, to leave the bags in the car and go check first; we took the lift to the 4th story, and he rang the doorbell several times, but no one answered. Thankfully, the flat was still vacant. Only then did we go looking for the right house.

Jiji was still at a big OB/GYN conference in Delhi, but Prasad was home and expecting me. I had a cold glass of water, we chatted a bit, and then I went to bed, totally exhausted. I slept until late in the afternoon, awakened twice by Lakshmi insisting that I must be hungry and must eat, and Tarun trying to get me to play.

When I finally came to, it was a fine spring afternoon in Vellore. I got to tour the house and gardens (still under construction), and play with Tarun, now four.

We played with the cars I had brought him, as cars are a current preoccupation of his. Avinash, now twelve, was home from school, and soon Prasad arrived home, too. Friends dropped by, and we had cool drinks and spicy snacks.

It was a slow, quiet re-introduction to India. That night, after unpacking and settling in, I slept under a blanket in the still cool night. I enjoyed that sensation, knowing it wouldn't last.

The Romance of Air Travel Part XXI

Pan Am meal service 1939

Air travel is not what it once was. Back when only the wealthy could afford it (i.e. my youth), air travel was both glamorous and luxurious. Pilots were lionized (remember "Catch Me if You Can?"), stewardesses were sexy and cool, travelers were pampered, and it was all the cat's pajamas.

How things have changed. Flying is now just another means of transportation, pilots and stewardesses just airline employees, and passengers just cattle to be packed in as tightly as possible with as few amenities as allowed. Well, except for the rich–they have first class, which is still outrageously expensive, and where they are still pampered.

I must add that there are definitely advantages to flying during the Superbowl (besides, of course, getting to miss out on the Superbowl). The airport didn't seem nearly as busy as usual, and my first flight was practically empty. We left on time, I had my row to myself, and there even seemed to be ample leg room. And a personal video system with a touch screen is pretty nice. Jetting to Paris in February is not all bad.

Charles DeGaulle airport is still awful. I had blamed its awfulness during a previous flight on the fact that one of the terminals was under construction. Well, the construction is done and it is still awful. Unlike most cold weather airports, it still has many of its flights land on the tarmac and then buses the passengers in and out. And the terminals are far from each other; since I had an American passport, I was able to enter France, walk to the next terminal, and leave France. Those not carrying American, Canadian or EU passports are to so lucky–they get to take an hour long bus trip between gates (or so I am told). The terminal, while architecturally interesting, has horrible acoustics, and very limited seating at the gates, about 30 or 40 seats. This is a bit of a problem when many flights carry more than a hundred passengers. ( There were, however, lots of shops and kiosks. I apparently have my priorities all screwed up....)

Terminal at CDG Airport

Of course, the best part of CDG was being bussed out to the airplane and then left us, standing literally cheek to cheek in a small space, while some sort of repairs were done to the plane. We weren't sure what the problem was, as an Air France staffer hopped on the bus and explained, in French only, exactly what was wrong. Since the passengers were almost all American and Indian, we were not enlightened in the least. As a fellow passenger said, the Air France motto must surely be "Service is our Business."

The flight to India was not very pleasant either. There was not an empty seat anywhere on the airplane, which was configured with much less leg room than on the earlier flight. When the person in front of me reclined her seat, the seat back was, at most, six inches from my face. I slept for most of the trip, if fitfully, and chatted a bit with my seat mate Madeleine, an American living in Paris and on her way to the ashram in Pondichery (Auroville).

Seeking enlightenment in Auroville

Madras/Chennai was superficially changed (airport facilities newer and cleaner) since my last visit, but was essentially the same (hot, muggy, and huge waits to get through immigration). My line, of course, was the slowest moving, so, when a new one opened up, I grabbed my chance and finally got through. My suitcases had come by then–I'm convinced they make people wait forever in the immigration line so they won't congregated in the luggage area waiting for bags–and I grabbed them, sailed through customs, and left.

A Hindu goddess welcomes me to India

For some reason, all international flights to Europe seem to leave and arrive between midnight and 2 am. The airport was packed, with huge masses of people both deplaning, checking in, and just waiting outside. I found my driver, got in the car, and we drove off to Vellore and into the tropical Indian night.