Bonzer Words!: On the Way To Varkala
...With the help of a swarm of interpreters in Trivanderum, we had agreed on a fare before commencing our expedition. Unexpectedly, our first port of call was the petrol station, where the driver pumped a few gallons of fuel into the tank. It was a new experience for me, although not one that I would cherish, or savour. He was evidently a man accustomed to living from hand to mouth, or so I gathered, when he stretched out his empty hand in my direction. This could only mean one thing: 'Give me some money to pay for the fuel!'...
Gehan Wijesinha brings an account of an Indian taxi journey.
I disembarked from an old Ambassador taxi, an ubiquitous mode of transport in India. I had come to Varkala, set along the remains of ancient volcanic debris, somewhere on the western coast of Kerala, having travelled up from the capital of Trivanderumpuram. On the way, I remembered looking up the Malayalam word for 'thank you' in my Malayalam phrase book, to thank my taxi driver, on arrival at my destination. He spoke not a word of English!
'Nandri' I said to him, as I dragged my small travelling case out of the cab, with my stiff body preceding the case. The hard seats of the Ambassador had numbed my posterior. The sensation of pins and needles began tickling my legs, indicating the returning circulation. It was a good sign.
He smiled back through betel stained teeth and gums. His friendly eyes brightening up his round face that was fringed with black stubble and hair. I imagined that he was grateful to get a two hour fare. A journey, for which he set out on, with an empty fuel tank. I hoped that having a friendly passenger in me, had helped.
With the help of a swarm of interpreters in Trivanderum, we had agreed on a fare before commencing our expedition. Unexpectedly, our first port of call was the petrol station, where the driver pumped a few gallons of fuel into the tank. It was a new experience for me, although not one that I would cherish, or savour. He was evidently a man accustomed to living from hand to mouth, or so I gathered, when he stretched out his empty hand in my direction. This could only mean one thing: 'Give me some money to pay for the fuel!'
I counted out a pile of rupees amounting to the agreed fare in front of him. Then from that pile I gave him sufficient rupees to cover the fuel bill, leaving him in no doubt that he would only get the balance.
On resumption of our drive, if only because we lacked a common language, I was feeling a little frustrated at our inability to strike up a conversation. He might have felt the same way, but couldn't express himself meaningfully either. Instead, we settled on employing a range of grunts, shrugs and smiles. Since I was sitting in the back seat, to him I was a doppelganger. He could only see my reflexion in his rear view mirror and I could only see the back of his head. At times like this, my Lonely Planet Guide's helpful phrases were grossly inadequate.
An hour into our trip, the driver pulled abruptly into a clearing next to a small wooden structure housing a few tables and chairs, which I discovered was a roadside café.
'Cigarette?' he asked, going through the motions of smoking, just in case I didn't understand his meaning.
'No. I don't smoke cigarettes,' I told him and watched his smile wane. 'OK, cigarette for you,' I said gesturing my meaning and watching his smile return. I bought him two cigarettes which were sold to me individually, from a packet. He lit one and stuck the other behind his ear. That it was for later. I settled for a cup of steaming, sweet, milky tea straight out of a huge copper kettle sitting on the counter, deciding against eating the food sitting on the display shelves, if only because of the transient population of flies that kept visiting the wares.
A small knot of local folk had gathered spontaneously on this sleepy afternoon, as they do almost anywhere and at any time in India. While the ennui set in, I watched them materialize through the green curtain of dense vegetation that surrounded the cafe.
And then I saw her.
A forty years old woman the colour of ebony, with jet black hair which was braided in thick plaits and neatly tied with red bow at the very end. With her long brightly coloured skirt, little mirrors sewn into the fabric, her presence was incongruous amongst the drably dressed locals. She was selling brass trinkets that no one seemed to want.
'Sahib, buy present for you wife, please?' she asked me.
I saw nothing in her merchandise that would make a worthy gift to take home.
The sunlight caught her gold nose ring, the connecting chain that ran to her earrings and the bracelet coiled like a snake around her arm.
'How much for the bracelet?' I asked.
© Gehan Wijesinha
