Chai

“Chai, Chai, Chai”

The voice grows louder each time.

Curious, I peer thorough the drapes, to see a uniformed vendor with paper cups and tea bags in one hand, and a metal dispenser of warm milk in the other.

“Be careful not to take any food offered to you by ‘friendly’ strangers”, says the well-dressed lady in my berth. Of late, the newspapers have been abuzz with people who have been drugged, and their possessions taken.

After having been assaulted by various smells, a blast of cool air on my face was a welcome sensation as I pulled the last compartment door open. Best of all, I couldn’t detect any unpleasant odours. Curtains lined the aisles, providing some measure of privacy. Relief flooded in as I realised that I had found my carriage. I was glad I hadn’t booked a non-air-conditioned carriage after all. Before coming to India, I was eager to get the ‘Indian experience’, and had considered going non-A/C. When I shared this with a friend back in Australia, I recall her eyes widening with what I thought was awe and amazement. I suppose it was more likely shock!

12 hours later, I was at Tiruvalla, Kerala. My host had come to pick me up from the station, and I quickly learned that he could only speak a few simple words in English.

As I stepped out of the tiny Maruti Suzuki, a large, empty-looking house loomed in front of me.

“My house.” Suresh pointed to a shack in the distance, and drove off. I felt two emotions all at once. One was pity (for Suresh), and then I felt sorry for myself, thinking that I was going to stay all alone in the massive house, in a strange neighbourhood far removed from the city. I was wondering how I was going to survive the next few days when someone emerged from the front door.

Fully decked out in white, the lady approached me.

“Ah James?” At least she knew my name. Before I could respond, I was embraced. And kissed. What a welcome to Srampical House, Kalloparra! Instantly, I felt at home, and I knew I was going to have an awesome time.

“You happy?”

“Ah...you happy, I happy.”

Surrounded by rubber trees, chooks pecking, looking for some tasty morsel, Grandma eases into her favourite chair on the front porch. “Ah ma chee. Ah ma chee, granny”, she points at herself.

“Ah ma chee, granny” I repeat.

“Ah....good!” Granny beamed back.

I just got a new grandma.

That day, while hiking through the fields with Rajan, I recalled a lecture on hookworms. These creatures lurk on blades of grass, waiting for a passing foot to brush past, and...you don’t want to know the rest. Walking in thongs worried me a little, but I wasn’t going to tell Rajan that I wasn’t going to follow him because I didn’t have my hiking boots along with me.

Later, the rest of the family would return from school, which meant that I didn’t have to keep trying to decipher the half-english version of malayalm, the native dialect of Kerala. Thankfully, Suresh didn’t stay in the shack after all (it was the kennel), but in the family home hidden behind the trees. From there, I learned that he was one of the wealthiest in the family, owning the rubber and banana plantation around the home, along with a few other side businesses.

I received an extensive lesson in Chapati making from Granny, and wearing a Dhoti from Shaun.

“Drop? Big Shame for Indians”, says Shaun with a cheeky twinkle in his eye.

I wasn’t sure if he was eager for me to drop my Dhoti and have a laugh of his life, or if he was trying hard to ensure I preserved my modesty.

Wednesday morning, Lali, Susha and Grandma gathered around the front porch while waiting for the auto-rickshaw. I was told that India is a land of contrasts, how true that was. Getting WiFi in the middle of a rubber plantation; massive department stores specialising in silk saris next to men peddling cheap underwear by the roadside; electronic ticketing devices while in a lurching bus and horn-happy driver at the wheel.

I’m proud of the fact that I can now wear a Dhoti without it having any hint of slipping, travel a distance of 50 kilometres on 3 different public buses, and ride pillion without a helmet while taking pictures with my camera (hardly anyone in India wears a helmet).

Now I’m on the train to Goa, with the White Tiger by Aravind Adiga to keep me company. I peer at a railway engineer from above the riveting pages from time to time, and a captain of a cargo ship is just opposite my berth. He's tapping away on the same HP laptop as me. I wonder what new things Goa would hold.

“Chai, Chai, Chai”

“Chai?”

I finally decided to give the Chai a go.