Stepping through the threshold of Modale, I saw that the door to my room was ajar. “Strange, I thought I had locked the door.”
As I approached, I heard the whirring of a fan...
“Joris! You're back!”
I hadn't expected to see Joris before I left Vellore.
He had just returned from a weekend in Pudicherry. With little to do in Vellore, students on elective often spend the weekends in surrounding cities. Bangalore, the silicon valley of India, Chennai, Pondicherry, or even Kerala are popular destinations. Unfortunately, we're in the middle of the monsoon, and holiday plans are often drenched. As was the case with Joris.
I hurriedly set about with last minute packing, suddenly realising that my book of houses was still with Theresa. The idea's borrowed from a friend, and I always succeed in getting people
amused. As I meet people on my travels, I ask them to draw their dream house in my moleskin notebook. And so, in this manner, I have gathered quite a collection.
After tracking down another student from Queensland, I had my notebook back safely in hand. Walking out of Modale hostel for the last time with Joris and Andy, I had a feeling that perhaps this wouldn't be the last time after all.
“150 rupees”
Haggling with a rickshaw driver
It was a little steep for a half hour ride to the train station. We tried to haggle, but realising that time was not on our side, I decided not to go through all the trouble, and jumped in. As we sped through the streets of Vellore, the events of the past four days played through my mind.
The main gate of CMC Bagayam. I can hear the excited voices the students as we carried USD100 worth of rockets and crackers to the nearby stadium.
Jack with a smoldering menace
Dr Moses' house opposite the main gate. I remember his frustration about the corruption gripping the country, and how the ordinary Indian was trapped in a vicious cycle of poverty largely because of the actions of their countrymen. I recall his amusement when Immanuel said that he wanted to be a sound engineer, and, started rattling off band band, trying to find common ground. Clearly, Dr Moses had higher aspirations for his son.
The night air has a sweet, moist smell. As we go around a corner, several Indians at the bus stop stare at the foreigner in the rickshaw. Arun comes to mind. I can see his enormous surprise, when the rickshaw driver said “100 rupees” the other day, and Joris didn't bat an eyelid. “I would have taken the bus” he says 150 rupees is about the average daily wage in Vellore.
Arun with my jeans and Joris’ shirt
We pass the Darling Bakery, an edifice of western influence quite out of place in a small rural Indian town. This was my first cake experience in Vellore that tickled me.
Darling Bakery: A contrast to the dirt and dust outside
The rickshaw lurches wildly over a pothole, and I clutch my haversack more tightly. We approach the bridge over a dry river bed – the result of poor policies and inadequate governance.
“What time?”
“Nine-forty one” I replied. I had arrived just 4 minutes before the scheduled departure of my train.
As I step onto the train, it begins to move. Almost immediately, I smell a mixture of sweat and urine. Bodies lying on racks and covering the floor. I squeeze past, expectations of an uneventful train ride dropping by the second. As I pull open what must have been the 10th door to the adjoining carriage, the atmosphere changes, and my heart stops for a second.
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