We're just flying over the city of Chennai. I have officially seen not only the cricket pitch here, but the shoreline of the Bay of Bengal as well. Probably few swimmers (pollution) and no surfers (wicked undertow, from what I hear, not good for anyone in the water). I see the lights of ships below...it's dusk and the city is bathed in soft, ebbing light. As we flew in my friend Lou glimpsed a beautiful temple, and its apparently quite famous. I have done NO research on this part of India, so I am not sure which it was, but I was just waking up from a catnap, Diana Eck's Encountering God on my lap. No, her writing did not put me to sleep--I look forward to picking the text back up. She's a longtime professor at Harvard, a special on interfaith dialogue in a variety of contexts, and an even longer-time resident of Banaras, the ancient name for the sacred Hindu city of Varanasi (where we go after Kolkata).
We had a good morning--starting with a 7.5K run, yay me!, and thanks Justin Timberlake, for getting me through the last kilometer--and then a trip to the Mennakshi market to pick up our sari blouses. That was fun, due in part to the unavoidable but equally awkward try-on session there in the cramped aisle of the 700-year old covered market. The tailors had to help us with the fitting, as I was all prepared to put the blouse on backward (doh). They have 5-6 eye-hooks, I believe, that fit right over the bust, and they're a tight fit, especially with a shirt underneath. Mine had to be restitched because it was too snug, and I was amazid at the quick turnaround and the flawless fit. I LOVE my saris, just sayin', and I can't wait to wear them. Sari party, anyone?
When Rama from the CM Center joined us, she helped me get a few anklets (I hope it fits, Cece!) and other items. The economy here is so totally different in scale from what I'm used to. I see how the links in the profit chain work now, especially since I've seen a few products exit the source: being made, collected by the trade head-person, then priced for distribution. Crazy, but inevitable I guess. For example, the woman who sold us green coconuts today (Rama insisted, and treated) had paid less than 10 rupees for each coconut. Her service was using a SWEET blade, curved and dangerous looking, to slice the top of the fruit off in about 7 or 8 expertly placed thwacks. She probably weighed 95 pounds, with an unwrinkled face and fine features. She could've been anywhere from 17 to 35...impossible to tell. But she meant business, that much was clear from the way she handled the machete. Once the coconut was open at the top, she popped a long thin orange straw in, handed it over and started work on the next fruit. Mine was neither sweet nor cold, but I was still grateful to have it. I sipped, transfixed by the methodical and precise movements of this slender vendor (sorry, couldn't resist). When I'd drunk all the coconut water, she took the hollow fruit back and with 5-6 good cracks to the sides she cleaved the fruit open. She took one of the "shards", a teardrop shaped section from the lower part, and used it to free the gelatinous innards, then handed the "scoop" and half the open fruit to me for the second part of my treat, the soft meat of the coconut. All I could think about was how grossed out Chris would be by the texture, but the flavor was fine. Catherine and Wendy Sierra got fruit that was more mature than mine, and theirs had the tougher coconut meat I'm used to. But by that time, I was all coconutted out. Rama says there's enough nutrients and calories in the coconut water and soft inner meat that harried workers could just eat that and not need another meal for hours. Considering how calorie dense coconuts are, I believe her. Having said that, I went back to the hotel and had a ridiculously large lunch. It was the okra dish from before. It had come back to bid me farewell. We parted friends, promising to keep in touch. I have a new place in my heart (and stomach) for okra. Mmmm, deelish.
Oh, and Rama paid 20 rupees each for the coconuts. That's about 35 cents at the current rate of conversion (highly favorable to the dollar right now).
Darkness has fallen quickly here, what a dramatic shift in our day. We left the hotel with bags much fuller than we'd had upon arrival. My suitcase was again overweight, but the folks at Jet Airways (my new favorite Indian airline?) didn't care. I am now toting a new carry-on though, picked up from the sari vendor, I think. It advertises his shop and will soon find a home among the grocery store bags in the back of the CR-V in Connecticut. But it's saving me today. I will be offloading my final gifts in Kolkata, and for that I'm grateful. Maybe I'll have room for all my things...?
We had a close call at the airport in Chennai with a quick connecting flight to Kolkata. In a nutshell, we had to stand off to the side on the tarmac in Chennai. Then a bus whisked us to the second plane...door to door delivery! And we boarded a larger, better air-conditioned flight to Kolkata. Rock star treatment, I'll take it.
We'll be staying at the Oberoi Hotel, among India's most storied. I'll save my descriptions for a later entry. I have to admit to a complicated mix of feelings though. On the one hand, who doesn't love an old-fashioned and glamourous hotel? Kolkata was the seat of British administration for much of the colonial era, and the Oberoi was built and maintained as a showpiece, from what I understand. However, the reading I did at the Mahatma Gandhi Museum really drove home how disgusting, protracted, exploitative and inhumane the colonial system was. How can I divest the physically, aesthetically comfortable from the morally, ethically uncomfortable? I felt sheepish fessing up to these feelings at lunch, but Sue, Wendy and Catherine each said they'd been having similar thoughts. What do we owe to the present in deference to (or as a result of) the past? That's a big question in the US. It's an even bigger on in other countries. And there's no easy answer.
To my amazement, the flight attendants brought me a box of airplane snack food--unexpected. And I won't need to eat for hours (coconut belly). Wonder if my backpack can fit it.
The dude next to me has been reading this as I've typed. That's odd. He's leaning over and in my space, American-dynamic wise. In fact, he's essentially taken the armrest the whole time. Normally I'd read all kinds of BS into that, but here I recognize it as just an Indian thing.
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60 kms from Kolkata: yippee. Descent! More from the Oberoi!!
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