Chennai/Madras—Day 3

I’m beginning to think Chennai is only beautiful in the late morning. In the earliest hours of the day, the air is confused by the impact of a ferocious sun after hours of cool darkness. By early afternoon the sweet smell of refuge and grime—what Shantaram called “The worst good smell in the world”—is so overpowering strangers (like me) feel suffocated. Close to dusk, the pollution of the city hangs so low and thickly that the sun no longer bothers trying to burn through it.

It was in this gray smog laced with India’s smell that I discovered the beach. The people are cold; staring but never speaking. Old men walk past me—or stop—to ogle, and they don’t shy away when I meet their stare. They fly kites—kids and young lovers. They stand and talk at the shore.

It seems to me the ocean is even angry, with the mightiest waves I’ve ever seen pounding against the sand. Lights from oil tankers and barges loom in the distance; they’re not so far but impossible to distinguish through this thick air.

I can’t imagine that this is the India that captures your soul. I’m sure it’s the people that make this country amazing; I can see their love and charm in the head waggles and laughter they share with each other. (The head waggle is uniquely India. Described in Shantaram, I couldn’t picture the gesture until I saw it with my own eyes. It’s remarkably sweet and endearing; I will master it before my departure!)

It’s a bit unnerving, honestly, to be so completely out of my element. I can’t remember ever being in a place so foreign to me. I don’t understand the language, the culture, the people. I drive through the streets in a rigged rickshaw and recognize nothing. On the streets and in the stores I’ve noticed there’s no one else like me. There weren’t any Westerners at my hotel either, and everyone was shocked to know I was alone. Sitting on the beach now I know that if given a map I would not be able to point out where I was. Or where I the hotel was, for that matter.

I don’t like it. And I now realize what’s bothered me so much about the week: I heard “no” an awful lot. “No, you want to take a car instead of a rickshaw.” “No, you can’t go there because you’re a woman.” “No, you can’t walk there alone.” I don’t like being told I can’t do things. I don’t like not doing things. I like walking alone and traveling like the locals. I like being respected. I’m sick of being constantly on guard as people try to swindle more money from me.

Maybe that’s why I’m so alone: I’m too cold for these people. How can I engage them, solicit their warmth and friendship, be adopted by them, if my defense is always so high?

This has already proved a humbling experience.

The GREs in India were humbling as well. And foreign. The concierge insisted I take a cab instead of a rickshaw, which means I pay the hotel four times as much money as I’d give a rickshaw driver. The driver didn’t know the address of the testing center, and when he finally found it, I can’t explain how terrible—how shameful—it felt to emerge from a beautiful white vintage vehicle in the heart of a poor neighborhood. My head hurt from isolation; my body ached from poor sleep; my heartbeat quickened from immersion in the unknown. And that’s how I took the test. We lost power twice throughout the process.

Leaving the center I enjoyed my first act of kindness. I told the proctor that I wanted to see something and suggested the beach. He told me the name of one nearby and offered to help get a rickshaw. “Fifty rupees,” he said, “and not a penny more.”

He scowered the street with me at his heel. He stopped three of the shabby yellow vehicles. Not one would take me for that price. Why should they? My skin’s the wrong shade. My hair may smell like the local coconut oil, but it’s the wrong color(s). I may wear a kameez, say “hi” in Tamil (or is it Hindi?), I may be able to stomach the local cuisine, but I’m still a Westerner. Why should I pay a fair price?

Ah, it is what it is, I suppose. But where is the India that captures peoples’ hearts?