Free Rider

These are the adventures I’m used to.

Bike with no keys. Cell phone with no credit. Trapped in a lovely home in a gorgeous setting inconveniently located far from everything. Important meeting in 45 minutes beyond walking distance (like everything else). And no one to turn to. No one to help. No one claiming responsibility for me.

It is when left to my own devices that trouble begins.

You’d think I’d learn from previous adventures, but I don’t. (It takes me at least three times.) So I grabbed my belongings and an extra shawl, locked the door and checked it twice, and marched down the steps ready to hitchhike across the community.

It’s Auroville. City that the world needs. What could possibly go wrong?

But there was something about the scrawny Tamil worker that stopped me. He must be at least 20 but doesn’t look a day over 16; his English is hardly there but he’s considered the resident expert. I watched him slave away in the kitchen through the screen door.

“Vanakam,” I finally hollered over raging cheese machines.

He hurried to put a button-down over his wife beater. I almost blushed for him.

“You go soon?” I asked.

“You need ride to New Creation?” he responded. I smiled. It’s that answering a question with a question thing.

“No, no. Thank you.” It was worth a shot.

“Where you going?” he persisted.

“Visitors’ Center.”

“Ok. No problem,” and he waggled his head at me.

“Really? You don’t mind?” My Catholic guilt reminded me they can’t say no.

“No problem!” His smile was irrefutable. “Just 20 more minutes work, and I take you.”

I returned the cheek-trying smile, waggled my head and thanked him.

(As Martanda says, Thank you doesn’t exist in Tamil. There are other ways to express appreciation or gratitude.

As Dhruv says, I’m American. I thank everybody for everything.)

When I saw the cycle in the parking lot, I immediately realized two things: 1) I was in trouble; and 2) it was too late to turn back.


Luckily he surprised me with a fancy motorbike, which I mounted quasi-gracefully and settled into sidesaddle. Zooming through the main drag of Kuilapalayam, I laughed at the scandal I’m sure I’m causing.


His name is Bolou. We talked the whole trip. Sometimes we understood each other; sometimes we didn’t. At one point he said, “There was a foreigner staying there Sunday.”

I thought he was confused with the guests who used the apartment last week and told him so.

“No, no. Sunday. One foreigner too.”

I recalled the easy isolation I’ve discovered at La Ferme, and the two lonely nights. “Just me.”

“Jussme? That’s his name?”

“No, no, no!” I quickly clarified. My prudent reputation was on the line. “It was only me. Since Sunday, only me who has stayed.”

“But Sunday there was one foreigner.” I could hear his frustration growing.
Then: “He spoke good Tamil.”

“Ah, yes.” The Tamil charm all the locals remember.

(Tag.)

“What’s his name?” Bolou wanted to know.

There was no point fighting it, so I told him the truth.

“I see him everywhere.” So does everyone else.

I smiled wryly, a smile Bolou would never understand. “But he’s not a foreigner,” I clarified without knowing why. “He was born here. He’s always lived here. In Auroville.”

“Yes, Auroville.” It was a satisfactory fact. Being from Auroville meant he could still be a foreigner. “And he speak good Tamil.”

A common story for which I’d run out of words. “He’s a big fish,” I concluded.

Bolou laughed because he didn’t understand. I laughed because of a million unsaid things. It felt good to share such separate amusements.


And then we were at the Visitors’ Center, and we waggled our heads goodbye.