A Quick Quiver

I wonder if it is more than a coincidence that the cloth store’s name that I am looking for, Sri Satyanarayana, is also one of the many names for god in South India. Perplexed  that the rickshaw drivers don’t recognize the name of their god when I say it, I try to say it differently. I have made a special excursion to this town in South India to shop and want to get going.

A few days before, I read a daily column that appears  in the Hindu Times titled, “Religion”. It tells the story of an evil man, who upon his death-bed calls out the name of his son, Naryana which is also one of the many names for god. The tale points out that simply by saying god’s name, even without any intention or belief great things happen. Though the dying man is a scoundrel, he attains moksha (nirvana) or liberation simply by saying  Naryana. This short cut appeals to me but I know that I’m in trouble if I can’t even say god’s name correctly. I wonder if this counts.

The rickshaw wallah continues to look at me with a blank expression. After consulting with two other drivers, I detect a faint glow of comprehension when I say, ” saree shop.” In a cloud of fumes and dust we bounce down the rutted dirt road away from the center of town.

There it is, about two kilometers down the road, the Sri Satyanarayana Cloth Shop, standing bigger and taller than any of its neighbors. To me, it looks like god’s palace and I’ve found heaven.

The  gates are open. I peer in. My heart starts to pound with excitement, not because I’m closer to god but because I love to shop for cloth. The marble  floor gleams with welcome.

The gatekeeper, cum head cashier and probably owner greets me in English, unusual for such a remote town. Naryana, I think to myself, maybe I really have found heaven. I am directed up a grand staircase to the women’s dept. Even before I reach the top step my eyes dart around the room while taking in all the fabrics that are screaming out to me:  “I’m lemony yellow, aren’t I de-light-ful? I’m raspberry red, how can you resist me? I’m the regal peacock blue that you lust after.” I struggle to control my enthusiasm. The shelves are lined floor to ceiling with fabrics. It is as if rainbows are for sale.

For my benefit the fan and lights are switched on.  I start at one end of the horseshoe-shaped display and examine everything which is very un-Indian. I make my selection. My cloth is measured and cut, folded and sent downstairs. An employee switches the fan and lights off  and I return downstairs to pay.

Pleased with my purchases and god’s name on my tongue, I slowly amble back toward the center of town, on the look out for a restaurant. I see an ice cream parlour but decide against it.

It is lunch time and the stalls and shops are lowering their gates for their siesta. I continue walking, looking at everything with interest. Then my eye catches a quick quiver of movement. A very large, long and wide green snake slithers down the steps of what looks like a closed shop. It practically glides over my feet but stops just short of me and rapidly turns and slithers up the steps of the shop next door. Stunned, I stop, Naryana, I want to say but am momentarily speechless. A man holding a stick comes out of the first shop. Two men come out of the shop where the snake has just entered. No one looks alarmed. And no one pays any attention to me. I have the impression that the snake is familiar and it is only a case of a mischievous and naughty snake. Puzzled and amazed, I continue walking, my hunger mounting.

Back in the center of town I see  a sign for the typical “meals”  restaurant one sees in South India.  These are usually very basic with a small menu. They are not my preference but I am hungry and there isn’t anything else. I enter.

I am the only white face in the place and in f act, in the entire town. Every one watches me with curiosity but I am not made to feel unwelcome. When I smile every one smiles back broadly. I select an unoccupied table under a ceiling fan. To my surprise, the waiter speaks good English. With pride, he tells me that his brother lives in Australia and works for the State Bank of India. I order subji-chapati. The waiter brings my thali (circular stainless steel tray) with five cups on it. Each cup contains  spicy liquids in varying degrees of hotness and some cooked vegetables and curd. In the center of the tray is a mountain of rice. Next to the rice are two items that I mistake for puris. The waiter proudly  explains that they are  a local specialty made from mashed bananas, wheat, sugar and curd. I have never seen or tried them before. They are delicious. The waiter keeps trying to refill my cups but I eat slowly and the spicy liquids don’t much appeal  to me. He refills   the vegetable cup. I swat the flies away. I am full. At the door I pay what the locals pay and leave, ready for whatever slithers my way with Naryana’s name on my lips.

A Democratic Toilet

I can’t afford to be squeamish here in India when I go to the ladies room. Even that term doesn’t exist. If you ask for the ladies room no one will know what you want unless they’re U.S. “ returned” as it’s refered to  here. They speak plainly, much of their usage a remnant from the past. They don’t even use the word bathroom. For them, that is where one takes a bath. Here one asks for the toilet, no euphemisms please. I like this no nonsense approach. However, the range of toilets vary greatly.

Last night I took an overnight train in air conditioned class, which is the best that Indian Railways offers. As a long time traveler to India, the toilets come as no surprise. This time I tried to view them as if I had never been to India before. There are two toilet cabins at each end of every car. Only one is labeled, “western.” A western toilet, for those of you who never heard the expression before, is where one actually sits down on the seat. An Indian toilet is essentially some form of a hole where one squats over it.

Though one pays considerably more for AC class, the toilets are much to be desired. I avoid the Western toilet at all costs. They are always filthy. Indian men use them without ever lifting the seat so they are always wet and sometimes even smeared. Once while traveling in AC class, an older woman seated across from me showed me how she dealt with this problem as she suffered from arthritis and couldn’t squat. She cut out toilet seat covers from newspaper and carried them with her.

The squatters are a better, cleaner option, though if one has creaky knees it’s a true challenge. Most Indians don’t use toilet paper either. They consider it a filthy way to deal with one’s waste! They use water and their left hand. Consequently, the floor is always wet. I know to roll up my pants before I do anything. This may seem like a reason not to travel by train but it certainly doesn’t discourage me. It’s just part of the journey.

I have to include the winged toilets in this description. They are a disappearing breed and never to be found aboard Indian Railways. They are my favorite toilet seats. The toilet is like any other Western one: upright. It’s the seat that is noteworthy. I call it winged because one can sit on it and squat on it as well because it has an extension with ridges for one’s feet on the outer rim and it looks winged. Don’t expect to fly anywhere on it; it isn’t a magic toilet. It’s just a truly democratic toilet;  perfect for India-the world’s largest democracy.

Seeing Virgins

Last night while Pat, Felix and I were walking back after  lap swimming at the Pitt St. pool, Felix thought he saw a virgin. He openly admits that it could have been an illusion. Felix is Puerto Rican and he knows alot more about this than I do. After all, he grew up around virgins, especially the Virgin Mary. I  know the Virgen de Guadalupe, and only secondhand, so to speak. She’s very beloved in Mexico where I spend quite a few months every year.

Pat and I laughed along at Felix’s vision but it brought me back to when I was spending alot of time in Guatemala designing fabrics with the Mayan weavers and producing my own line of women’s clothing in the mountain town of Quetazltenango. 

Though the people in the region are largely indigenous, many of them are devout Catholics. They love and honor their Virgen too. I started to hear tales of a relic that was drawing devotees from all over the country and even from distant shores. A perfect image of the Virgen miraculously appeared in the bottom of a humble family’s frying pan; visible in the thin veneer of grease left from cooking. She became known as the Virgen de la Sarten-the Virgin of the Frying Pan. I often showed people how to find the home that housed the sought after relic. Though with time people stopped asking. And like so many other Virgins, she was forgotten.

Tonight we passed the spot  on East Second Street,where Felix thought he saw the Virgin. We looked very closely. It was a large, standing, beach umbrella shut closed on a rooftop terrace. We are all disappointed that there isn’t a Virgin among us but there’s laughter and laps, summer evening strolls and a crescent moon.