limbs like sausage links, whose parents had dumped the big-eyed bundle on my lap. This was a large number of people for an area that could comfortably take eight, but four dangled from the luggage racks and one man sat happily on his friend’s knee, stroking his leg. If I so much as touched Passepartout’s arm, every pair of eyes would stare at me, but jiggling around in another man’s lap was perfectly acceptable.
The rest of the group squashed against one another, holding briefcases on their laps, tickled by the intruders in their compartment. I felt like the new kid on the school bus. Nobody spoke much English and my limited understanding of Tamil went back to one long and boring summer holiday when my brother and I would call up the speaking clock and pretend to order soft drinks from the automated voice. We would let her finish her tongue-twisting spiel before clearing throats and replying:
‘Mmm, rende Pepsi, rende 7Up, romba thanks,’ before collapsing into giggles.
Memories of this early role-play helped when it came to buying things in twos, but at this moment verbal communication was stunted, though gestures were fully operational.
From the mass camaraderie it was evident that the group worked at the same office and this was their regular commute. It was unclear what they did, but they were firm friends despite their ages ranging from early 20s to late 60s. There was also a clear hierarchy. My interrogator, an elderly man with buckteeth, was head boy and sat in the centre of the row. His loyal prefects flanked him and the juniors sat in the overhead racks, open to good-natured bullying, which involved the odd pinch and name-calling. Having established that I did not understand Tamil, they combined forces to elicit as much detail as possible, poking at the cameras and pointing at my diary, which I readily handed over.
‘Writingwriting,’ said one of the prefects.
‘Yes, journalist,’ I replied, adopting a suddenly ridiculous accent.
‘Jhurr-nalist?’ said the other prefect. ‘Oh-ho.’
A combination of photographs, hand gestures, sketches and passing around the stack of train tickets, revealed the nature of our travels to the group.
‘ Aiyyo !’ exclaimed the head boy, slapping his palm to his forehead and then thrusting it up at me. It was an elegant expression that meant, ‘you moron’. The whole compartment broke out into laughter.
‘ Appa name?’
I knew that asking my father’s name was a disguised attempt at finding out my caste, which I could not help them with. I had never known it, nor did I care. But in India it is important to establish certain facets early on in a conversation as it sets the dynamics for the ensuing relationship. To most visitors to India, this is just the Indian way of making conversation, in the way that the English cannot resist discussing the weather, or Americans, discussing themselves. In truth, this is often a more measured process. Each question establishes where the other person sits on the social spectrum: surnames give away caste and social standing; jobs indicate earnings and therefore power, as does revealing where you live. Once they have all the answers, they can assign people to categories and gauge how useful the acquaintance will be in the future. In this situation, our new friends were simply having fun with us and I loved their unabashed game. But I too could play the game.
‘Rajesh,’ I said, knowing full well there would be confusion. There was. The head boy frowned and shook his head.
‘Monisha … ?’
‘Rajesh.’ I repeated, bringing out my passport to stir things up a little. Four people leant forward, grabbing its corners. Rajesh was indeed my surname, but it was actually my father’s first name. Our surname should have been Naidu, but trying to explain why, would have been futile. After a few minutes of playing dumb, I conceded.
‘Naidu.’
‘TELUGU?!’ shouted the head boy, his eyes like saucers.
I nodded.
Elated,
The rest of the group squashed against one another, holding briefcases on their laps, tickled by the intruders in their compartment. I felt like the new kid on the school bus. Nobody spoke much English and my limited understanding of Tamil went back to one long and boring summer holiday when my brother and I would call up the speaking clock and pretend to order soft drinks from the automated voice. We would let her finish her tongue-twisting spiel before clearing throats and replying:
‘Mmm, rende Pepsi, rende 7Up, romba thanks,’ before collapsing into giggles.
Memories of this early role-play helped when it came to buying things in twos, but at this moment verbal communication was stunted, though gestures were fully operational.
From the mass camaraderie it was evident that the group worked at the same office and this was their regular commute. It was unclear what they did, but they were firm friends despite their ages ranging from early 20s to late 60s. There was also a clear hierarchy. My interrogator, an elderly man with buckteeth, was head boy and sat in the centre of the row. His loyal prefects flanked him and the juniors sat in the overhead racks, open to good-natured bullying, which involved the odd pinch and name-calling. Having established that I did not understand Tamil, they combined forces to elicit as much detail as possible, poking at the cameras and pointing at my diary, which I readily handed over.
‘Writingwriting,’ said one of the prefects.
‘Yes, journalist,’ I replied, adopting a suddenly ridiculous accent.
‘Jhurr-nalist?’ said the other prefect. ‘Oh-ho.’
A combination of photographs, hand gestures, sketches and passing around the stack of train tickets, revealed the nature of our travels to the group.
‘ Aiyyo !’ exclaimed the head boy, slapping his palm to his forehead and then thrusting it up at me. It was an elegant expression that meant, ‘you moron’. The whole compartment broke out into laughter.
‘ Appa name?’
I knew that asking my father’s name was a disguised attempt at finding out my caste, which I could not help them with. I had never known it, nor did I care. But in India it is important to establish certain facets early on in a conversation as it sets the dynamics for the ensuing relationship. To most visitors to India, this is just the Indian way of making conversation, in the way that the English cannot resist discussing the weather, or Americans, discussing themselves. In truth, this is often a more measured process. Each question establishes where the other person sits on the social spectrum: surnames give away caste and social standing; jobs indicate earnings and therefore power, as does revealing where you live. Once they have all the answers, they can assign people to categories and gauge how useful the acquaintance will be in the future. In this situation, our new friends were simply having fun with us and I loved their unabashed game. But I too could play the game.
‘Rajesh,’ I said, knowing full well there would be confusion. There was. The head boy frowned and shook his head.
‘Monisha … ?’
‘Rajesh.’ I repeated, bringing out my passport to stir things up a little. Four people leant forward, grabbing its corners. Rajesh was indeed my surname, but it was actually my father’s first name. Our surname should have been Naidu, but trying to explain why, would have been futile. After a few minutes of playing dumb, I conceded.
‘Naidu.’
‘TELUGU?!’ shouted the head boy, his eyes like saucers.
I nodded.
Elated,
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