Thekvasan Road

There is a street that I remember distinctly from my childhood in
India
named Thekvasan road. It was a beautiful stretch of unmarked tar
bordered
by sand and cow dung and employed more frequently by dogs and
bicycles,
than by cars. We were not a very well off family, as were all the
other
families that occupied that neighborhood, and every time some big-shot
got
lost and wondered upon our humble street in his big motorcar, we would
all
run out to the gates in a show of earnest admiration. Those old cars
were
simply beautiful, immense metal structures that glided on wheels
almost
defiantly, letting the sahib in the back seat ride comfortably and,
most
amazingly, in the cool miracle of air-conditioning. We sat in the humid
sticky
heat swatting off the summer flies and sometimes, the driver would honk
his
horn twice and we would take it as a greeting, responding with cheers
and
excited waves. Afterwards, we would sit around, imagine what it would
be
like inside one of those cars, and pretend that we would own one
someday.
We made futile promises to lend the car to each other whenever a
friend
needed it, as long as he did not spill anything inside. I remember us
taking
the dining table chairs, arranging them, three chairs in front and
three
chairs at the back, and taking turns to be the driver and the
sahib.
About ten years later now, we have all grown up and left
Thekvasan
Road. I migrated to America and lost touch with every single boy with
whom
I used to spend those long summer afternoons. Eventually, my wonder
of
automobiles decided my fate and I ended up as a designer for Ford
motors. As
the years went by, I completed my MBA and took on a managerial
position
with the company. I must say that I am proud of the position I have
reached,
not because of the height of the title, but because of the depths from
where I
came. Quite often, my mind has wondered back to Thekvasan Road and
the
life that I shed with my innocence. Therefore, it came as no surprise
when my
thoughts once again decided my fate and forced me to go back to
my
childhood abode.
Well, to be more precise, fate did not really say that I had to go
back to
Thekvasan road, but simply that I must go back to Madras, India. It
turned
out that one of my Uncles had passed away, and that I was somehow in
his
will. I say somehow, because I never knew this uncle of mine. Perhaps
he had
known my guardians, for I had been orphaned at birth by, as irony
would
have it, a car accident, and two lovely people who could not have
children of
their own had adopted me. Either way, common courtesy dictated that
I
attend his funeral and so I packed my bags for a weeklong trip to a
land that
I had not stepped on since I was about eighteen.
My first concern was language and my current fluency of Tamil. I
had
not met a single south Indian during my stay in America, surprisingly,
and
my command of the language had been slowly degenerating. I
practiced
talking to myself in Tamil as I packed and pondered over the meanings
of
words that were common usage at one time. Either way, I was sure that
if all
else failed, I could get by on broken Tamil-English. I tried not to
think too
much about making a visit to Thekvasan Road, for it was about two
hours
away from where I was going and I knew that it would be foolish of me
to
assume that I could rent a car and drive in India. It is an amazing
thing, the
immunity that you experience while living in that country, and the
speed at
which you lose it once you leave. Half the weight of my bags was
only
medicines and detoxifiers, for I knew without a doubt that I was going
to fall
ill at best, and suffer food poisoning at worst, inflicted by the same
food at the
same kinds of eateries that I used to patronize daily. Likewise, trying
to drive
under Indian road conditions is not to be attempted by anyone, save for
the
experienced and perhaps for the World Rally Championship participants.
My
only other possible means of getting to Thekvasan was to hire a car and
then
look for a trustworthy driver, having no clue as to what makes a driver
at
first glance, trustworthy. So to avoid disappointment, I tried not to
think too
much about making a visit to the shrine of my formative years.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As it turned out, my uncle, who had passed away, was related to
my
late guardians. After the funeral formalities, I realized that I had
over-
estimated the duration of the proceedings. I had though that I would be
in
India for at least a week, but after three days all that there was left
to do was
to admire his gravestone. Now the temptation nestled on the tip of my
tongue
and I began to look around for options as to find my way to Thekvasan
Road.
I called the local tourist office and they suggested that I call the
local taxi
company. The lady at the tourist office seemed to have faith in the
worthiness
of the taxi company, so I decided to try them out. I arranged for a car
to pick
me up at my hotel the next morning and it would at my disposal the
whole
day.
I must mention that contrary to my earlier worries, I was
managing
quite well, language wise. In fact, I had hardly uttered any words of
Tamil,
except to a cashier at a small cornershop who did not understand the
English
word, cigarette. I was pleasantly surprised by this development of
language
and even more so by the development of transportation. The roads in
Madras
(which was now called Chennai) were no longer chocked by huge Indian
made
diesel cars refitted with truck engines. Instead, the Japanese concept
of
smaller, more efficient vehicles was catching on. Hondas and Suzukis
were
everywhere, although my taxi driver would complain later about how
they
just cannot handle Indian road conditions.
My driver picked me up exactly forty-five minutes after the time I
had
instructed. He was a young chap of not more that twenty-five with a
face
covered in rough stubble and a cheesy grin showing all his paan
stained
teeth. His hair was short and thick and almost looked like an Afro,
until upon
closer observation I noticed that is was parted down the middle. He
wore a
loose fitting brown shirt (at least I believe it was originally
intended to be
brown, not white) and khaki slacks, ending with a worn out pair of
rubber
slippers. As soon as I opened my hotel room door, he held out his bony
hand
and said his name was Saleem. I put my hand in his and was surprised
by
the relative softness of his palm as compared to his weather beaten
face. I
introduced myself and he led the way downstairs to the waiting
car.
The car that he had brought was not one of the new Japanese cars.
In
fact, I highly doubt if it was even new. It was an immense
Hindustan
Ambassador, a diesel powered beast that could travel on any road
surface. I
jumped into the back seat with glee, as would a child on a ride in a
theme
park, and we took off. I gazed outside my window at the ever
changing
scenery of the new India, feeling alienated not only because I left her
shores,
but because I was not there to watch her grow. Like the father that
leaves his
daughter as a baby and returns when she is a woman to claim his rights,
only
to be rejected because he was not there to take care of her as she
blossomed. I
had left India, and she had gone on growing without me and all I was to
her
was a distant memory, as she was to me. So we gazed at each other
through
the tinted windows of the taxi, remembering old times, places, smells
and
tastes.
Eventually we arrived at my town of Vandajur and I eagerly sat up
in
my seat, recognizing that nothing looked the same. However, the layout
of
the town had not changed much, except for a few streets that must have
been
built new. It is not easy to lose ones sense of direction in a place
where they
were brought up, even if everything else about that place is a foggy
memory.
So I was able to direct Saleem to where I believed Thekvasan Road
started,
branching out from Cricketground circle, and sure enough, there it
was.
It was somehow very comforting to see that the sign mounted on
the
telephone pole remained the same. I looked down the street and a rush
of an
intangible emotion swelled inside me. For all the growing India had
done, she
had saved a little memory for my return. Thekvasan Road looked just
like it
had when I was a child. I think if my memory serves me right, that
there
were a few more trees along the length of the road, but other than
that, it
was breathlessly unchanged. Saleem must have understood why I had
come
all the way here because without a word, he slowed the car down and
coasted
down the road. I wanted to step out of the car and walk on that
pavement of
sand, but I knew I should not for it would spoil the picture, so I sat
still in the
car, captured helpless by the memory of the scenery passing outside
my
window.
We passed right by my old house, my old headquarters, my old
kingdom. I was so caught up in looking for any sign that my old friends
had
come back, that they were living here again, that I did not immediately
notice
a small group of five boys squatting in the sand and swatting away
the
summer flies. When they eventually did enter my consciousness, I smiled
in
memory of my friends and asked Saleem to tap the horn twice. As soon as
he
did, they smiled at me at waved excitedly. I waved back to them, but it
was
only after I came back to America that I remembered that my windows
were
tinted. They never saw me wave back to them.