Chastity & Gold

Late one evening, in the damp belly of crooked city-canyons, I strolled hand in hand with Devi, my Indian guide and new bahen-- 'sister in Hindi'. We jumped over sludge puddles and darted out of rickshaw paths in sync, hips swaying, kicking our feet out in that subtle Indian saunter. Street goats hopsped out of our way as we stopped at a street vendor to buy ropes of fresh jasmine to braid in each other's hair in the morning. 

I watched her haggle with the wallah (vendor), she is a very slender woman-- probably the height of my 10 year-old brother and half his weight. She swims in her bright, double patterned salwar kameez, hiding her birdlike arms and legs. Despite her stature, she demands a presence in the honest, no-bull shit way she carries herself. I would imagine Taylor Swift or Dakota Fanning to have a similar voice, with such pure open heartened intonation that no one could ever wish to do them ill. She shows the world only love and when it does not reciprocate, her thin eyebrows and button nose crunch up on her specs in utter disbelief--a countenance so charming, no human is impervious. 

The jasmine vendor surrenders to her contagious goodness, offers her the right price for a handful of perfumed white blossoms--  "theek hai, challo bahen" she smiles at me, pinches my cheek, "okay, let's go sister." We hop off the crumbled sidewalk over some discarded coconuts and continue meandering. A few paces down, Devi grabs my forearm to cross the clogged street, we snake in between rickshaws and carts and camels and cars, I glance back towards the jasmine-wallah and could only make out the faint spectrum of sarees circumventing his street tarp amidst the honking and the smog. 

Devi is a staff member at MCCSS who has embraced me into her life, treating me like a long-lost friend from the moment we met. She giggles constantly and strokes my hair and lays her head on my shoulder in the train and feeds me too many chappatis and teaches me hindi and sings butchered Rihanna songs and plucks lice out of my hair--a true friend. 

Indian affection is a beautiful thing. It needs no incubation period, there is no guise-- merely honest, exuberant expression of love for human connection, the oneness that brings us all together. Once you expose your nuggets of vulnerable humanness to an Indian, showing them that you are the same at your core, they express their affinity in a deluge akin only to sisterly or motherly love in the West. 

She was walking me back to the train station, as she always did when I stayed at her apartment past dark, despite my knowing the way and it being only two blocks down. "Alone nihi bahen," she adamantly replied, wrapping a shawl over my head and shoving a third serving of rice on my plate, "finish and we go, theek hai?" Stubbornness is another ubiquitous trait of Indian woman--there is always an opportunity to impose their 'right' way of doing things, whether it be with eating, sitting, speaking, drinking, or wearing your dupatta. The pushy interferences that westerners would view as appallingly rude are just avatars of that intense affection mentioned above. 

We reached the train station and merged into the current of bodies being funneled up and down staircases to various platforms. "So much rush, na?" Devi shouted. 

"Bahut!" I replied, "too much!," shoving a man beside me. We struggled through the nightly wrestling match and perched ourselves near the 'ladies only' platform. 

Just then I heard the booming echo of the railway chai-wallah's chorus reverberate off the steel blue tented awning. "Chai garam! Chai! Chai! Chai garam! Masala chaiya!"---"Hot tea! Tea! Tea! Hot tea! Spicy tea!" I find it hard to pass up that baritone catchphrase, immediately scrummaging for my last 10 rupee note as I followed his voice down the crowded strip of cement between parallel tracks where vermin feasted. 

When I found Miss Devi again, she was squished between two plump older women busting out of their neon sarees with jaundiced skin and too many gold chains, South Indian style. They quickly made space for half my butt-cheeck--which is considered beyond ample room. I squeezed in and handed Devi her scalding paper teacup. She was in a daze--said nothing but sipped her tea slowly, holding it like an expert, with fingertips delicately fastening top and bottom lips of the cup so you don't get burnt.

"Kyaa baat hai bahen?" I asked, "What's the matter sister?" 

She sighed and murmured with tea in her cheeks, "Your Hindi makes me very happy Kand," using her new pet name for me. Indians very much struggle with the pronunciation of my name--it is either Kandle or Kenol, there's no middle ground. 

I stayed silent, observing the clucking ladies around me with faith that Devi would reply in due time. There is no place like India to teach you patience. The train was already 20 minutes late, yet no one was bothered. People drank chai, sat cross legged on the dusty ground to read the paper, tied knots of jasmine flowers in circles of silk and slick black braids, and caught up with those around them--leave it to India to find a sense of community in a city of 6 million. While it was obvious that everyone was waiting, there was no urgency in the delay, almost as if they understood this to be out of their hands. 

Things happen when they happen-- there's a bead of Hindu culture for you, the value of process, not destination. And it is true, that something I am truly learning is how to be in the present moment; Mother India demands this of us. And it seems irrationally constraining at first, the way in which your choices are limited-- you have to eat all your food, you have to cover your head and tits, you have to endure the heat, you have to wake up at 4:30am when the call of the Mosque invades your sweaty sleep. But in reality all of our life is boiled down to the simple choice of opening your heart up to new experiences or hibernating in fear. 

"You can't forget me when you go home Kand," Devi whispered as she lifted her head off my shoulder, interrupting my rumination and meeting my gaze with those caring onyx eyes. 

"Of course I won't," I replied, caught off guard by her quivering tone, "how could I?"

"We're family, na?--sisters," she cackled and slapped the back of my hand, "You come to my wedding, okay?" 

She burst out, rolling in laughter as she often did, even when the situation wasn't particularly humorous. I caught on and sputtered between giggles, "and just when is that going to be Devi-didi? Are you and Anandh going to elope?"

His name took the breath out of her--quieted down and eyes cast aside, she solemnly recounted her recent issues with her boyfriend. They had been 'seeing' each other for around 6 months now. Recently Devi took him up North to her home state, Odisha (Orissa), to meet her family, which is a very serious move in Indian relationship talk. The two hadn't seen each other in two months. He no longer called or texted; she was heartbroken. Like most Western women I know, she automatically blamed herself, "I don't know what I did wrong Kand, I thought we would get married," Devi said with a click of the tongue and a roll of her watery eyes. She twisted my hair with her bony fingers; "When we love, we give the whole heart." She paused and sniffled, "s'not so easy to find one to take it though, isn't it?" 

You must understand that the term 'boyfriend' in India is a hop, skip, and jump from the term 'fiancee'--so much so that the terms are often intermixable. When two people enter into a courtship, they seek marriage partners, that's it. And a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship entails meeting for coffee or strolling on the beach (most likely with parental chaperones) or texting each other the lyrics to a Bollywood love-song. Pre-marital one-on-one time is rare and often frowned upon if it doesn't occur in very public places. As another one of my colleagues chortled upon my inquiry with this subject-- "in India, people love chastity almost as much as they love gold," as he took a drag of his beedie, a sip of his chai,  "which is saying a lot my friend." 

For Indians, marriage is the apex of life. It is all they dream about, search for, work towards. Their penchant for familial expansion is a fascinating phenomenon; once you've had your marriage and given birth to a boy, you can practically retire socially because you have 'made it.' And until that point, every fluttering female in a saree will badger you, try to fatten you up or spread skin-whitening cream on your cheeks for beauty and consult the stars for guidance until you are happily settled.

Speaking of consulting the stars, I cannot touch on the topic of love and marriage in India without going into the common practice of arranged marriages. When Westerners hear the term, I think we envision some form of forced child marriage or people having no say in with whom they are matched. And while this more traditional version of arranged marriage is certainly still practiced in rural parts of India, as with everything in this transforming country, there is a modern, more fluid version of this concept emerging. 

"Things just kind of came together for us," a friend, Vijay, explained to me over a breakfast of aloo parota, sweet curd and masala chai. Vijay was very recently engaged, and I felt comfortable enough to ask him about the subject of arranged marriage. "We started communicating online, on a website for people looking for marriage, kind of like your dating websites in the West." He was always good at making these sorts of comparisons; as a Tamil Brahmin, the most prestigious Hindu caste, he was fortunate enough to study in the UK and is familiar with the cultural idiosyncrasies. "I checked out her profile, our stars matched and our parents were happy with the family backgrounds," he continued, stirring more sugar into his already tooth-achingly sweet chai, "so we met for coffee and now we are to be married in November." 

Arranged marriage for more affluent Indians is not as strict as we would imagine. Earlier Vijay had told me how he had met with other women before, and recognized that they were not a good match. And although his parents and family were very much involved in the prospect of marriage, with their approval meaning the world to Vijay, in the end the choice was his. He felt that this match was meant to be. His ecstatic energy was palpable, but my head was swimming with questions.

"So, does it not bother you that you guys have only known each other for such a short time? I mean you've hung out like twice. How can you be sure she is the one?"

He bobbed his head and smiled, looking at me like a naive child, not out of condescension, but with a sincere  desire to make me understand. "This is not America-- marriage is not so complicated. We both want a companion; we both want a family; we are both committed; our families get along; she is beautiful enough; that is all that matters," Vijay stated matter-of-factly with a wave of his hand. He finished the gesture by tearing off a piece of his parota, scooped it into the sugar sprinkled curd like a spoon and ate it with the expert grace of someone who has been eating with their right-hand all their life. He looked into the distance,  observing the view from the rooftop-restaurant, contemplating his decided future. 

Above us loomed a grand hindu temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, the tip of the step-wise edifice slowly emerging from the morning fog. Monkeys swung from the chipped arms of sexy-lady statues lining the temple facade down to the terrace level, strategically perching themselves above overflowing fruit stands, waiting for their chance to swoop breakfast. "Everything else we will work out in time," Vijay started again, "with guidance from our parents, we will make a happy life."

The Indian conception of marriage is obviously quite different from that in the West. They understand it as a long term, life commitment, and not a flurried, passionate romance; marriage comes first, and then, if you're lucky, love will blossom out of mutual respect. It is understood that wild romance is a thing for the youngsters, puppy love if you will. And it takes a different caliber of relationship, a more mature, realistic and grounded relationship to make a marriage. With that lens grounded in real facts of married life, they're process of arranged marriage and ornery family intrusion makes more sense. 

The truth is that modern day arranged marriages cover a lot of bases which end up unraveling many matches in the West. Once a young adult has grown out of his or her puppy love phase and they are ready to make a commitment, they seek someone who is on the very same page, ready to take that leap into the next phase of life. They make sure the two families get along, that the in-laws accept the spouse, that everyone is making money in the same playing field (cause lord knows the epicenter of cashflow, and all its refracting quarrels, can also be the nascence of a deal breaker), and most importantly, that you don't have to be wildly fanatic about your spouse because in the end, all that matters is the commitment, the willingness to get through the tough times after the honeymoon fades.

  

India lays all her cards on the table in this way-- all of her uglies and vulnerabilities and raw humanness is exposed in such visceral manifestations that it can be overwhelming and seems almost ludicrous. Because it is a crazy way to go about life, especially for someone from a culture that makes a living out of shuffling pain under the rug, to say, ' hey this shit gets rough so lets be honest about it and stake out a support network.' And every genuine Indian countenance I have encountered speaks that life is brutal but beautiful, so we should trudge on with bright smiles, compassionate heads and light hearts because it's worth it. And in this willingness to be vulnerable, India has taught me the true meaning of courage. 

I believe our fear of shame, guilt, and ugliness in every sense of the word, is the bane of many relationships and other facets of societal functioning in the West. How can we expect to live a life full of light when we can't confront the dark?  The truth is, we can't. So we fill our time with surface routines and relationships, without ever diving into murky waters, out of fear--of being rejected, of being found out, of being a vulnerable, imperfect human. 

The common pattern with people my age in the States is to fill our lives with glittering career paths instead of filling our tank with long-lasting, meaningful relationships. This is a cop-out. In this routine, we get to keep to ourselves and never truly open up to another human--we stay safe in our own glorified quest for independence. I often find myself recanting the mantra, "only make decisions for yourself, don't let anyone infringe on your lifepath." But at what point can we decide to lift the strike, and widen our avenue of possibilities to include that of another whom we care about? 

Its the biggest game of bull-shit my generation faces. We all play it off like we don't care, like were only in this life to please ourselves and that we don't need another human to fulfill us. Granted, in college, this is easy-- an almost necessary adaptation to survive in the environment of erratic interaction savoring something of romance (when I say erratic I mean belligerent).  

I can recount numerous instances when I have been talking with my girlfriends in college, or even during my internal tete'a'tete, when a chic will be brought up. We will peel back each layer, starting with her fashion sense, overall demeanor, any embarrassing drunken stories, and finally to the topic of sex. And when it is found out that she has a long term boyfriend, perhaps from high school or since freshman year, even a few months, collective sighs will billow in between clicks of judgement, always masking resent. 

Being in a relationship in college is almost like a death sentence. In my experience, all of my girlfriends who got boyfriends, except one who is a badass (you know who you are miss jack daniels infused turtle-tatt), were practically unheard of from that point forward. Either because they had no interest in going downtown, because who really wants to go downtown when you have a wonderful person you can cuddle up to all night, or because they were subsumed by his friend group. 

And it becomes a part of the single gal's pathetic superiority complex--like "I don't need a man to validate me," and "those bitches who do are insecure or weak or too scared to fend for themselves and to feel the bitter-twinge of lonely soul-searching." But deep down, we all want the same thing---to be heard, to be accepted, to have someone who understands us, who knows us and wants to be there despite all of the bullshit; someone who is willing to explore with you in this terrifying realm of commitment. 

I think a part of me hung on to the idea that college, or just my twenties in general, should be this time of great personal development. Like there are caverns only I can explore, which is valid and bears definite truth. But after all the personal, psychological spelunking, one has to come back to the surface and share what they have found in the depths. I am coming to recognize that there are some things you just can't learn about yourself until you see them reflected in the eyes of another who accepts you for you.

Devi crumpled up her teacup and tossed it on the rail-way tracks in front of us. She then glided over to the rusty faucet under a sign, 'Water Good Drink,' rinsing the masala sweetness out of her mouth and hands. She came back and instinctively linked my arm, "Puah Kand," she fluttered, readjusting my dupatta and slicking stray hair behind my ears. "Even though the men they cause us the pain, we will have it a happy life, no? Because the man and the woman--we need each other, isn't it?" She grinned brightly, throwing her head back as her bellowing cackle was swallowed by the noise of an approaching train. 

I shoved my way into the ladies coach and staked out a seat with Devi shouting Tamil commands at her fellow sareed akkas from her perch on the platform. "And Kand?" she shouted. 

"kyaa bahen?"-- " what sister?" 

"God-willing, you bring your musician-man to my wedding too, theek hai?" 

And a smile from deep within my chest tugged at my cheeks. I nodded and waved goodbye as the train lurched forward, enveloped by the tepid Chennai evening, with that contagious courage to believe in happy endings wafting into the carriage with the dust and the street chatter and the eternal smell of jasmine.