I learn from a magazine that chacku is a pocket knife, whose blade is operated by a button. Town of its origin is Rampuri in state Uttar Pradesh. The only reason I am mentioning this is unmistakable similarity between chacku and Bosnian name for a pocket knife: cakija.

While having breakfast this morning I was watching a man, possibly in his fifties, climbing the coconut tree in front of my building and removing dry leaves and coconuts. I took a few snapshots.

Cool job

Tonight I had a lesson in Indian cuisine! Kausalya and Hema, two girls from the office, offered to teach me how to make a few popular dishes after I showed interest in preparing Indian food. After work we took Kausalya's car and on the way to my apartment stopped by a few places to get necessary ingredients. First stop was a sea food store. The shop is located by the sidewalk and it consists of a small room where the fish is being packaged and sold, a back room where it is cut, and a covered customer area, which is separated from the rest by a counter with a glass shield. The shop is not the cleanest place I have ever seen and it is swarmed with flies. Obviously, nothing unusual for anybody else, so I decide to go along. We get some fish called seer, cut into fillets for frying, and some prawn. Chicken is next. Hygiene at the chicken place is a notch or two down from the sea food shop. It is a small and completely open store on the sidewalk of one of the busiest streets. A chicken is hanging from the ceiling surrounded by a swarm of flies. This will push my stomach to its limits. Next stop is my neighborhood store and then we go to my place.

My teachers don't waste their time: washing, cutting, chopping, preparation of spices. Kausalya is making chicken biryani, a rice dish with chicken and vegetables. Hema will demonstrate how to make prawn masala and fried fish. As far as ingredients go the dishes are not very complex, but list of spices is astonishing: chili powder, coriander (aka. cilantro, it is used in form of powder, seeds, and leaves), turmeric, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, coconut, several kinds of seeds. It is a delight watching them balancing all these spices without a single measurement. Hema is only twenty five, but she is giving away a lot of experience in the kitchen. She tells us that she has cooked since she was fourteen, which explains a few things.

Hema and Kausalya in action

Dinner is ready and we sit to eat. Everything is very delicious. It is difficult to say which dish is my favorite but if hard pressed I would go for the prawn. Biryani is also very rich, and the fish is simple but tasty. We enjoy the food and talk. I feel bad because after the meal they don't even allow me to wash the dishes. It is already getting late and they must leave. I walk them out and thank them. What a wonderful treat that was!

I rode a motorcycle in Chennai! Anybody who visited a big city in India will know that that is something to write home about. Suresh Kumar was going to give me a ride home from the office last night, but then he made a mistake of offering me to drive. I accepted it wholeheartedly, had a great time and actually managed to take us home. Although, I must admit that streets were half empty, and we didn't encounter any of the horror situations that are common part of driving here.

But then today another opportunity arose to try myself exactly in that kind driving. I was planning a weekend trip to Bangalore, aka Indian Silicon Valley, located some six train-hours north-west of Chennai. I was actually attracted by Coorg, a hilly area a couple of hundred kilometers west of Bangalore. Muthukumar recommended the place for hiking, and I couldn't imagine anything better to escape city heat for a day or two. In order to get train tickets I had to go to the train station and Pachai kindly offered to give me a ride and accompany me on this not so simple task. He also offered me to drive the bike and I don't refuse that kind of offer. But this time situation was different. It was two o'clock, and while not exactly a rush hour, streets were pretty crowded. Surprisingly, what looks like chaos of the highest magnitude from a pedestrian perspective, started showing certain rules once I became a part of it. These are not to be confused with traffic rules one learns in traffic school. They should more appropriately be called traffic customs, but even that is hardly visible from outside. In any case I am considering buying a bike.

Unfortunately, I didn't get the tickets because foreign tourist quota for which tickets were only available doesn't apply to my business visa. Still it was fun to learn the process of buying train tickets in India and useful as a lesson for planning ahead next time.

Everybody liked my ladyfingers! Or so they said, at least.

I woke up early and went for a run. The produce guy with his cart-cycle was in front of the building as I was leaving it so I buy some fresh vegetables because I am planning more cooking today. After the run I get newspaper and go home for a long breakfast and coffee. Then I finish a few blog entries from the last week, read a bit and start browsing through my cookbook. I decide that my first serious attempt in South Indian cuisine will be ladyfingers in tamarind gravy. I saw and tasted ladyfingers for the first time a few days ago. It is a green vegetable, size of a finger, pointed at one end, with cross-section similar to jalapenos. Tamarind is similar to dates, and it is used as a spice because of its strong sweet and sour flavor. It is sold as a large sticky lump and usually only a small piece is needed for a dish. I soak a piece of it in hot water. I also cook some lentil, which is used as a base for many Indian dishes. Then stir all that on heated oil with some mustard seeds and turmeric powder and my lunch is ready. I like the taste, but even after a month of Indian food it is a little unusual. I don't want to make any conclusions. I will bring leftovers tomorrow to work and let my native friends make the judgment.

I get up at six and go to yoga. It seems that temperature didn't go down over night. After yoga I get home and fall asleep in the comfort of my air-conditioned bedroom. In the afternoon I go out. I first have a lunch and then go shopping for food. First I get a coffee maker in a store with household items. Across the street there is a coffee shop. They have only two kinds of coffee, “One for strength, and the other for flavor,” explains the old man behind the counter and makes a blend for me. Then I go to the local branch of “Food World”, a big supermarket chain, with the list of spices I compiled by browsing through my cookbook. Friendly and, I must say, cute Shabmila helps me with my list. Half of the items I see for the first time in my life. It is pretty exciting. I go home and make first coffee. My apartment finally feels like home! Indian custom is to boil a pot of milk after moving in. Bosnians make coffee!

In the evening I go to the playground across the street from the park, where I see guys playing basketball every time I pass by. I learn that they belong to a club and they are preparing for a tournament, but in a week, after the tournament is over, I am welcome to come and play with them. I shoot the hoops with them for a while and go home. I finish some emails and then decide to make my first chapati. Chapati is a kind of Indian pita bread. Dough is made by mixing whole wheat flour, salt and water. Chapatis are then made by rolling small pieces of dough into thin circles and cooking them on a flat surface, without any grease. First one is OK, although I didn't put enough salt in the mix. The other two are too hard. I made them too thin and overcooked them. Still, I am pretty excited. I prepared my first Indian dinner in India!

By following frequent references to Theodor W. Adorno in Ranko Bon's “Residua”, I came across a view that Adorno and Horkheimer share in their “Dialectic of Enlightenment”, which, in my opinion, defines a context in which modern progress should be analyzed, “Enlightenment is mythical fear radicalized,” claim the authors, because the ultimate drive for enlightenment is fear from unknown. This simple sentence explains a lot. We didn't really make that big of a breakthrough with our civilization of progress. We just approached the same problem in a different way, but the problem is still there. We still didn't free ourselves of our primordial fears and on that level we still function in the same way men have functioned throughout the history. It's just that we are little more “efficient” in venting our frustrations.

After work I went to buy a mosquito net, because of bad experience from the previous night. Then I went to Raj Palace, a nearby hotel, to have a dinner in their restaurant on the roof. It is a very pleasant place, elevated above polluted and dusty streets, cooled down by a sea breeze. I order a chicken kebab, which is actually a wrap made out of roti and stuffed with chicken and vegetables, and a Kingfisher. Actually, I ordered a naan too, but Ganesh, my waiter, realized that I didn't understand the concept of their kebab and canceled that order for me. A guy at a nearby table had a drinking session with his buddy over the phone.

At home my reading is interrupted by Thiru and Pachai. They brought the last missing piece for my stove. They install it and make it work! I am pretty excited, because I have been preparing for a while to start experimenting with Indian food. They also help me with the mosquito net. We celebrate job well done with some scotch.

Yesterday when I arrived in front of our office building the street was jammed with protesters of some sort. They looked angry and they were shouting something in front of the police station. Then they started to move toward Anna Salai, one of the busiest streets in Chennai, escorted by fairly indifferent policemen. One officer offered me a one-word explanation: elections. Some coworkers that arrived later told me that traffic in most of the city was blocked, because protesters chose to sit down on Anna Salai right at the rush hour. Today on the front page of the newspaper is a picture of a burning van. Demonstrations turned violent.

One of the things about India (I should say South India, since the North is different in many ways and I still haven't seen it, I shouldn't be talking about it) that is difficult not to notice is absence of aggression in everyday life. Even in the chaos of Chennai traffic in which few well behaved westerners wouldn't lose their nerves, Indians keep their almost other-wordly calm. It seems that the only time when these people turn violent is when they are incited to do so by their political leaders. In general, this violence will be directed either toward a rival political party or another religious group, Muslims, that is, but in both cases it is encouraged and sometimes even directly initiated by politicians. So here we have some of the members of a religion which discourages even killing of plants and views other world religions as simply different paths to the same truth (in Hinduism others don't go to hell), being ready for the most gruesome crimes against other human beings. Why is that so? Where does that need for violence come from?

Today we had a company picnic. My boss-couple is in town and we organized a group trip to one of the beach resorts slash amusement parks around 30 km south of the city. We all met around nine in front of the office, where a rented bus picked us up. Apart from the people that I see in the office every day, there were also a few wives, one husband and a couple of kids. The group divided itself right at the beginning along the sex lines and that's pretty much how it would stay for the rest of the day. The atmosphere is cheerful with certain amount of awkwardness of meeting familiar people in unfamiliar setting. It reminds me on school trips.

The most imortant thing in this part of the world.

The resort is pretty fancy and well maintained. A long sand beach, hundreds of coconut trees, freshly cut grass, little pavilions covered with dry palm leaves, cozy restaurant on the beach, and other stuff that make such resorts fancy and well maintained. We are welcomed at the gate with some orange juice and a sport kit, which includes cricket bat and balls and a volley ball. Men change into their shorts and go running after balls, while women remain in their saris and don't go anywhere. I am a little too enthusiastic about kicking the ball around barefoot while ignoring the burning sand and I get blisters in first fifteen minutes. So much for my recreation for the day (as a matter of fact, I did play some cricket later and even scored a couple of runs, although without running.)

(Risking their lives) under coconut trees.

By the lunch time it is so hot that no amount of shadow or sea breeze can do any difference. I actually like the idea about having lunch in an air-conditioned pavilion, a proposition which sounded pretty strange in the morning. Lunch is served buffet-style and I go for spicy vegetarian biryani with cool curd (yogurt) sauce, some naan, mutton (goat) and chicken masala. Food is excellent and its hot spices call for a cold beer, but that will have to wait. The rest of the day was spent mostly in avoiding the scorching sun and trying not to move too much. It was an easy and slow afternoon and in the evening we headed back to the city.

Today is Tamil New Year and I have a day off with no plans. There is no yoga today, so I go running in the park. Then breakfast and newspaper. Even though it's only eight, sun is already merciless. I decide that I wouldn't mind spending the day at home reading. First newspaper. Visit of Chinese prime minister is still the hottest topic. Reports, columns, interviews. Word “historic” is used very often. “Asian century” is also popular. And not without reason. Two countries with more than a third of world total population and the fastest growing economies may as well be foundation of next “super-block”. Another important event is a new bus line in Kashmir that crosses “Line of Control” between Pakistani and India controlled parts of the state. There is also large dose of optimism following this event, although, with a decent dose of restraint. It seems that both sides are honestly willing to start moving toward a peaceful solution, but steps are very small and cautious. In general, Indian newspaper are fairly positive at the moment and that is a nice change. News from Iraq are buried in the international section somewhere in the middle. On my way to that section I find that there is a show of traditional dance tonight at Chennai Music Academy. That could be interesting.

After the paper I switch to “Autobiography of a Yogi”, by Paramahansa Yogananda. It is well written and interesting, but full of miracles, and I am not sure how to take that. He sounds like an honest man in search for the truth and I want to believe him. On the other hand, I can not accept materialization of talismans, people not showing up on photographs or levitation. So he is either an honest but delusional man, or a liar. Not much to choose from, really. I wonder why people need miracles so much. Isn't life itself enough of a miracle?

After a short nap, I get up, shave (yes, no more barbers for me,) and leave. Music Academy is just across the street from the hotel in which I stayed two years ago. My favorite restaurant from that time is over there too and I head there first to get something to eat. Unfortunately, they didn't open yet, so I go to the hotel and have a meal there.

I arrive at the parking lot in front of Music Academy just in time when some shirtless elders were unloading from their van. They were being welcomed as somebody very important. I get in the half-empty theater and get a seat close to the stage. As soon as I sit down, the shirtless elders come to the stage, followed by some important shirted elders. One of the shirtless guys is obviously super important. And well overweight. As he made himself comfortable in a throne-like chair that was waiting for him at one end of the stage, everybody else started bowing to him. At the center of the stage there is a line-up of handful of chairs and one small coffee table. I am obviously in for more than just a dance. The important shirted elders and a woman in an elaborate dancing costume take seats in the chairs and the elders start giving speeches. They speak Tamil and I have no clue what they are saying. Last speech is given by the guy in the throne-like chair and it is long. The curtain is down, then up and the show starts. The dance is all about a childless couple who was ordered by a god to go to a pilgrimage, presumably in order to seize being childless. First the lady that was hanging out with the important men comes out on the stage a few times, walks around moving with the rhythm of the music and leaves. Then she is joined by another lady and they dance together for a while. After that there is a group of young dancers performing some more elaborate choreography. I don't understand the story or the language of the dance, but I enjoy watching it. The music is also very interesting, with many dramatic changes in rhythm. Still, I left before the show ended.

Traditional ballet

Well, the blog finally went live and got its first audience. Thanks to all for the compliments, and lack of criticism I will attribute to your kindness. Cheers.

I wake up early and head to the yoga school, I found a couple of days earlier, to my first yoga class. It is located on the first floor of an apartment building, and what I thought was their front office, is actually the class room. There is an office desk and a chair in one corner and remaining part of the floor is covered with four large but very thin mats. A girl in green traditional clothes is sitting close eyed on the floor in lotus position and a soft spoken guy with a pleasant but not really a yoga teacher appearance greets me. We settle formalities quickly and start with a lesson. He switches his attention between me and the girl very well and it feels almost like having a private lesson. I like it, except for the mat, which makes some positions pretty painful. At the end I pay the foreigner fee of Rs. 1000 ($23) for twenty five one-hour sessions, which is double of what natives pay, but still a steal, considering prices charged by American “gurus”.

No, this is not my barber

After having a masala dosa in a neighborhood restaurant, I go home to plan a visit to the Theosophical society. The society was founded in New York in 19^th century by a Russian woman and an American man on the grounds that behind all religions lies universal human need for God and that search for the truth about the world should be done from that perspective. The society's headquarters was later moved to Chennai, where it is located on a big property between two main beaches, whose main attraction is a big banyan tree, one of the three world's biggest. Banyan tree is interesting because of the ability of its branches to branch downward and dive into the ground, thus creating extensions of the root which, rather then through the trunk, feed the branches directly.

The Banyan tree

Finding the society isn't easy, despite its size and location, and the fact that nearby part of the city and everything in vicinity is named by Anne Besant, one of its presidents. I finally reach the gates a little after 11am, just to be informed that visitor's hours are 8-10am and 2-4pm, but I can go to the bookstore, which I do. The bookstore is small, but well stocked with religious, spiritual, and philosophical titles. One of the personnel is a friendly and very knowledgeable lady. I talk to her for a little while, pick “Raja Yoga” by Swami Vivekananda, “The Hidden Treasure” by Indian Nobel laureate R. Tagore, and “Universal Theosophy” by Robert Crosbie and leave.

Kind and knowledgeable bookseller

I still have a couple of hours to kill, so I take the road that follows society's southern border and merges into Besant road, which will take me to Elliot's beach. Along the road I talk to some kids and take their photos. I reach the beach at its north end, where a fisherman village is located and I proceed toward it. One fisherman was just returning from the see and, pointing to my camera, asked me where I was going. I realize that this was tsunami affected area and that he probably thinks that I want to take some misery pictures. We strike a conversation, but I don't understand much of what he is saying. At times he is very friendly, but at times he is furious. I pretend I am getting it and sympathizing with him, and hope for the best. I asked him to take a picture of him and he poses for a beautiful portrait. I take a few more pictures and we part. I go for a walk along the water and end up at the Beach Castle restaurant. After lunch, I go back to the Theosophical society and finally see the tree, which is really impressive, but there is not much else to see.

Fisherman

I saw an add in today's newspaper about a concert at a nearby college of arts, where South Indian traditional music and dance is thought, so I slowly start walking toward it, passing along the way through one of the nicest neighborhoods I've seen so far in Chennai, as well as a poor fisherman village. There are some westerners on one balcony. One of them greets me and invites me up for a drink. His name is Charles and there is five more people living in the house. They are all on one year contract here to teach English to employees of the rapidly growing call center industry. I have a beer with them and continue walking toward the college. After a few dead ends and a guard that doesn't speak English, I find my way in. The campus is huge and most of it looks like a wilderness area. When I finally reach the main cluster of buildings, nobody knows about the concert. A man that was walking around with his wife and daughter tries to help me and we start a conversation. He lived in the West for a while and we talk about differences between the cultures. He also tells me that he was dancing as a young boy, but when he wanted to pursue it farther, the master wouldn't take him as his student because he was from a lower caste. He adds how he is happy that his daughter doesn't have to face the same discrimination. I tell him how his story reminds me on a legend I read recently about a boy who wanted to learn skill of shooting with bow and arrow, but found himself in a similar situation. Then he built a doll of his master and practiced with it, pretending it's the master himself. That worked and after a while he became very skillful archer. The man new the story and told me that, after that the boy went to the master to thank him, because he felt that all the credit for his skill should go to the master. When master saw this, he requested from the boy to cut off his right hand tomb. Ouch! Good for my new acquaintance that he didn't build any dolls. I give up on the concert and go home.

Strange name for a battery shop

I was blessed with eight hours of sleep last night and after a morning run in the park I was feeling energized throughout the day. The day at work went as usual and in the evening I met with my friend Deepa, a former Fatpipe employee. She picked me up at the office and we went out to have a dinner. She took me to a Malaisian fast food place, a spiritual child of McDonalds. Not really my kind of place, but I understand her intention and appreciate it. We have some sandwiches and Coke and a nice talk. Before we parted she gave me some sweets that she brought for me.

Auto-riksha drivers from my street

Another sleepless, but educational night: I started reading “Essentials of Hinduism”. The book is written by a guru who lives in the U.S.A. with intention to give an overview of Hindu religion to western people, but also to address some misconceptions they may have about Indian society and tradition. As far as I can tell after some 80 pages he is pretty successful in the former, but the latter is a bit overdone, because picture he gives is painted mostly with bright colors, emphasizing good sides, and giving very little space to the bed ones (for these I would point to “The Age of Kali”). Overall, it looks like a pretty good and systematic introduction to Hinduism. It already enlightened me on a few things.

Holy cows, for example. I learned that there is no such a thing. Cows have been considered extremely valuable because of the milk they give and since they live as a part of a household, they have a special place in the society. They are considered to be noble and very useful animals, like horses are in the West, and that's where the reluctance to eat their meat comes from. In general, because of the principle of non-violence toward any form of life (some even go so far to eat only roots in order to avoid killing plants) Hindus are encouraged to eat vegetarian food, but they are not banned from eating meat.

Finally a good night of sleep, although with a little help of Benadril. Just as I walked out of the building another one of those tropical showers start. I stand there for a while and watch the rain. Seven years of desert climate makes you appreciate rain. I go back to my apartment and wait. After 15 minutes it stops, but the street is completely flooded and I need to walk some 50 meters to get an auto-riksha. Fortunately, wife of the watchman (maintenance guy) notices me and sends him to get one for me. I am very grateful and try to express that with a small tip, but she wouldn't take it. I thank her and get in the riksha. Water is everywhere, but it is commuting time and people are going to work as usual. Some in cars, but most on two-wheelers and they are completely drenched. I wonder how their day at work is going to look like. I was told that this kind of rain is very unusual for this time of year. Rainy season here is November and December, but in last few years they get rains like this even during the summer. It was raining the whole day and I was in the office whole day. Bed time.

It's a Monday and after just four hours of sleep (again) and a long day at work there wouldn't be anything worth noting if it had not rained. I was in the office and just before noon a real tropical shower (like I know how a real tropical shower looks like) started, and a few minutes later the whole building was without electrical power. Our UPS (not Fedex' competitor) is up, so we all continued working for a while, until it gave up. I look out the window and see how the street turned into a medium size river in less than half an hour. The traffic is uninterrupted and still heavy. Cars and auto-rikshas look like power boats from above. Pedestrians are wading through the water and a couple of kids are holding each other hands and having a blast in the knee high water. Suddenly I realized why sidewalks in Chennai are a foot high.

After rain

Morning didn't start well again. I woke up before 6, and read for a while, then tried to write a little, and finally I went for a walk. Nothing felt good, so I got newspaper and went back to bed. Pope is dead. “Champion of the poor?” Maybe, but only if those poor don't use condoms and don't perform abortions. Otherwise, they deserved their pathetic deaths, whether from AIDS or from starvation, doesn't make much difference.

I fall asleep and wake up five hours later. That's much better. I find the “Landmarks” bookstore, for which Lonely Planet's “South India” claims to have the best selection of books in south India, on the map and go out. I can not believe it, it is actually raining! Well, more like drizzling, but after a week of 90s that feel like 100s it feels pretty good. First I need shaving and food. I find a barber at Pondy Bazar, which is main shopping area located a few blocks from my place. I think I got shaving at this shop once two years ago, but I am not sure. I get in and sit on the only available chair. The barber skillfully spreads shaving cream over my face and starts pulling the razor down my cheeks. There is certain amount of trust that you have to have in your barber. I think I trusted this one too much. He cuts the birthmark on my chin and the scar on my chin and then a few other places. There is blood all over, but neither I or he are showing that there is anything wrong. He just wipes the blood with his finger often enough so that drops don't become too heavy and start rolling down my face. At the end he applies some kind of soap all over my face, which stops the bleeding, puts some aftershave and powder and let me go. I can't really say that I am super pleased with the service, but I leave a small tip anyway and leave.

Now food. There is one interesting restaurant across the street that I noticed the other day but it opens only for dinner. I settle for a masala dosa at a small place down the street. Dosa is a big crepe made out of rice flour and it is served with sambhar (a sort of gravy) and a couple of chutneys (spicy sauces.) Masala dosa is the same thing, except that the crepe is stuffed with a mix of potatoes and some other vegetables. It is very tasty. In general, south Indian food is mostly vegetarian. They do eat meat, but only once a week at the most. The thing is that this vegetarian food is prepared with so many different spices that each dish has very rich flavor. Even after a few days of this kind of food I don't feel need for meat. After the meal I order a coffee and go to wash my hands (this kind of stuff is eaten with hands) and in the process cause bleeding from the birthmark again. The waiter (and everybody else) notices it and brings me some ice.

On my way to the bookstore I pass by a guy who is peeing by the street. That is nothing unusual here, but this one is facing the street. He is looking down with a big smile on his face, as if his penis just told him a good joke. I reach the bookstore after a half-hour walk through the dust of Chennai streets (many people, including traffic police, wear gas masks for protection.) The bookstore is nice, modeled after American chains. There are guards at the entrance with whom I exchange my backpack for a token with a number. I start with cookbooks and found it a little strange that there are so many cookbooks about Indian food on the Indian market written by Americans. I pick one about south Indian vegetarian cooking written by an Indian (who lives in America.) The book is well designed with nice photos of food and a decent introduction. Good enough. On the opposite shelf are books about sex. OK, let's see what that Kamasutra is all about. I first pick one book that, among other things, talks about Kamasutra and claims how it is wrongly assumed in the West that Kamasutra is a sex manual. It is much more, the book says. It is written by a sage who led ascetic way of life for several years before writing the book and it gives insight in the way of life at the time, as well as a social commentary. Then I pick one of the few editions of Kamasutra and start randomly flipping pages. First I learn that all parts of human body that are suitable to be kissed, are also suitable to be bitten, except upper lip, interior if the mouth and eyelids. Well elaborated, I would say. Next chapter I get to is about making an acquaintance. It advises men that women should be approached directly if they are single, but for those that are already married, a female messenger may be a better choice. Quite a social commentary.

I leave these lowly carnal instincts behind and move to spirituality. Sanch and Bhaskar, my boss-couple, recommended “A Life of a Yogi” to me before I left Salt Lake City. I ask a clerk and he finds the book for me. It is a thick hard-cover with gold colored pages and a slightly different title. In trying to figure out whether that is the same book, another customer, who was standing close by, gets involved and we start a conversation. He is a doctor of homeopathic medicine in Madurai, the temple city, which I visited two years ago, and comes to Chennai on weekends, since he moonlights as a consultant at a local hospital. He is very passionate about Indian philosophy, but complains how it is not part of Indian educational system. People only learn about religious rituals and how to keep tradition alive, but not about underlying philosophy. He recommends “Essentials of Hinduism” by Swami Bhaskarananda and, if I am really serious about it, “Hindu Philosophy”, whose author's name I forgot, but I know it starts with an “R” and that he is a former president of India (something like Radhakrishna). He also recommends “Mysticism” by Evelyn Underhill as a classic text on spirituality. I pick the Essentials (which, of course, doesn't mean that I am not serious) and we part.

It's been a week since I arrived to Chennai and it is time to write something down. I have thought a lot about the form (a journal, a blog, a series of emails,) about the audience, about the language. Ultimately, it is important to save these thoughts and impressions, but also to communicate them to my friends and family, and there is no one solution that fits all the needs. The most difficult decision was the one about language. I picked English because I realized that the biggest part of the intended audience know it well enough to read a text comprised from a limited vocabulary such as mine. And most of those who don't, have somebody close who can translate it for them.

One of the reasons I haven't written anything so far is that jet lag that hit me upon arrival was the hardest ever known to human race. If I had to go through this again on my way back, I would, without a doubt, make India my new home. I arrived here from Zagreb on Friday, March 25 at midnight and slept throughout the weekend. It felt good, because I felt that, after a few weeks running on empty, I was finally catching up with my sleep. Plus I thought that it meant that jet lag missed me this time. How wrong I was! Throughout the next week I would sleep 2-4 hours a day, waking up usually around 2 am and contemplating the rest of the night. In the morning, just after sun has risen enough to fully light my room, I would start yawning and feeling tired, but it was time to get ready for work. Last night, after a long walk to Marina Beach, I finally slept for seven hours! How small things can make one happy. One good thing that came out of these few sleepless nights is that I finished an excellent book by Arundhati Roy called "The God of Small Things" (Alison thanks!)

When I arrived to Chennai, after a fairly short wait in the immigration line and a fairly long wait for luggage by an ancient conveyor belt, I was met by four guys from the FatPipe Chennai office. I knew Uma and Ashok from my previous visit, while with Pachai and Thiru I communicated only through email. Pachai is our new and talented graphics designer, while the other three are system administrators slash test engineers, with Uma also being the boss of this office. Even though it was late night the weather was sticky hot and air-condition in the big SUV they rented felt good. Small talk, friendly smiles, dark but familiar streets of Chennai, chaotic traffic. I am anxious to see the place they found for me. We turn into a small street and stop in front of a new white three-story building, with a small parking lot in front, separated from the street by a black iron fence. It looks nice and clean, which is very important detail in this part of the world. We carry my stuff up the stairs and enter the apartment.


My new home

First thing I notice is white marble floor. I am thinking how its cool touch must feel good on this heat. The apartment looks brand new and I was later told that it really was. Living room is furnished with a small sofa and a matching chair, coffee table and some sort of entertainment center (a truly universal piece of furniture), with a TV and a VCD (Video Compact Disc, a standard that was quickly replaced by DVD in the West.) To one side it extends into a dining room with a table and a few chairs. There is also a red fridge, with a red power stabilizer on top and a strange looking armoire next to it, whose doors sport several holes with a bell hanging in each of them. I open it and see some Hindu religious pictures inside. It is some sort of prayer furniture. Double glass door leads to a small balcony which overlooks the street. Next to the dining room is a spacious kitchen, with a door to another balcony, which was assigned a role of a laundry room. Two opposite walls of the living room have doors that lead into two bedrooms. One is completely empty and the other one has a queen-size bed, a chair from the living room set, and a lot of storage space. Bed sheets are made from the same light green fabric from which the curtains are made, which is kind of cute. The room is significantly cooler than the rest of the apartment. Thiru points to a window-mounted air-condition with a big smile. Another worry of mine disappears. I tell them how delighted I am. I had prepared myself for much, much less, so this makes me pretty excited. Thiru later explains that the apartment belongs to his parents, who live nearby and plan to move here in a year or so and how they furnished it completely in last two weeks to make it ready for my arrival. I am infinitely grateful!

This morning I woke up at 7 and, after exchanging a few SMS messages with Elizabeth, went out. It was a beautiful morning, sunny but still not too hot. I headed toward a small park at one end of my street. The park is fenced from the street that surrounds it. From the other side, the fence is followed by a paved trail, which was full of walkers and a few joggers. Everybody was moving in the same direction and taking this activity very seriously. I went in and joined the stream of people. Most of them were middle aged (as Arundhati says, a viable dieable age) or older. Some wearing athletic clothes, while the others just replaced shoes with sneakers in their everyday outfits. At one place by the trail there is a small praying place. Some walkers pause there for a short prayer, and then continue with physical activities. Three men were meditating in a lotus position in a small pavilion further down the trail. Four middle age men were playing tennis on a small dirt tennis court.

While people are walking

I got back home and started writing this journal. Uma, Ashok, Thiru and one of Suresh Kumars picked me up around 2pm to go for a ride and look for a place for a company picnic in two weeks when our boss-couple would be here. Since it wouldn't be advisable to start such an endeavor hungry, we went to a place where we had had a dinner a few days ago. This time we went to the second floor, which serves north Indian food. First floor is specialized in gourmet meals from the South. Interior is much different too. While the domestic department (first floor) looks fairly ordinary, second floor is modeled after Dhabas, traditional cottage-type road side dinners in the North of the country. White uneven walls, furniture from dark wood and dim light from fake petroleum lamps create pleasant atmosphere. Menus are huge and heavy and they have only traditional names of the dishes, so I let my Indian friends choose. It takes a while, but I know it will be worth it. We start with a veggie soup with almonds, then a sampler platter of fish, chicken and mutton arrives. Spices give them very saturated red and green colors. Naan with some delicious chicken and mutton masala follows. At the end, we get some masala-pepsi – Pepsi with a mix of spices – as a digestive and sort of dessert and off we go. I light my first cigarette since I am in Chennai.

Uma and Thiru


Ashok

We drive toward south, where all the beach resorts are located. While driving we are having conversation about languages in India. Chennai is the capitol of Tamil Nadu state, with predominant Tamil population which speaks Tamil language. I learn that Tamil is the oldest living language in the world and that there is a strong movement for its conservation. They feel that the language is threatened the most by Hindi, which is one of the two country's official languages. The other is English. They even go so far in their fear from Hindi that Tamil Nadu's government chose to communicate with the central government in English instead of Hindi. Ashok asks me about my native language. I start with many times repeated story, “Once upon a time there was language called Serbo-Croatian...”

We pass by several resorts, and stop at an ethnic village park that they mentioned a few days earlier. As in many other tourist attractions in India, entrance fee for foreigners is more than three times higher that for Indians, which is still pretty cheap, but should be noted nevertheless. The idea of the village is to display different styles of dwellings in a few southern states. As far as I can tell, houses are well built and authentic and offer a good glimpse into the life of rural India. We see Karnataka, Tamil Nadu and Kerala. They are all very different from each other, with Kerala being the most exotic. The Kerala house is built completely from beautifully carved wood. On one side of the house there is a small boat carved from a single coconut tree trunk hanging from the low roof. This kind of house can be found in Kerala backwaters where boats are the main mode transportation. Another interesting thing about Kerala is that significant part of population belongs to Syrian Christians. The family in “The God of Small Things” is also Syrian Christian, but I don't know where the name comes from. Karnataka houses are built with irregular pieces of stone, similar to the old way of building along the Adriatic coast (and elsewhere in the world). The adjacent village has houses with foundations made of cow dung, which, apart from its adhesive properties, also keeps insects and snakes out. In between different states we watch a performance of traditional dancers.

In the ethnic village


Dancers

After a short coffee-tea-sunset break we head back to Chennai. Now we take another route. The road is called IT highway. “IT” comes from the fact that in addition to a number of software companies that built their offices there, along that stretch of the road there is 45 engineering colleges! That explains a few things about outsourcing. The “highway” part should be taken with a grain of salt. There are two lanes in each direction and a foot wide median for the most part, but sides of the road are crowded with shops, tea stalls, pedestrians, bikers, dogs and cows, and on the median and around it clusters of cows are lying calmly as if in the middle of an isolated meadow, just inches from the speeding traffic. Very interesting highway, that IT highway. Another interesting thing about it is that many of the colleges that line its sides are founded by mobsters. My friends explain it by high profits (in this non-profit industry), but also as a way to buy respect in the society.

We get back to the city and I invite them over to my place for a beer, but first we need to find some. Tamil Nadu is a state drier than Utah (am I lucky or what?) Liquor sale is exclusive right of the government and they don't sell anything imported. When it comes to beers, India has a few decent ones, like King Fisher, Taj Mahal and Piper, but natives prefer imports, which can be found under the counter in some stores. We go to one such a store and get some Holsten, made in Germany. Living in Utah for seven years I instinctively check percentage of alcohol. It's 5%, not bad. The beer is pretty pricey: Rs 75 (~$1.75) for a 330ml can. Especially considering that one can get a decent meal at a restaurant for Rs 20.

We sit in my apartment and talk, comparing how things work here as opposed to the U.S.A, plus I add some Croatia and Europe. They tell me some funny stories. For example, an independent analysis recently found that all the major soft drinks on the Indian market contain too high amount of pesticides. Immediately, the sales significantly dropped, but some farmers in Karnataka saw an opportunity to reduce the costs in farming and started using Pepsi instead of pesticides – it was cheaper!

On question about how rigorous police in India was, the answer was illustrated with an example of a hypothetical accident in which somebody dies (they wouldn't call it a killing, because it was not intentional.) They claim that with Rs 3000 (~$70) one can get away with it, plus “You can always blame it on your breaks.” An interesting concept of responsibility.