The auto driver who shared his dreams

There was once an auto-rickshaw driver in Vadapalani, Madras, who had completed a hand-written novel in Tamil. He grew up in a small town and moved to Madras after his marriage. When I met him about 15 years ago, he appeared to be in his thirties.

He knew my mother as she often came to the rickshaw stand where he was parked, along with his fellow drivers, waiting for fare-paying passengers. He had driven my mother on her many trips to buy material for her clothing boutique and make occasional deliveries to her customers all over Madras. He knew that my mother lived in the big white house and that I was the daughter "from America." That I was well-known in my neighbourhood was a given in the 1980s, but it was now the late '90s and I was touched that I was not yet forgotten.

His questions about my life in America started even before he turned the auto onto 100ft. road (I had hailed his auto just near Kamala Theatre). What I had to say about my student lifestyle, how I compared America with Russia (having previously lived there), what I had in mind for my future -- all such topics interested him. I answered politely without a hint of the impatience and reticence my own family members were guaranteed to receive when they posed similar questions to me. When we arrived in Adyar, he wanted to know if he should wait to take me to my next destination. "OK," I said and promised not to keep him waiting too long. In less than half-an-hour, we set off to Saidapet. By the time we arrived at my next destination, I was tired from all the questioning. I paid my fare and was eager to take leave.

A couple of days later, my grandmother announced, with enough of a critical note infused into her voice, that an auto-rickshaw driver was asking for me at our gate. I was getting ready to go out for the evening with some new and old friends. I recognized the driver right away. "I wanted to show you something," he said. "OK," I said trying not to show I was distracted. My friends were probably already on their way to pick me up and I still wanted to gather a few things. From inside a plastic bag, he pulled out two thick, dog-eared student notebooks.

"I wrote a book," he said. "Here, take a look."

I took the notebooks in complete politeness and flipped quickly through the pages. The writing in Tamil was neat and appeared easy to read to anyone with an interest in reading it. I am embarrassed now to recall that I was somewhat restless on the inside and lacked exuberance about this novel he must have written with such sincerity and dedication. Perhaps he had always felt the urge to write but apparently, one fine day, he had been inspired enough to stop, buy a notebook and write down a story based on a couple of passengers he had driven that day. After that, his book grew, absorbing the collective experiences of the auto-driving community. He also had with him a hand-written manifesto on Indian development in a third, ruled notebook. This manifesto, he said, contained all his visions, objectives, policies and procedures for India's future and development.

I was, then, too young, somewhat indifferent, and clearly unimaginative to absorb how unique a person he happened to be, with his not-so-common dedication to pen his thoughts, observations and feelings. Not yet curious about the world of writers, I was just another middle-class kid looking forward to meeting up with friends and having 'a good time.'  So I hardly did justice to the first page of his hand-written book and, although he must have valued me enough to share his passion and likely hoped to spend some time talking about his book, I don't remember an animated conversation. Now years later, I cannot remember the faces I met at the evening's party, the conversations that I must have had, the inevitable cute guy in the room that I must have glanced at shyly and surreptitiously. But I remember that unpublished Tamil writer's pride and eagerness well, and often regret not paying more attention to his interest. Maybe I could have asked him to lend me his books to read them at my own pace.  Maybe I would have been one of his first readers, if not his very first reader.  I would have come to know what hopes and dreams an auto-driver had for his country.  Now, belatedly, I want to know the names of his characters, the languages they spoke, and the reasons they captured his attention. And I want to ask him the all-important question: does he know how to get his books published?

If only I can go back in time.  If only I had bothered to remember his name.

Vadapalani, the neighborhood I hated to love

'Dispatches', the CBC radio show, brings the world to my Winnipeg kitchen every Sunday evening, while I try to cook and get somewhat ready for the coming week. Two weeks ago, they brought nothing less than my old neighbourhood, Vadapalani, to me. The last time I saw this west Chennai neighborhood and its inhabitants so clearly and vividly, even across the miles, was in Kiev, while watching a Kamalahaasan movie (dubbed in Russian). Several extras in the movie were faces I recognized from my neighbourhood streets -- some I had known slightly better than others; some would have known me right back as 'the engineer's daughter' or as 'the girl with the white dogs.' It was surreal -- then in Kiev, and that Sunday here in Winnipeg, to realize how every cell in your body is attuned to every sound, every background detail, every bit of news about the multi-layered neighbourhood you once walked about fearlessly, despite, and because of, your privileged position.

While it was my father who made the aggravating decision to live in Vadapalani, away from the "upwardly-mobile" middle-class folks, it was my mother, despite her displeasure and unhappiness at having to make it her home, who made friends effortlessly, without judgement, with people the Madras middle-class wouldn't even look straight in the eye. I can't honestly say that we knew any sex workers for sure but the early polyandrous women and polyamorists I knew were neither economically-independent, socially-liberated, highly-educated white (black or brown) women in Europe or North America nor the Draupadis of Hindu Mythology. They were cheerful characters like Omana, the partner of the dance-teacher/choreographer Paulose, and the Malayalee Catholic woman whom I simply knew as Annama's mother and who always had a smile for my mother and me, even as she was arguing with her second-and-kinder husband, a stunt man.

The last time I was in my parents' home in Vadapalani, I couldn't tell if all these people, interesting enough to populate a Vikram Chandra novel, had moved out of the neighbourhood or had moved into the new middle-class apartments that have sprouted all around. But I hope they haven't been forced out to make way for those who assume they are too good to live among the people who made Vadapalani/Kodambakkam their home in the '70s and '80s.


From Dispatches:

"Help for Kids of India's Sex Workers"

Audio can be found here: http://www.cbc.ca/dispatches/2010season/asia/2012/03/22/indias-sex-workers/

The lure of stardom has been the downfall of more than a few actors drawn to the bright lights of Hollywood. For every one star that emerges, dozens fall. Some, right to the bottom. You don't hear their story very often. India's huge film industry has a similar allure, and similar casualties, with a cultural twist. And we can tell you their story. And how some are trying to catch them when they fall. This one begins with the CBC's Priya Sankaran in one of India's key film production centres."

Photo from Arcot Road Times.