Song of India - VI - Mahabalipuram

It was not at Santiniketan (Abode of Peace) that I found peace, but at a tiny place south of Madras, Mahabalipuram. Here was the peace of sky and sea. I had heard there was a little shore temple there and it sounded like a quiet, out-of-the-way place. I got off the train before Madras, and leaving my bag at the station went twenty miles to the shore for a peek. How should I know I would fall in love with it?

Everything was lush and green in the early morning as we rolled along the surprisingly smooth paved highway. Halfway we stopped at Tirukulikundrum where the sacred kites (birds) come regularly to be fed at a temple high on a hill. Two boys clamored aboard with their literature. One was lame, about twelve, with the usual grayed dhoti about his middle. I like him with his big eyes and serious, genuine manner of pleading. But he claimed a ridiculous price for the tiny piece of paper about the temple.

“Mommy, only 1 Rs 4 annas,” he said. The inevitable competitor appeared. “One rupee,” he said. Then the first one – “Mommy, mommy, one rupee, one rupee.” He must make the sale. Both fought for my favor. It is like an auction sale, only backwards. Finally my boy looked crestfallen and sad. “Eight annas,” he said dejectedly, looking darkly at the intruder. I knew he needed the money. By this time I had read most of the pamphlet, tho I could use it for a souvenir. “I will stop on the way back,” I said and I did, letting the lame boy show me through a temple.

The bus started again and the interesting, hilly clusters of green flattened out into the familiar paddy fields and palms. We crossed a final bridge over a canal and were there. Again, many hands clutch your baggage and shout out their prices for guide service. Who will win – who will get the prize – but I could not pay. Besides I wanted to explore myself. I fought free to the disappointment of all, and spying a big board with a diagram of the area went to look it over. It pointed down a road that evidently led to the sea.

It was hot and dusty. Along the way men squatted under pale trees by huge piles of green cocoanuts almost as high as they were. The tops of a few of them were always slashed away to the white underneath, ready for the final cut to bring the juice. Each called out loudly to the passersby, “Mommy, mommy,” a phrase used locally instead of the usual “memsahib”. It is strange even in south India where they are so plentiful, the bottom price seems to be eight annas (fifty cents). I don’t know why they are so expensive.

The immature, green cocoanuts are for drinking, where the liquid has not yet turned into the thick meat we are accustomed to at home. And it still has on its thick, outer green jacket which is hacked away with a machete on one end to a point at the top. Then when a customer comes along, the tip is cut off and he drinks from it. After he has drunk, they split it open and scrape off the soft, thin gelatinous lining to eat. Or if you are at home you may put this into the glass along with the liquid to drink. The liquid is clear and not yet milky as in the old nuts.

At last I saw the temple, outlined against the sky by the seashore. It is not massive or imposing but simple and friendly. It rounded softly up into a small spire. You do not feel overpowered or overawed, but one with it. It seemed warm and inviting, despite its stone. You stand and feel, here is a temple just the right size – not towering and overawing nor elaborately decorated, but somehow just right, just human-sized, charming and lovely.

As you walk around the base on the lower tier, the grey stone is smooth and satisfying to the touch. It is pleasantly sculptured but not overdone. But wait, there is something hidden, there is an opening in the side. A young boy is there beckoning you with a lantern to enter. Inside there is a large stone Buddha lying in Nirvana. He holds the lantern over the Buddha and then asks an anna or two.

An abutment on the seashore holds the temple securely in place so it will not slip into the sea as did its companions, for originally there were seven temples here by the shore. It is pleasant to linger in this charming spot and hear the waves pound below amid the serenity of the quietly stretching sand. The temple graces the sea. Quiet and unpretentious, it is just right for a simple warm heart.

What a lovely place to stay. I inquired and found that there was an inspector’s bungalow nearby where I could stay. There are many of these bungalows scattered throughout the country for the use of officials on business, but as they are often empty they may be rented by Indians or foreigners for a small price. This one was only 1.5 Rs per day, or about 30 cents. It is advisable to write a letter in advance, for otherwise if officials come you must vacate.

How surprised I was to find half a house at my disposal. There was a huge living room with two freshly made beds with soft mattresses and mosquito nets. There were also tables and lounge chairs. Besides this was a large porch, and a small dressing room, bath and toilet. There was also a small green lizard. I felt like a maharajah.

For food sometimes I bought bread and small tomatoes at a nearby market and ate in the bungalow, but more often I ate in town at one of the two eating establishments facing each other across the town square. One of them was in a hotel, and the other was a newer place across the street. They both served the usual food.

During the day I explored the temple and various other points of interest nearby. In the evening I went back to the bungalow. It began to grow dark and I saw something gliding in the distance. I ran down the road between the paddy fields and there was a canal! Something dark was slipping by in the water…it was the sail of a boat! It was just barely moving – a long, thin boat as full of wood that it just crept above the water, and little waves lapped inside. A dark figure squatted in front and another stood at the rudder in back. The single, tall graceful sail glided along in the absolute silence. Then a ripple of laughter floated over the silence, and another.

How would they go under the low bridge? They had almost reached it. But at the last minute the sail miraculously disappeared and it glided under. Later I discovered they rolled the sail around the mast which was jointed and then bent it forward and slipped under the bridge. But so quickly did they accomplish this that it seemed as if it were too late, when suddenly the sail would disappear and they would glide under. Maybe it was a game to see how long you could wait before lowering the sails.

Such a delightful spot it was, almost like a painting. The canal and low bridge was in front and all along in back the deeply trenched paddy fields. They were weeding in the fields now, and a few women still bent over in the fields fast growing dark. On the far side the fields ran off into a cocoanut grove along the water. There were two huge rocks in the field. When I explored here later I found that they were partially carved. What if we found half-carved boulders at home? Fun, too, to walk thru a paddy field, hilled in rows between the water, so that you can walk anywhere, balancing on the hard dirt between the water. Later too, I walked in the cocoanut grove along the canal as far as possible. Between the trees were watery paddy fields in the early stage, with tiny green blades shooting up at random in the wide pools of water. Now and again a native would disappear thru the trees in this lonely stretch that eventually became too overgrown with thorny bushes and too watery to penetrate.

A group of women worked in the fields and one of them is far pregnant. They waved and called out to me, half-jeering, I think, and when it was almost dark walked single-file thru the fields to the small road running to the bungalow.

But tonight was only the water and the sky. I sat in the quietness by the bank. The sun set. A few more boats glided by. I wondered if they thought it was beautiful riding home, (or to Madras), at the end of the day silent in the glow of the twilight. Is it beautiful? Are they happy? Or is it just another day?

As for me I grew up in the country and will always love it. How we love that which is the fiber of our being. I could stay here forever. How I loved the slow stillness of this evening. Happiness is slow; beauty is slow. We hurry because there’s nothing we really want tot stop for. But in India I wanted to live every day all over again…I wanted it to stay forever. And each night I would sleep with the beauty tucked next to my heart. When you jest at the slowness of India remember beauty is slow, and happiness eternal. When we are perfectly happy we want time to stand still forever.

The next day I saved for the sea, and rising early went to meet her by the temple on the shore. To walk along the Bay of Bengal on the early morning sun, the wind in our hair and freedom, and barefoot in the sun-warm, cool, wet, sand…Here was freedom, and no one to stare, and I walked many miles along the sea.

First I discovered a black stone taller that I with a lovely wild horse carved on it. How thrilling to find it! Such wild grace here on the sea. It’s far more exciting to discover some small thing yourself that to see all the sights in the guidebook. Even in the States I was far more thrilled with the deep fissures in the farmer’s yards than I was with the Grand Cannon itself, which I had expected.

All along the sea was a high bank of sand made by the tides, and a few shells, but not many. It was a clean shore of stretching sand. Tiny crabs sometimes appeared, each waiting by a grain-high embankment of dug-up sand by its hole. They were transparent creatures, sometimes venturing cautiously to the sea, but retreating quick as lightening when a wave sweeps up.

Soon a village appeared among the trees along the bank. A few huts with thatched roofs and more hidden among the palms in back. A few people look up and watch, and some children run out and follow for a ways, curious. One man is fishing nearby on the shore, his lines running back over a vertical stick and then fastened in the sand.

Then I found a low of strange logs, side by side, pulled up high on the sand bank. What could they be? They looked like ordinary logs except they were smooth and each end had been shaped. How puzzling they looked, lying there. Perhaps they rode them astride like a horse, and paddled. Later on in Madras I discovered that three of them together make a boat – one for the bottom and two sides, V-shaped. In Madras I watched the men come in off the sea and pull the logs up high on the bank and unbind the ropes that hold them in place. They fell apart, three separate logs, leaving the unknowing viewer puzzled as to their meaning.

Further along, near another village, was a big boat up on the sand with flat board sides 4 or 5 feet high and 15 or 20 feet long. It was literally sewn together with hemp cord running thru holes, and parallel stitches running along the cracks on the outside. How strange it looked to see stitches on a boat! Inside, a piece of hemp fiber was sewn in along the seam to make it waterproof. Peculiar also were the paddles sticking upright in the sand with heads shaped like spades on playing cards. It seemed a little like Alice in Wonderland, and I wondered if some storybook character would appear and use them.

But it was not all these I loved, it was only the sea…the same sea everywhere, speaking always the same to those who love her. Mist and wind and rhythm of the waves, and a few sails bobbing far away. A roar, a pulse…then in the after beat the sea silently slips up to you. Yes, the same sea everywhere.

Eventually I found the outlet of the canal to Madras, but it was much farther down then I had expected. Neither did it open out onto the sea, but a high bank of sand separated it from the sea. Even at high tide it wouldn’t flow out. It was all I could find however, and must have been the beginning of the canal. A few men stood under the cocoanut trees loading wood on the boats I had seen gliding by on the canal last night. I wanted to ride back with them, or walk back along to see if it came to the bridge, but it was too swampy here and impossible so I returned along the sea.

And why must it be when at last I reached the temple again along came two men and two boys all patting their tummies and holding out their hand. Then a mother and her little girl she sent over to beg, and when it was useless came over herself and almost got angry with me, so determined she was. As for myself I felt angry too, to be pursued relentlessly even on this lonely shore. I needed relief from India’s suffering. Besides I did not believe these people were really hungry. It is a conditioned response so that even a well-fed child walking along with his parents will automatically hold out his hand when he sees a foreigner – even a barefoot one like myself, with no money. To be poor and beg is one thing, but to beg just to beg is sickening, and you develop a kind of hardness about it, and learn to discriminate between fake and real need. Everywhere on buses and trains and streets – even on this lonely shore you find the expectant hand pursuing relentlessly. Only in your room when you lock the door can you be free. But my good spirits returned and I was filled with the sea.

Besides the shore temple in Mahabalipuram there are various other small temples tucked in the nearby hills. I followed a trail to one of them – three tiny rooms carved into the hillside. The bas reliefs on each side were strikingly lovely. I marveled at the lines flowing like water with the utmost simplicity into strong, graceful figures expressively alive, full of inner spirit. Where hidden in that simplicity of line came that aliveness.

From the black bedrock of the hill I could look out over the Bay of Bengal and the temple and sand, and an inlet langoring in from the sea. There was the canal, too. It was fun to sit on the smooth rock and watch. People followed the trails below.

A herd of goats came by, tinkling and maa-ing. They were the sleekest and blackest I’d seen their coats smooth and glossy. A few bells tinkled amid the quavering of high and low-pitched baas. A few approached gingerly but not too close. They were quite darling. It was fun watching the scenery from the high rock amid the goats. Finally “Huh! Sssss!” calls them and at last they follow.

On the next hill was a white tower. The bottom part was stone and something like a temple, sculptured around the base on the outside and hollow inside. Peering in I could see ladders leading up, so of course one must climb the tower. The top had a trap door, and I opened it and crawled out onto the top, about six feet square or so with a tiny railing.

How delicious the gusty ocean breeze and the vast panorama. It was a clear sunny day and a perfect place for a tan. I stretched out, delighted. After some time a chipmunk head appeared. Gracious, how could he climb so high? I examined the edge and decided he must have worked his way up the carvings and cracks. Ah! Peanut shells on the roof. So that’s why. He was cute, but didn’t know what to make of me. For more than an hour I enjoyed my sun-bath tower alone. Then I heard a noise at the bottom. Someone must be coming up. Yes, a head with a red striped hat emerged from the trapdoor. It was a policeman. What was wrong? Then another head appeared – a young boy.

“Are you all right?” he asked. I was relieved by his question, for I was surprised to see him up here.

“This boy told me ‘There’s a lady up there lying in the sun!’” he said next. The little boy stared at me.

“I wanted to lie in the sun,” I explained. Perhaps on one in India ever lay in the sun seeing how hot it is, especially at noon.

“He thought you had died,” the policeman explained. “That mama died in the tower” he told me. We both laughed. The little boy looked relieved. “That will be story around here for years” he said, “Oct. 25, 1961, when the mama died in the tower.” We laughed and he repeated it again.

“Can I do anything for you?” he asked.

Hmmm, well, I do want a bike to ride around and see some of the countryside nearby.

“You can use mine,” he said, and we arranged that I should come to the police station tomorrow morning for it. With friendly smiles we said goodbye and they descended. How long I laughed to myself in amusement at the eventfulness of my sunbath.

After I came down from the tower I followed the path back to a huge tree by the main road. A group of guide boys of all ages were lounging underneath its shade. They had no work to do, but were only waiting. A cocoanut seller sat, too, by his big pile of green nuts.

One of the boys spoke up. “You came lonely,” (along) he asked. Yes. I said I was from America. He offered to show me around as there was no business and he was interested in America. He spoke English best of all of them and had gone to school. He wanted to be an official of some sort but had to do this for a living. Evidently business was rather poor, and most of the town’s inhabitants lived off the tourists (mostly Indian) Therefore they could not enjoy their ‘paradise’ freely as I was doing. It was too bad, for with such a little one could be happy here, and Indians can live with only a little, but it is just that little that India so often does not have – a mud house, few possessions, a little food.

We also discussed drinking water and he was quite enlightening. I told him I was careful of certain places and did not drink the water because it was not safe. “But we drink it,” he said. “Water’s the same but the body’s different,” he declared, and indeed when I thought of it it was absolutely true. A new twist to medical theory – it’s not the water that’s at fault, it’s the body. A philosophical boy.

He took me to see a few carvings in the rocks that I had not yet seen, and then to the famous stupas – mounds of cement about ten feet high with people and animals carved on them, but I didn’t care for them. I enjoyed talking to him, however and he was a nice boy. He helped me buy some bread, bananas and tomatoes for my dinner. Such a vacation for less than a dollar a day. If only they could enjoy it too.

Early in the morning I went to the police station and got the promised bicycle and with a feeling of amused authority started off into the countryside – over the bridge and down the road I had come on the bus.

First I came to a potter by the roadside in front of his house, surrounded by large pots. He squatted in front of a heavy wooden wheel and turned it by hand. But at the end instead of cutting the pot off the wheel he cut the bottom off the pot! Perhaps because they were so large. He evidently put new ones on later as he proved by showing me piles and piles of completed jars in his house, in fact almost completely filling it. I guess they had moved out for the jars. On the way back I gave him some fruit.

The road stretched on and on, becoming typical flat countryside with paddy fields on either side of the road and a few people working. Men plow, but women help plant, weed, and harvest, so usually you see women in the fields. Once in a while I’d stop and watch them and sometimes they would come over and laugh and talk. There were some deep circular cement wells in the fields with a few stone slab steps circling down out of sight under the water. It looked rather eerie.

Several herds of cows meandered down the road, spreading out and covering the whole road including the trees lining either side. Either you’d have to wait, or find your way through. Here and there a villager squatted by the road under the trees waiting for the bus. As the sun rose how grateful I was the road was tree-lined. How well they knew the sun.

Occasionally the road passed thru small villages, and at last in a tiny cluster of houses I decided to turn off down a small lane and explore. There were no cows in the way and the houses looked interesting. At the end of the lane was a young girl washing clothes at the well in the field. I walked over and gestured “Is the well deep?”

“Very deep.” It was not till later I realized with a start she had answered in English. What a surprise along this little lane! Her name was Kanthamani she added, and graciously invited me to come to her house. “Indians, we are poor people,” she added, (the invariable phrase), which of course made the invitation all the more sweet. There were four brothers and five sisters she said as we walked along, and one sister had drowned in the well a few years ago, she added as we came to another well in the yard. Horrors! How often in India a sudden dart of tragedy pierced an ordinary moment.

It was a lovely stone house with a homey feeling. The central room was an open patio with the sky above and a tiled roof surrounding. The stone floor in the middle was somewhat sunken. Thus they could sit in the sun and work, sifting gram or rice as they now were doing. On one side the verandah widened into a living room, and suspended from the ceiling was a large board big enough for a bed – a delightful swing! Of course I must try it. On the wall were the usual display of pictures – uncles, aunts, graduating classes and a row of colorful gods and goddesses. Centered among the pictures was a dressing mirror. A tiny shelf held a shallow cinder oil lamp. There was also a recessed wall shelf hidden behind one of the pictures.

The family gathered and we sat talking. Finally it seemed to come to her where I was from “US of America…my god!” She was amazed at the long distance of her guest. They were delighted to have me and served tea, saying it was ready but actually starting a new fire for the water I believe. I gave them the bread I had brought along but they brought it back sliced with a little sugar on the side. They cracked a cocoanut too, and we dipped the meat in the sugar. They invited me for lunch too, but I hated to take from people who have so little. Their father had died some time ago, and they were living on the surrounding land he owned, but it just barely did.

They were a gracious and lovely family. We moved outside and sat on the raised cement ledges in front of the house. Those ledges are fairly typical here; cement ledges raised about two feet and on one or both sides of the door in front of the house under the roof. They are used for sitting on, like a front porch. The girls drew many Alpana designs for me. In India after you clean in front of the house in the morning, on the earth or cement you make designs with white chalk powder – symmetrical or radial flower designs or wavy lines. Tho usually they make a simple one, they may become quite complex, even colored chalks being used. This art is studied in the schools and is one of the specifically Indian arts. I was surprised to find they began by making rows of dots or lines and then began weaving the lines around them. It was fascinating to watch a complex flower or abstract design grow from the repetition of a few simple lines or curves. The end product was quite admirable. There are hundreds of well-known designs and people may even invent their own.

The cousin from the next house, a boy about 14, was adamant that I should visit them too. He also could speak English and his father was a landowner too, but they were better off. He led me to his house which had high ceilings and little rooms and sat me on a high wooden bed in the bedroom, covered with a thick quilt from Cashmere. He returned with his father and mother and many brothers and sisters who stood around the doorway.

I asked to see his books and he showed me many, including a picture book of Bapu in English, written for children. I was more surprised that he had one on Lincoln. Clasping it tightly to him, his face radiant, he said, “I love him, just like a God.” I can hardly tell you how I felt in that little house halfway around the world. Any American would have been thrilled. How glad I was that from our country a great heart shone throughout the world, warming the cold that our wealth and power have created. In Japan, too, it is “Rincan” they know, as of all the Indians we know Gandhi. It is still the heart, and only the heart, that wins us.

Then he took me to the garden rather overgrown, and showed me many kinds of small fruit and spices, and giving me samples of each. Then they demonstrated climbing a cocoanut trees, and one of the houseboys went up and up to the top.

He also took me out to the fields and showed me their new motor for pumping water into the fields. He unlocked a small door in a little wooden shed. They wanted to build a brick shed for the motor but they didn’t have enough money. It would cost about 60Rs or about 12 US dollars. Even the ‘rich’ landowners don’t have money, let alone the poor. Really, there are no rich.

The father also told us that Chou En Lai had come to their village to inspect it. I was quite surprised at the visit of so important a personage.

Reluctantly I concluded my visit with these lovely people and went back home. When I returned I was informed that an official was coming so I would have to leave my palace. The only other place available (besides a luxurious place I eschewed with contempt) was the local hotel. It turned out to be quite a surprise. I had often wondered at the many places that said “hotel and restaurant” but were no bigger than a box. How could they be a hotel? Well I found that the ‘hotel’ was in another building. I inquired at the desk of the restaurant and they led me across the square into the backyard of an old house and up some steps behind. The ‘hotel’ consisted of four rooms partitioned off with cardboard-like wall dividers that extended only halfway up to the lofty ceiling overhead. Each room had a bed and a straight-backed chair. Bed means bed, and you bring the mattress, etc. yourself. I was lucky this one had a thin mattress. Anyway it was warm and it didn’t matter. My army sheet was still at the railroad station. Oh well.

They charged me three rupees a day for this bare space, twice as much as for my mansion. I thought of sleeping on the sand, but took it. Later my suspicions were aroused that in spite of my inquiry they had lied about the supposedly ‘fixed’ price and overcharged. Always bargaining in India – two rooms, two prices, three customers, three prices. I was angry and determined to get it for the usual price. Even the tea man on the corner pretended in loyalty he didn’t know the ‘true’ price, if you can call it that – the price is what you think you can get. I thought it was 2Rs however. Perhaps they needed the money but the ‘dishonesty’ made me angry and I didn’t like to be taken, either.

A confidential talk would get nowhere, so against my usual nature I marched into the hotel dining room and place my case public ally within hearing distance of the guests. At least they could know I was cheated. It worked. One wavered and let out the true price of two rupees, the other still tried to cover up. “Two rupees,” I said, “and since I already paid three for yesterday here is one more for today.” “But you already paid three for yesterday,” he argues, as if I should pay a different price each day. I only glared, sensing his dying blows, and left. I never heard more about it. I had won. Perhaps it wasn’t ladylike but it felt good. Besides I wasn’t counting annas to throw away on their whim or misconception of tourists. Anyway it was enough to pay.

Ladies don’t go about alone at night and it is more comfortable to stay put, as a rule. My window in my room looked out over the square however so I had a good place to view. There was a restaurant on each side of the square and a peculiar ancient temple literally on high stone stilts on the far side. It looked very peculiar and I wondered how or why it was made, but people walked under it paying no attention. A couple other tiny shops, practically shacks, sold odds and ends. It was a grand view. So at night I turned off the light and knelt by the window to watch, unobserved. It was even better than being among them as they couldn’t stare and I was sure they weren’t acting differently just because I was there.

The old restaurant and hotel was on the right-hand side below, a huge old wooden building with a long verandah in front. Inside it consisted largely of a huge empty-appearing room with a few rows of benches and boards in the rear to eat on, and a cash register in front. But in spite of the fact it seemed empty there was plenty of help, as you could see at night when they filed outside to sleep on the cement floor of the verandah. But after all what did it cost to keep them? Only food. From five in the morning till ten at night (India rises early, eats late) they will work – of course leisurely and with lots of breaks, but always there.

The rival ‘Modern Café’ facing opposite was a white wooden structure – cleaner and rather new. Here tables and chairs were clearly recognizable and placed in orderly fashion about the room in a way such as we were used to. It actually looked like a restaurant. I went there in the mornings for idly, which I loved, and patronized it instead of my own hotel. The young bearers had pleasant smiles and did not sit in a ring and watch you as you eat in the hotel. (where for lack of customers they had plenty of time to do so.) For other meals I ate bread and tomatoes to avoid getting sick from too much curry.

The night bus roared up to the front of the café in a cloud of black exhaust and parked for the night. It was the end of the line. The passengers climbed down. Saturday night…they were coming! Two men even occupied the room next to me (usually the rooms were empty). I could hear them pulling off their socks and amazing each other with their witty remarks. Yes, plenty of people in the dark night, and pigs and cows too, wandering about in the square below. A couple of lights shining down from the two buildings lit the scene. Two young men stood in the shadows whispering nearby. What were they whispering about so long?? It reminded me of teenagers plotting something.

The only other place of interest was a weather-beaten board shop with a long, open board counter in front. It was the corner store. I went there for cakes and tea and sat on a bench in its interior, resting and eating. The proprietor stood out. He had a long black beard and dark long robes. His eyes were clear and honest and he moved slowly and calmly among the shelves of old rusty cans and tiered glass candy jars of his establishment. Several children played about his feet. From the first there was something about his manner, along with the robes and beard that reminded me of Jesus, and so I thought of him in my mind. It gave me pleasure to see one such as might have been Jesus in the humble place moving about in his shop, stopping to talk to people, caring for this and that. A few pieces of candy, a glass of tea – always with the same dignified air. I liked to sit and watch him. He was strictly honest and his sales of the meagerest kind, tho many came for their glass of tea. I asked him if he often went to the sea as I had done, but he said he didn’t have leisure to spend the day there with his family because he had to watch the store.

One day he showed his small son how to carry cookies to me on a paper – hands underneath, no, not touching. It was a gentle lesson. The child even brought me change when he shouldn’t have, so he patiently added ‘tea plus two cookies’ several times for him.

Once he sat way back in the dark interior eating rice with his children. How much, how little did they eat? How much did fairness cost him, so different from the bargaining way…over what denials his calm?

I watched him from my window that night. It grew late of a sudden, the moon came…dark and red and beautiful. Oh please turn off your light – I have never seen a red moon! But the men stood around his shop laughing, talking, drinking tea. One store closed…another…as I looked down. The cows went home and the pigs stopped nosing in the puddles. The last bus ceased its roaring and was still. The Modern Café closed decently, giving its help rest. One by one the bearers and old men gathered on the porch…a last cigarette, a few words, then spread their mats on the cement and were still. The boy with the tiny cigarette stand on the porch put all the odds and ends inside, closed the board windows, and lay down on the counter itself to sleep.

Still he worked, with a little collection of lingerers watching. His was the only light now. Oh hurry! The moon is only orange now. See how she has risen!

But each of the little pulses (tiny beans roasted for snacks) must be put away before closing. His family sleeps now and even the lingerers fade. Still he works. He takes a big leaf, tears it in two, rotates, twirls and presses it into a cone. One, tow handfuls of pulses – fairly, evenly measured, and wrapped round and round with white thread. Rotate, twirl, bind – on…and on…and on…

Ah, the moon is white now! It is too late. You sit all alone under the bare bulb counting pulses…over and over. I fell asleep. How long did he sit alone in the quiet village counting pulses…

On to VII - Madras, Living with the Poor