After work the other week, I had a craving for chai (which, admittedly, is less of a craving now and more of a necessity to function) and stopped at my favorite provision store/tea stand to grab a cup. Ramesh, the store owner, and I exchanged pleasantries in broken Tamil for a bit before I turned toward the street to watch the late afternoon crowd. I absolutely love the tradition and the strange absence of it that is combined in a cup of tea. The crowd outside each tea stall encompasses both genders, all ages, and most middle-class professions, without outlining any rules for interaction between the diverse tea-takers. Some people will talk for an hour, some people will stand quietly, some will gulp their tea and rush on; there are no customs or expectations in any case, so long as you hand over four rupees with your empty glass tumbler. Even though my blonde head clearly stands out, I actually feel strangely comfortable swirling the coarse grains of sugar while quietly taking in the conversations and traffic around me.
My usual musing was disrupted by a coarse smoker’s gargle, that curious medium of phlegm and sandpaper-raw vocal chords.
“Hey, where you from?”
I turned and was greeted by the beaming smile of a portly middle-aged man wearing the ubiquitous brown uniform of an auto driver. I smiled and answered, preparing myself for the inevitable five-minute conversation about my work and the fact that, yes, I do eat and love spicy South Indian food. Happy for the excuse to practice my Tamil, I asked “Unga paera enna?” (what is your name, formal)?
“Hitler!” he rasped happily. I mean, I’ve met a few people here with some oddball Western names, but….seriously??
My face must have quickly shown how many mental cartwheels my mind was going through to process why on earth this jolly Tamilian man was so inappropriately named. He laughed and said, “English people are not liking my name, because of German Hitler long time ago. But people here are not knowing, so Hitler is okay in India.”
Hitler then proceeded to tell me about his life, his passion for working with kids (he apparently worked as an occasional driver at a nearby school for handicapped children), his handicapped wife, and his friend Steven, a Brit who volunteered at the school for some time. He punctuated all of his stories with blurry cell phone images of smiling kids in school uniforms, stilted formal wallet photos, and several snaps of Hilter and a laughing, skinny white guy. “Steven was like you,” he said, “always asking Tamil words. Everyone thought it not possible for white man to be friends with black Indian, but all wrong. Steven and Hitler are good friends, life friends. All life friendship, all life beautiful, yes?”
He beamed again, and I couldn’t help returning an equally wide smile. Planting our rupees down alongside our empty cups, Hitler made me take his number as we made motions to part. “When you not busy, you come see my school. See the children. Wonderful children, Steven’s children, you come see in free time!”
I said that I would, shook hands tightly, and began to walk down the street as Hitler called after me. “All life good life. Happy days!”
“Happy days!” I shouted back.
*******
A week went by as they quickly do here, my increasingly precious “free time” filled with work projects, dance classes, Tamil lessons, and Indian meals shared with friends and neighbors. I didn’t (couldn’t) forget Hitler, but stored his memory away with the many other beautiful, short exchanges that I have with so many amiable Chennians on a daily basis.
Rushing to the bus stand one morning, I was incredulous when I heard a happy yell in that unmistakable rasp:
“NIKOL! Vannakam! Hello, my friend!”
Cutting in front of several buses, a vending cart, and at least two cows, Hitler’s shared autorickshaw pulled up to the curb beside me. Both equally excited to have met again, we chatted constantly while the villages between my house and work passed by in a blur. Hitler turned back towards me frequently, somehow deftly dodging people, bikes, and animals at top speed (fast even by normal ly crazy rickshaw standards) while enthusiastically sharing his life story and philosophy. His happiness was infectious, and every schoolgirl and businessman that climbed into the auto on the journey was smiling when they dismounted. When we reached Injambakkam, the small community where I work, we of course went back to our favorite tea stall for another saccharine cup and equally enjoyable conversation.
When again it was time to part, Hitler repeated his invocation to meet his family and see his school. This time, I promised, and shook his hand with all I had to show that I meant it. He grinned and gripped back eagerly.
“I think God think very well of Hitler today, to see my friend again. I very thankful for good luck and wonderful life. All good life always! Stay always happy!”
“Happy days!” I replied as I waved, and ruminated on the phrase as I continued my walk to work. I have a lot of them here.
Posted by Nicole Fox
