On to Madurai

Farewell to the Ashram

Railway timetables in India are legendary; that is to say, you can never be sure how much is true, and how much is ancient myth and folklore from times past. My first journey was timetabled to take an hour. I clambered aboard the train at Kalithulai when it arrived 40 minutes behind schedule, and climbed down when it arrived at Trichy an hour later. My connecting train, optimistically called the Guruvayor Express, was the best part of an hour late, but still managed to reach Madurai on time. I was hustled by the usual crowd of autorickshaw drivers, and haggled 20% off the fare before we could do a deal, knowing full-well that I was still paying 50% above the local rate. Still, one should not complain about 80p for a mile and a half.

I had chosen the YMCA Guest House for nostalgic reasons, having lived for a year at the YMCA in Nairobi when I was a VSO back in 62/63. The Madurai property was perfect for my needs; across the road from the pedestrianised  temple quarter, and a large, clean room with a desk space and power for my laptop. The en-suite is spacious, fully tiled, and fairly modern. And the bed! Ah, the bed! They generously gave me a free upgrade to a double room, and the large bed has a foam mattress, about five inches thick. After 3 weeks on a solid-stuffed kapok palliasse, this was half-way to heaven. I unpacked my bags and stretched out, my head on the lump-free pillow. I didn’t move for the best part of a couple of hours.

£9 per night - bed & breakfast

When I woke, my legs and back reminded me that my back-pack was ridiculously heavy, considering I had tried to stick to the traveller’s rule of “one to wear, one in the wash and one in reserve.” I had done a bit of shopping, treated myself to two made-to-measure, long “kurta” Indian-style shirts, one with matching trousers, and I’d found the fabric I’d wanted to make a runner for my sideboard. It didn’t look much, I had struggled to swing the pack onto my back, and nearly clouted nearby train passengers in the process. I felt weak, but I downed a bottle of water and ventured out to explore.

By now, it was dark and the area was coming to life again after resting in the heat of the afternoon. I chose to come to Madurai at this time because of the “Pongal” harvest festival celebrations, which are especially well celebrated in this temple city. Like most big religious festivals, it’s a time for families and a time for gifts, and the streets were crowded with mums and dads, aunts and uncles, with young boys and girls, - the children in their smart new clothes, clutching new toys, or hanging on to a father who was shouldering a bright pink bicycle with stabilisers for an extremely excited daughter. 

They came in their coach-loads. One group turned a corner in front of me and streamed past: a horde of 40-odd housewives of all ages and all vociferously unaccompanied, all about five-foot-nothing, wide-eyed and chattering loudly. Then a flock of schoolgirls, young teenagers, immaculate in a riotous rainbow  of multi-coloured Salwar Kameez with flowing scarves.

Along the road outside the pedestrian area came a convoy of SUV’s – Land-Cruisers and the like. The roof-racks were stacked with tents and drums and the occupants stared out, looking like refugees from the hill villages. These men were sadhus and fakirs, holy men whom I later saw wandering barefoot along the street. They had very dark skin, contrasting with the dabs of coloured powder on the brow, over the “third eye,” which gave them a frightening appearance.  Most were naked to the waist, and all wore similar black lunghis (sarongs) or loin-cloths. They carried themselves with a pride that verged on aggressive arrogance, but that was surely my own fear and insecurity being manifested.

I was dragging my feet, and moved away from the central area in search of a restaurant. I found a “pure veg” establishment and looked forward to my first dhosa of 2015. Dhosas are huge paper-thin, crisp pancakes that come with dipping sauces, or stuffed with vegetables. Mine was almost a yard across,  with the usual trio of a soupy dip, some vegetable curry and my favourite, which is a spicy coconut sauce.

After three weeks in rural isolation, it will take me a while to get used to the buzz of the city, but it’s the contrast I wanted, and it’s lively and stimulating.