THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

Paul had woken intent on exploring Chennai, one of India’s major metropolises. The Detroit of the sub-continent at it is often nicknamed. A settlement which had existed for over two thousand years. He felt enthused and ready for an adventure, he hoped it was the medication kicking in at last. Either that or he was delirious – the heat of the tropics could certainly take it’s toll, and in a conurbation of eleven million people with an average temperature of thirty five degrees things could get pretty sticky.

Andrew had been less keen, laying nonchalantly on the bed in their air conditioned room he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted a frenetic Asian adventure. Probably preferring to strum on his instrument for a few hours. But Paul managed to persuade him otherwise,

‘Come on babe – we have to go and see something whilst we’re here. There’s a beautiful ancient Hindu temple, an old British fort and lots of shopping.’

Paul imagined it was the latter option that made up his partner’s mind as Andrew had expressed the wish to buy a pair of trainers earlier.

So half an hour later they were sitting in the freezing hotel lobby waiting for their Tuk Tuk to arrive. It didn’t. Nor did the next one. But after what seemed like an aeon in the igloo of the atrium it was third time lucky and soon they were whizzing unnervingly through the cacophonous boiling streets of the city. Lorries, buses, cars, Tuk Tuk’s, bikes, carts, cows, dogs and homeless sapiens shared the highways. Half of them travelling in completely the wrong direction. It seemed there were no rules of the road other than changing lanes as often as possible, cutting up the largest vehicle nearby and hooting one’s horn at least once every two and half seconds.

Fortunately and somewhat surprisingly they eventually arrived at their destination the Kapaleeshwarar temple –  a stunning Tamil creation begun in the seventh century.

They were told the place closed at 12.30 pm.

‘What time is it now.’ Paul inquired.

The man behind the counter pointed to a large antiquated wooden clock – it read 12.30pm. Andrew sighed far too audibly but they were assured they would be allowed to be admitted. Neither of them understood quite why. But being admitted anywhere was always a bonus so they went with it.

Being a religious place of worship visitors were required to remove their shoes before entering. This custom cost a quid each to deposit their footwear at the entrance – Paul imagined the footfall was turning quite a profit for the prophets within. Especially with the amount of soles surrounding the structure!

Once inside they were pounced upon by an insistent and officious little man who made them sign a large book and then decided he was gonna charge them a fiver each for the privilege of stumbling barefoot around the concrete courtyard. He kept pointing to a sign which read no photos inside the temple.

‘We,re not inside the temple’ Paul pointed out pointing to the religious structure which was at least fifty bare feet away.

‘You pay five pound each’ the supposed guide kept saying. This time indicating a sign in Tamil which was no doubt directing the way to the public toilets.

Andrew by this time, feet smouldering, hot, bothered and templed out had already headed for the exit. The diminutive con man kept on trying until Paul informed him that his partner had left and that he had the cash, and besides he didn’t like temples anyway. Well, not anymore. The district they were in was named ‘Myapore’ or ‘place of peacocks’. Paul only wished this cock would just pee off. He took a couple of photos explaining that he wouldn’t be paying for them. Begged Shiva for forgiveness, then turned abruptly away from the soulless arsehole rejoining Andrew to collect their footwear.

Whilst doing so Paul asked the man behind the counter whether it was correct that they had needed to pay a fee to a guide in order to traipse around the place footloose but not fancy free. They were assured that they did not.

They were both extremely glad that they had kicked the dishonest heel into touch and told him where to go. Paul knew exactly where he wanted to shove his foot. But hey, this was India, there was always someone trying to get a few feet ahead of you to make a fast rupee.

There was often a game afoot.

Luckily they’d sized this player up before he’d fitted them up. But he had certainly tried it on. More times than an ugly sister in a shoe shop!

Once outside Andrew chastised Paul for not doing his research and allowing them to arrive at closing time. It was true Paul hadn’t been aware of the opening hours, but he wasn’t that familiar with Dravidian temple visiting times. He made a mental note to gen up on the information for the next time they were to visit a seventh century Pallavan place of worship. So that at least it wouldn’t be a complete pallava!

‘I hate these fucking tourist places. They’re always like this. Too many con artists. Too many people. And it’s so bloody hot!’ Andrew spat.

Paul knew his partner was correct. But it was difficult to avoid such sites if one wanted to see the sights. Still it was irritating.

Having replaced his footwear and now with itchy feet Andrew wanted to move away from the mayhem surrounding the temple. Paul couldn’t blame him and they soon found themselves under the heat of the midday sun lurching along a shadeless five lane bustling boulevard. By this time Andrew was losing the will to live.

‘I need a drink’ he gasped.

But the only establishment they came across had three plastic seats inside a small dingy cell with a ceiling fan which didn’t turn. Paul was quite happy to go inside as he he desperately needed the loo, he didn’t care what state it was in. Just a hole would do. He most definitely didn’t need a drink.

The afternoon went much the same way, Andrew became acidic, developing both acid reflux and an ascerbic tone. The sheer frenzy of the streets and the interminable racket of the traffic played havoc with his A.D.H.D. He was becoming impatient and distressed. Paul was attempting to calm his husband down using ridiculous self help techniques which usually helped no one. Counting beggars, touching trash, smelling exhaust fumes – that kind of thing. Andrew was becoming more irascible and Paul less understanding. He was mentally labelling his partner as suffering from Acrimonious Disgusting Hateful Dickhead syndrome – but he knew that was cruel so he kept it to himself and remained charming. Andrew, after all, had put up with his psychological peccadilloes for many years, often displaying inordinate patience. But Paul still secretly wished they could find a pharmacy and score some Ritalin!

Thankfully they did find a medical supplier and Andrew managed to obtain some antacid which calmed his stomach and the situation significantly. And then things took a turn for the better.

Or rather a turning for the better.

As they continued to struggle on through the demolition derby which was the city centre they both noticed a small quiet looking lane – just about wide enough for a pushbike and an overweight chutneywalla in a saree. They made there way away from mayhem of Madras and into the most authentic of suburbs.

Away from the urban madness they were suddenly ensconced in an oasis of tranquility. Ladies hanging out their laundry. Gentleman gently pedalling push bikes. Children skipping. Ample ladies sat on the ground amply entertained with simple board games.

Cows. Goats. Cockerels. Paul knew some of the menagerie was meant for the dinner plate. Perhaps not the two lady gamers. Although in parts of India they seemed to eat anything and everything so he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to spot a ‘Madam Masala’ on some menu or other!

But the fortunate detour that he and Andrew had decided on had entirely lifted their spirits. It was as if they had changed planets.

Everyone they came across wanted to say hello. Or proffer a toothsome grin.

‘How are you.’ Followed by a gaggle of guileless giggling.

‘Where you from?’ Without a hint of prejudice. Only interest.

Not a hint of disdain for the two wealthy, over-privileged, white tourists trespassing through their neighbourhood. Only joyful curiosity. Friendliness. Paul shook so many hands he felt like Diana, Princess Of Wales, by the time he exited the district.

And even more surprising were the very welcome public loos half way along the lane. Surely the cleanest in the whole of India.

Together with stand pipes indicating that most of the residents probably had no running water. But they most definitely had life which runneth over. It was all most humbling.

Paul was not naive. He and Andrew had travelled extensively across India and had come across a thali of tragedy. Limbless beggars, corpses, unimaginable road accidents fit for a horror movie. But they had also witnessed unabashed joy. The gift of life lived in such an uplifting manner seen rarely in much richer countries. If one can cope with the darkness of the country there is a shining and abundant light to be witnessed too.

The journey back to the hotel was less heavenly. As the boys sat on another feverish thoroughfare sipping suspiciously warm lemon and mint sodas they attempted unsuccessfully to hail a Tuk Tuk. At least thirty went by. Some carrying passengers. Others sporting animals and odd packages. And some which just didn’t want to go in their direction or simply didn’t want to take them! Eventually they found a superannuated driver with a marvellous bouffant but no penchant for direction. They travelled in chaotic circles for sometime with Andrew attempting to navigate. But the driver obviously didn’t know his left from his right let alone his arse from his elbow.

Eventually they pulled up alongside a bent old lady in a sari as brown as her skin, she looked somewhat like a cashew on a moped, but at least she was less nutty than most of the drivers. There chauffeur handed her Andrew!s phone at the traffic lights, she took one look at the map and then told him to head for Stirling Road. Paul and Andrew had done this at least eighteen times but it didn’t seem to register until it was said with an Indian accent. That seemed to be the only difference. Paul decided that next time he needed to give directions he would mimic Mahattma Ghandi – he was pretty sure he’d have more success.

After what seemed like the length of an epic from the famous Mahabharata, with its one hundred thousand verses, they pulled up almost outside their hotel. Andrew was sodden, only with sweat Paul felt he needed to add. As for himself he alighted the Tuk Tuk looking much like Bette Midler having gone through a tumble dryer. Twice! He stumbled after Andrew towards the glorious invention known as air conditioning before their driver shouted out and beckoned him back. Paul assumed he’d left something in the vehicle along with his dignity, but no, instead the old man removed a bracelet made of plastic nuts and beads embossed with the ‘Om’ sign. The ancient symbol meaning the hum of life itself. He placed it on Paul’s wrist and with a ubiquitous Indian head wobble and a smile he disappeared into the endless hum that was the sound of Chennai itself.   

A friend once described to Paul that India was like Marmite. You either love it or you hate it. It sounded rather like he and Andrew’s stage show!

But Paul loved Marmite. He’d spread it on his toast any day.

The following morning Paul was on his way for a blood test when he nearly lost eight pints of the stuff as a juggernaut careered towards him as he walked along a zebra crossing. Still – it was all an adventure.

Samuel Johnson apparently once wrote in the eighteenth century “when a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”

Paul thought very much the same way about India in the twenty first century. For to him with all its horror, beauty, cruelty, kindness, squalor, richness, poverty, charity, spiritualism and mystery. India too had everything life could afford.

For it was life.

Life itself.

For all to see.

And all to be seen.