‘Yeah,’ I said and remembered a landmark Devesh had told me. ‘Near Loyola
College. You know Loyola College.’
‘Seri, seri,’ the driver said. My stay with Ananya had told me that ‘Seri’ meant
an amiable Tamilian.
I loaded the luggage. ‘Meter?’
He laughed again as if I had made a bawdy joke.
‘What?’ I tapped the meter.
‘Meter illa,’ the driver said loudly, his personality taking on a more aggressive
form as he left the airport.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘Edhuvum,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand. Stop, how much?’
He didn’t stop or answer. I tapped his shoulder. He looked back. I played dumb
charade with him, acting out ‘How much money, dude?’
He continued to drive. After ten seconds he raised his right palm and stretched
out his five fingers wide.
‘Five what?’
He flashed his fingers again.
‘Fifty?’
He nodded.
‘OK,’ I said. He understood this word.
‘Vokay,’ he said and extended his hand for a handshake. I shook his hand. He
laughed and zoomed off into the Chennai sunset.
I saw the city. It had the usual Indian elements like autos, packed public buses,
hassled traffic cops and tiny shops that sold groceries, fruits, utensils, clothes or
novelty items. However, it did feel different. First, the sign in every shop was in
Tamil. The Tamil font resembles those optical illusion puzzles that give you a
headache if you stare at them long enough. Tamil women, all of them, wear
flowers in their hair. Tamil men don’t believe in pants and wear lungis even in
shopping districts. The city is filled with film posters. The heroes’ pictures make
nora
(Nora)
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