Walking The Street

If you had the capability of looking down from space onto the Indian subcontinent and, like the surveillance technology found in spy movies, take microscopic snapshots that reduced from global region to country to city to street to the heads of individual people, you might be able to cut through the thick layers of humidity, black auto emissions, the hanging weight of alternating aromas of sweet and stank, voracious mosquitoes, and blaring horns to see two heads--one large and the other small—bobbing up and down, dodging people napping on the sidewalk, ubiquitous auto-rickshaws and the occasional cow. If you could do such a thing, you would be seeing me and my son, Kaia, making our way to the supermarket, one “block” away, to buy diapers. On this day, we’d nearly exhausted the supply of diapers that come with us from Japan and we were told that this store would be able to provide us with what we were looking for.

As anyone who has spent time with toddlers knows, while they are often very skilled at walking, uneven ground can often trip them up, sending them face first down to the ground. Kaia has always been a very active child. One of his favorite things from just five months old was to hop around in one of those jumpers that fit in a door jam, and he was crawling and walking at around 10 months. For him to be happy (not to mention get tired enough to sleep) he needs to be moving around and, in our previous life in the Japanese countryside, taking him for a walk outside was a great activity. But, to put it one way, “Toto, we’re not in Nishinasuno anymore…and, hey, that scrappy stray dog with the severe limp certainly doesn’t look like Toto…”

In Madras, you are hard pressed to walk out on the sidewalk and not be immediately accosted by an auto-rickshaw driver shouting “hello!” I’ll devote a future entry to the experience of actually riding in one of these with Kaia, but from the perspective of a driver hunting down fares, it has to be a no-brainer to see a foreigner slowly making his way with toddler in tow. People have told me that the number of these vehicles has risen dramatically over the past five years concomitant with the technology boom and rapid population growth in the city. Unfortunately, these and other two-stroke vehicles are some of the grossest polluters to be found. This time I just shake my head and hand as a crude way of saying no. Kaia, fascinated by any kind of moving vehicles, waves to the driver as we walk away. This yields a broad, warm smile and reciprocal wave from the previously serious and stone-faced man. Like so many things in India, in one moment things can completely change. I think that I’ll just carry Kaia. 13 kg isn’t so bad after all.

For the first time visitor, the seemingly chaotic Indian street is both overwhelming and curious with all of the many things happening. But like many things, after a bit of time and routine, different things begin to emerge. I was recently telling a friend how you can see so many stories on the street--what walking the street lacks in safety, it makes up for in being thought provoking, particularly from the point of view of a parent. On this occasion, as we made our way to purchase disposable diapers, there was a young boy who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old, squatting on the asphalt to relieve himself. Not more than a few dozen feet later, a young girl, who couldn’t have been much older than Kaia, made circles in the dirt with her fingers as her mother pounded granite with hammer and chisel. Even as we approached the market, a boy of 8 or 9 offered fruits from his wagon stand. Kaia loves the small bananas that can be found in tropical climates, so we stop to buy a bunch for 10 rupees (27 cents). As I pay and give Kaia his banana to peel (sometimes I wonder if he likes peeling more than eating), a small crowd gathers around Kaia to pinch his cheek. I have come to learn in my short time here that this is a great sign of affection. Indians just really love little children. Amidst the laughing and smiles, a young man turns to me and asks, “where is the mother?” This is something that I expect to hear over and over again.