Mylapore – Andy Jackson

a few more things before I (try to) land back in Melbourne

I had every intention that I’d write this post before I left India, or perhaps in Bangkok on the way home. But as those last few days sped by, they felt precious. Faced with a choice between soaking up the last sights of Panjim and Chennai, and staring at a monitor in an internet cafe, well, what would you do?

Most of my last week in India was spent in Goa, a place I really knew very little of, apart from its reputation as being crammed with ageing hippies and beach resorts, with a segment of the local population desperately fighting to protect its natural resources. After my very short visit to the capital, I can say it’s not entirely untrue, but there is of course worlds more. When I think of Panjim now, I remember the old buildings’ flaking paint, dozens of dim little bars the size of walk-in-robes, small hills blanketed with palm-trees, floating casinos (yes, boats on the river), and the overall sense that while tourism has its impact, the city and its people persist.

I came here to attend the Goa Arts and Literary Festival, at Dona Paula, just south of Panjim. While the attendance left a little to be desired (due mostly to the festival co-inciding with a plethora of other events celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Indian army entering Goa to claim it back from the Portuguese), the talks, readings and discussions were an absolute feast. A sample of some of the events can be found on You Tube here. We saw and heard Amitav Ghosh on Goa’s resilence, Jerry Pinto on Indian cinema, powerful poetry from Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih & Robin Ngangom, a wonderful philosophical short story from Anjum Hasan, and of course, and a whole lot more. I was scheduled to read my poems alongside Manohar Shetty. A long story, but I read alone – to a small but appreciative audience.

Interestingly, it was here that a nagging doubt about this project (writing poems about medical tourism in India) started to untangle itself. For a long time, I’d felt uncomfortable about what I was writing – was it too much focussed on the spectacular, the poverty, the visible disparities between India and the rest of the world? How could I be true to the complexities I was encountering, which included scenes and scenarios that stir up anger, grief, confusion as well as admiration? Were my poems too much concerned with the Otherness of India? Will there be a difference between how they are received by Indian people and non-Indians?

"Unselfishness is God", Mylapore, Chennai

Unanswerable questions really. But I couldn’t stop asking myself. To the point where, over the course of the residency, at times I’ve felt a bit constrained by my own self-critique. And somehow the Goa Lit Fest helped me relax. Himanshu Suri (Heems from US hip-hop act Das Racist) said he often worried that he was at risk of “self-exotifying” or “performing his race” in front of their predominantly white audience, while also trying to remember that there may only be a few people at their gigs he really relates to – and it’s they who he is “winking at”. I am also always encouraged and challenged when I hear resident Indians express a sense of injustice. Novelist Kiran Nagarkar said something so clear and important, inspired by a compassionate anger at the clearing of Mumbai slums, that “architecture is about human dignity”.

It seems to me now that the key to the dilemma of this project is that there is no key – except to continue to question, and to take risks, to explore various dimensions of empathy and affinities, to include the gaps and doubts, to be immersed in the poems not in how I imagine they might be received. I have about 25 or 30 rough drafts of poems to work on. Who knows how many will survive my surgical eye, but for now, it feels like there is a good chance a lot will.

The early poems feel a little chaotic and flailing around trying to capture the initial shock of arrival, with the urgency of a sense of injustice and discomfort. The poems from mid November feel a little fragmented and tangential, finding fascinating stories and grappling to fit them into poems. And the poems from my last few weeks are relatively settled, calm, philosophical, as if I had found some kind of stable poetic ground. I shouldn’t be surprised that the poetry went on a journey parallel to mine.

I have a lot of thankyous – Asialink and the Australia India Council for funding and supporting this project, the staff and students of the English Department at the University of Madras for their enthusiasm and interest, Prakriti Foundation, India Intercontinental Cultural Association, Goa Arts & Literary Festival, Anna University, Wellspring India MediTour, Dr Smilez Dental Clinics, my friends and contacts (especially Syam, Prabalan, Eugenie and Mr Matthew), and everyone where our conversation went further than where I’m from and cricket! It’s been an amazing journey. I’m still on it, and I hope it brings me back to south India soon.

Marina Beach, Santhome, Chennai — one last sit on Marina Beach...

welcome back to Chennai

We have a (what can I say…?) a complicated relationship. There’s a lot of love between Chennai and I, but it’s a little like an arranged marriage. Coming back here from Kochi (via Vellore) was almost a little bit slightly like coming home, somewhat. Especially Mylapore. Nageswara Rao Park, my regular restaurant haunts, the bustle and honking, the streetside stalls, the local Temple… Familiarity breeds affection. Which is reciprocal. But not always.

I have learnt a lot in the process of this week (well, I feel I’ve been taught a lot – who knows if I’ve learnt anything!). One small example – I’d been invited to give a talk at Anna University about how to teach creative writing. Me being stuck inside my own experience, I suggested the ideal number for facilitating creativity is around ten, twelve at most. When it came to question time, someone said their classes are usually around 50 or 60, so did I have any suggestions as to how they could incorporate creativity and participation under such conditions? Ummmm….. Sometimes while here I have felt so very very Australian, sheltered…

Speaking of Vellore, I wish I could show you a few photos of this intriguing, bustling, paradox of a town. Essentially, it’s really a small city, centered around trading and industry, but dominated by two buildings – the Christian Medical College Hospital (CMC) and the Vellore Fort. The CMC isn’t monumental or extravagant visually, but it’s renowned as being one of Tamil Nadu’s best hospitals, if not India’s. And there are also many signs around the town which commemorating how CMC donated the funds for this or that piece of infrastructure. Where government fails or is slow, business or community steps in. The CMC is also absolutely surrounded by rickshaw drivers and people sitting on the footpath in various states of illness and misfortune begging.

The Vellore Fort is another thing altogether – a mediaeval fortress with its own moat (now plied by paddleboats!), inside is a still-functioning 14th-century Hindu temple, a mosque, a church, two museums, and various government offices. In a way, the architecture provides a physical narrative of India’s succession of colonial and internal empires.

Why no photos? My camera broke down! But I did find a fantastic shop in Chennai called Camera Service Point. It’s currently at 1st floor, Bata Building, 829 Mount Road (Anna Salai), but the building will be demolished some time in the next year or two, so maybe call them on 93800 62185 first, to check. A huge thanks to the man who opened up my Sony and made it work again, with not a single photo lost. Is it hyperbole to say that in India everything can be fixed? Yes, probably, but still, I was impressed and grateful.

Bata Building, Chennai — Camera Service Point is in this building

In the last week, I’ve given 4 poetry readings, 1 lecture and 1 workshop, as well as sitting in the audience for 4 other readings, a poetry slam, and a carnatic music concert. I am sated and exhausted. Huge thanks go to the organisers and volunteers behind Poetry with Prakriti. Like most poetry festivals, it runs on a shoestring, attracts passionate audiences (not always big numbers, but insightful and engaged), and provides a smorgasbord of words and performances. Many readings were at local universities and colleges. Thanks go too to the many students who listened, thought, and asked some fantastic questions.

I found Ranjit Hoskote’s translations of Lal Ded refreshing and intriguing, full of air and insight, especialy in the light of his accompanying discussion of this fascinating woman (14th century Shaivite mystic and Sufi saint from Kashmir, whose legacy now seems to be much contested between communities who wish to claim her exclusively as their own). Kazim Ali’s poems were a potent blend of disorientation and revelation, both ecstatic and casual (at the risk of misquoting him, I loved the line “you unpacked all my shirts of silence”). Wonderful too to meet Dutch poet Maria Van Daalen, whose metaphysical and subtly emotional poems were to be savoured. I also was lucky enough to hear a few poems from Carrie Rudzinski (USA), Giuseppe Conte (Italy), Salah Stetie (France/Lebanon), Anand Krishnan, P Sivakami, Kavitha Muralidharan & Alok Bhalla. I would have liked to have heard more, but I was either reading my own poems, in transit, or recuperating!

Of course, ironically, while this post is “welcome back…”, I’m typing it while I’m about to leave. I have a mountain of affection and admiration for the people of Chennai. But I am so looking forward to being home, with the love of my life…

the queue (if you could call it that)

Two weeks in, and I have yet to step foot inside a hospital. Well, ok, I did walk into the Apollo, but more on that later. For now, let’s just say the mood is ambivalent. I’ve been writing poems, and I think some interesting things are coming out, but they’ve mainly been about the initial frisson of arrival, the spectacular differences and the struggle of bridging cultures. Nothing yet about “medical tourism”. All the contacts I have either don’t get back to me, or are in meetings, or want me to send them emails… But, as India teaches you, you have to keep pushing – with a soft fluidity as well as a vigour.

The staff at the University of Madras have all been gracious and welcoming. I have a room set aside for me on the rooftop of the main building, which overlooks Marina Beach and fills up with the sea breeze. They’ve also continued to reassure me that the extent of my involvement at the University is up to me; that my poetry-writing is the priority. We’ve organised a few things though, all at the University’s English Department –

Poetry Reading – Thursday 3rd November, 1pm
Creative Writing Workshop on Embodiment – Monday 5th December, 10am.
Lecture/discussion on Recent Australian Poetry – Tuesday 3rd January.

Apart from the Uni, all my contacts with people have been accidental. I met a lovely guy from Hyderabad who was staying at my hotel, who shouted me lunch (“it’s our duty”) and asked me what I hate about India the most, and what I love. For the record, I said its poverty and its strength. Which made me wonder about the relationship between the two… While I was at my room at the Uni, Syam Sudhakar waltzed in to meet me. He was actually at the Queensland Poetry Festival in 2009 (I was there in 2008 and 2010!) – he’s a fine poet, too – while we were chatting, he got mail, a copy of a journal with two poems of his in it. Oh, and I was also (gently) harrassed for money by a group of hijras, laughing as one of them took my hat and wore it…

Anyway, so, as I was saying, I did walk into the Apollo Hospital the other day. I took a long, tiring walk to Thousand Lights (a few suburbs away from my hotel) to get a sense of what this renowned hospital is like – who goes there, what surrounds it, etc. At a distance, I thought I saw it, but it was actually a luxury hotel – oops, Andy, don’t get carried away. Apollo is of course a large medical complex, and it clearly has some money behind it, but it looks more like a standard country hospital. The main difference being the huge crowds. Hundreds of bikes and motorbikes are out the front. Autorickshaws cruise the exit for customers. Families wait in groups outside. In the waiting room, it’s hard to move – dozens and dozens of people sit, stand, lie, pace, all without much apparent distress or frustration. I can’t imagine everyone would be seen on the day they come. But it seems accepted that this is just how it is. In the corner is a sign that directs “international patients” to a separate cubicle. Which reminds me of the time I went to a doctor in Kalimpong, West Bengal, three years ago – I was rushed to the front of the (albeit small) queue, and felt acutely relieved and ashamed.

The other thing I’ve noticed is the number of gyms here (which I didn’t notice in the north or centre of the country). Wondering what that implies…

Oh, and where I’m staying – Sangeetha Residency in Mylapore – is pretty good. It’s got all the basics you need and the buffet breakfast is part of the deal (mmm, idli…). The choice you have to make is between a room with a window onto the inner car-park, which makes it feel like a cell, and a room that overlooks the road, which is almost always a cacophony of vehicles honking (and now that it’s Diwali, so many crackers and fireworks exploding through the night, which makes the air look like a thick fog and sounds like a small war!). I prefer the latter. You may prefer neither.

And below, some important places for Deepawali – temple, and a shop for fireworks…!

not your typical…

No, this is not your typical writer’s residency. It’s in India. So, having been in Chennai – the bustling, matter-of-fact capital of Tamil Nadu – for just over 3 days now, I’m still adjusting. Having done a few residencies in the last few years, I’d gotten used to the idea of just turning up and sipping coffee while writing, then going for relaxing walks. Not that I thought it would be like that here… I think I was just so focussed on the content of my project – the personal and inter-cultural dimensions of “medical tourism” – I’d forgotten that travel always implicates the traveller. You are no neutral observer.

A few examples. I was on my way to an internet cafe when a man, about 60-ish, approached me, and started walking with me. He said he worked at the airport and recognised me from when I arrived – he gestured to his lower lip to where my facial hair is, then stooped over to imitate my posture, smiling. We chatted in broken English for a while, until he stopped, leaned towards me, and whispered “can you help me?”. He had a bag from an eye hospital and a print-out of the costs of some procedure or prescription, running to the thousands of rupees. I am not proud to say I gave him a tiny amount, then refused when he pleaded for more. I still don’t know how to feel. I can still hear him saying “I don’t ask anybody!”, then myself saying “but you’re asking me…”. I still don’t know how I feel about how I responded, or even what exactly happened, or what problems this man has, if any.

Who is responsible for the health of the Indian people? What happens when someone’s social circle can’t help or support him (or her)?

Example two, a little less significant. Just after this encounter, I popped into a little supermarket to buy a few supplies, and thought I may as well buy a few oranges as well. Only after I got back to the hotel, did I notice the sticker on them – grown in Australia. Does India actually need Australian oranges? I don’t think so. I don’t either. But they’re here.

Anyway, here’s a few photos that somehow reflect my first impressions of Chennai – well, of Mylapore anyway, the suburb where I’m staying. The traffic is a self-organising cacophony, the people are gentle and subtle and (for the most part) leave you to your own devices, it’s hot as hell (an overnight low of 25 is considered “pleasant”), and the locals love their little oases (the beach, parks, AC restaurants, the mall…).