A tired monkey on a machine, that’s what I am, I thought as I rolled the stalled bike off of NH-17. The bike and I came to a stop next to a brightly colored bus. Like most vehicles on the road, it had “GANESH” painted in bright colors on the top of its windshield surrounded by designs that engulfed the whole truck. It had taken me a while to figure out that the western equivalent would be like seeing “JESUS CHRIST” painted on someone’s car. (I have also seen a few Indian trucks with this painted on them in place of Ganesh, or Shiva and the like). A boy of about 17 became very interested in me. Unfortunately he spoke no more than 5 or 6 words of English and when I tried my truly rudimentary Hindi on him, I discovered that he couldn’t speak Hindi either and actually spoke another language called Malabari. Go figure. After a bit of charade I just wanted to be left alone and contemplate my dwindling options while chain smoking. The boy would not give up, however. Then I hit upon two English words that he did know: Rail Station.
After a demonstration to convince him that the bike would not make it the 1 k to the rail station, he helped me wheel the useless beast the whole way. The town was Kuttipurum and the rail station there did not support the shipping of motorcycles via train. It would be possible at another town, 18 kilometers away. I needed a truck to get the bike there. Eventually, through the cracked English of the people who were helping me I was told of a man who spoke my language. I wasn’t sure talking to someone who knew English was entirely necessary, all I needed was a driver with a big enough truck. I had done it before and figured that since I was armed with the name of the town, I would be able to communicated what I needed to a driver, if only I could find one. The people helping me were convinced that I needed to see this man. The paranoid in me was suspicious.
“He know everyone in Kuttipurum, He help, he help.”
Whatever, I’m always up for meeting new people. I was led to an ‘English Speaking School’ and the gentleman who I was presented to, a healthy, smiling and handsome young Indian man in his late twenties offered me his hand. He was formally dressed and I could tell that he received a tremendous amount of respect in the community as I watched the children of the school and his subordinates observe the interaction. He seemed so pleased to meet a native English speaker, and I was a bit of a spectacle for everyone at the school. The man’s name was Musthafa and the first thing he asked me was whether I’d be willing to take a picture with the school children. I was afraid that I might be interrupting something - anything since it was the middle of the afternoon, but of course I agreed. Musthafa was delighted and then set out into the town with me to procure me a ride to the next train station. He asked me all the usual questions but with such graciousness and hospitality that I couldn’t help but be amazed. I felt like a faux badass who had snuck into a heaven where everyone was Indian and motorcycles acted like mental patients. All these people are so damn kind! I thought to myself. Where is this ‘corrupt India’? Where are all the bribes and thieves looking to take advantage of me? I seem to keep running into mid-western united states’ kindness, but I’m in India for Shiva’s sake.
Musthafa helped me negotiate a price for the truck ride and then after helping me, along with a few other men, get the motorcycle into the flat bed, he gave me his phone number and pleaded that I call him if anything goes awry. Poorly, I tried to communicate how grateful I was for his help and how utterly humbled I was by the generosity of the people of India.
After a demonstration to convince him that the bike would not make it the 1 k to the rail station, he helped me wheel the useless beast the whole way. The town was Kuttipurum and the rail station there did not support the shipping of motorcycles via train. It would be possible at another town, 18 kilometers away. I needed a truck to get the bike there. Eventually, through the cracked English of the people who were helping me I was told of a man who spoke my language. I wasn’t sure talking to someone who knew English was entirely necessary, all I needed was a driver with a big enough truck. I had done it before and figured that since I was armed with the name of the town, I would be able to communicated what I needed to a driver, if only I could find one. The people helping me were convinced that I needed to see this man. The paranoid in me was suspicious.
“He know everyone in Kuttipurum, He help, he help.”
Whatever, I’m always up for meeting new people. I was led to an ‘English Speaking School’ and the gentleman who I was presented to, a healthy, smiling and handsome young Indian man in his late twenties offered me his hand. He was formally dressed and I could tell that he received a tremendous amount of respect in the community as I watched the children of the school and his subordinates observe the interaction. He seemed so pleased to meet a native English speaker, and I was a bit of a spectacle for everyone at the school. The man’s name was Musthafa and the first thing he asked me was whether I’d be willing to take a picture with the school children. I was afraid that I might be interrupting something - anything since it was the middle of the afternoon, but of course I agreed. Musthafa was delighted and then set out into the town with me to procure me a ride to the next train station. He asked me all the usual questions but with such graciousness and hospitality that I couldn’t help but be amazed. I felt like a faux badass who had snuck into a heaven where everyone was Indian and motorcycles acted like mental patients. All these people are so damn kind! I thought to myself. Where is this ‘corrupt India’? Where are all the bribes and thieves looking to take advantage of me? I seem to keep running into mid-western united states’ kindness, but I’m in India for Shiva’s sake.
Musthafa helped me negotiate a price for the truck ride and then after helping me, along with a few other men, get the motorcycle into the flat bed, he gave me his phone number and pleaded that I call him if anything goes awry. Poorly, I tried to communicate how grateful I was for his help and how utterly humbled I was by the generosity of the people of India.
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