I Want to Be Sedated

Walking down the street listening to “I want to be Sedated” by The Ramones was an uncanny representation of my mental processes today. My feet sloshed through the mud in tune to the rapid beat of “ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba” as the feelings of insanity whirled around me in regards to the ironies of India. The past week has been so full of experiences both cruel and laughable that my only sentiment today is to turn off my brain or join in the madness. Instead, I think I want to be sedated.

The process of enlightenment to the organized chaos in Chennai has absolutely thrown me into a culture-shock quandary. From the beggars on the streets to hand-eating etiquette; there is lucid sanity that permeates life here. My first ray of irrational sense came last week during a grocery meander down the street with my friend, Shega. While Shega and I sauntered along, a begging woman approached us with a whip in hand and a determined look on her face. Raising her arm high she cracked the whip and struck herself before extending her right arm for money. I was shocked to a standstill while the small woman with weapon in hand began to loudly demand recompense for her self-abuse. Shega managed to pull me along, weaving around the woman and ducking into a store to lose the woman in her close pursuit.  She explained that many of the city’s beggars have developed scams using children or street theatrics to earn a living. I was nonplussed at such a jarring and convincing system, but Shega shared that many of the most convincing beggars have been pulling the same ruse year after year.

Her advice wasn’t so reassuring by the time the weekend rolled around. After the busy work week, I decided to get out and experience some of the sights. I was invited by a group to join in an early beach-side picnic on Saturday morning. It sounded like a great chance to mix with the locals and discover hidden gems around Chennai. Afterward, I planned to make my way alone to a tourist spot called “Elliot’s Beach” for a reprieve in nature. However, as I was soon to discover, nothing is ever as it seems to be in India.

Our beach-side venture turned out to be a picnic among planted groves of trees with the Bay of Bengal barely visible in the distance. We situated ourselves between two trees on a small hill above ant beds and other unknown creatures. As we prepared to dine, I suddenly noticed that we were not alone. Our hapless dining experience was soon to be shared by a gaggle of small, homeless boys led by an old woman. They gathered closely around us as we began to eat, hovering like dogs around a dinner table begging for scraps. I lost my appetite immediately. The children had reddish tinted hair with dark skin; a clear sign of malnourishment. The women herself was bedraggled and crouching in dirt with a deformed hand extended towards us. The young picnickers carried on, joking and laughing, but I was too disturbed to enjoy myself. Here we were on a happy weekend jaunt with hopeless suffering surrounding us. I could barely handle it, but the others carried on as if we were the only ones there. It was a disturbing irony  for life in India that they coped with, but it was a cruel nonetheless. I had never witnessed a picnic surrounded by poverty. The meal was shared at the end with the homeless group and money was given to the mothers, but I left feeling that it simply wasn’t enough.

After the picnic with poverty, I ventured by myself to the beach where I hoped to find respite from the city. Instead, my retreat led me to a trash-heap beach where the decayed skeleton of an old carnival now offering beggars a sunny reprieve. I walked about in an attempt to enjoy myself, dodging new groups of beggars as I snapped a few pictures. All of a sudden, I felt a tickle on my arm. I looked quickly to see a tiny, white maggot making his way into the sleeve of my shirt. I nearly screamed. A middle aged man passing by flirtatiously smiled and said, “Nice picture taking?” I swallowed my scream, smiled weakly, and walked quickly away from whatever maggoty spot I had stumbled upon.

I made my way to the shore where the waves looked like empty shelves with no surfers to adorn them. With a sigh of disappointment, I resigned myself to sit next to a pile of garbage in order to watch the waves’ crash onto the filthy beach. The oil tankers on the horizon smiled at me and waved in the distance. My first view of the Bay of Bengal looked more like the Bay of Pigs: and not the Cuban kind.

It wasn’t long before I managed to singe my skin in the intense rays of the sun. I was done with the beach. I was done with the picnic. The subsequent traffic and chaos of city made my trip back to the hostel increase my feelings that I had found my way to madness. Since then, I’ve managed to recover my spirits slightly, though I have to confess that it has only been marginal improvement. I’m grappling with this strange new upside-down world of chaos, and I feel like someone “just put me in a wheel chair” to get me front row seats to the show. “Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba!”