With Sweat and Determination

Determination is a beautiful quality to have. It’ll get you further than you ever thought you would go and provide momentum to achieve things even when obstacles stand in your way. However, there are times in your life when signs clearly indicate: “STOP,” “DON’T GO THERE,” and “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.”  That’s when perception should step up and say, “You’ve taken this as far as its going to. You’re done.” I’ve never been very good at heeding the latter because of this innate stubbornness I was blessed with.  However, I AM slowly learning as I get older. Lucky for me, India is the perfect environment to hone my stubbornness into an art of determination combined with perception.

Since arriving in Chennai, I’ve anticipated visiting the Cholamandal Artists’ village just outside of Chennai. It is a commune started by a group of reputed artists in 1965 who pledged to devote themselves to a lifetime of making art. The village consists of quaint resident cottages, two art galleries, and gardens all nestled on a serene plot of land in the midst of the city’s hustle and bustle. Everything about stepping into an artist’s world appeals to me, and I eagerly put it at the top of my list of things to do while in India. Fortunately my dear friend in the area, Jen, is an artist herself and could easily be roped into coming. This past Saturday was the day we set to stimulate our artistic inclinations and tap into our hippy side.

When I researched Cholamandal online, the website gave me all the confidence in the world that I could navigate the 8 km separating me from my prized destination. After recently taking on public transportation and discovering that I could handle it, I had enough self-assurance in my ability to make my way to Cholamandal on the public bus. After all I might as well experience it while I’m here, right?

I was wrong;  very wrong. My novice navigation of the city and public transportation could not have prepared me for public buses on a 95 degree day. The sweating never stopped from the moment I woke up and continued to seep profusely through my clothing as I made my way to meet Jen. There we were, right or wrong bus stop, dripping all over the place and turning our heads in circle. This way? That way?  Neither of us had any clue but feigned confidence in order to maintain our spirits.

We jumped onto the first bus that loomed into the stop. Teetering back and forth, packed tightly into every space, we bumped and sweated our way through the city.  I was sopping up my forehead with a small tissue, deeply regretting my choice of Western wear for the city adventure. Jen mirrored my misery and I could tell that both us might not be up for the 45 minute ride of clinging to seats and sweating out last night’s curry.  At our bus switch, a man noticed our perturbed cluelessness and volunteered his services. He weaved through the crowds with his head barely visible and pointed to a major bus depot across the street. It was shaded; it had buses; it looked like the perfect waiting spot for our final leg of the journey.

Jen asked the conductor to indicate our bus to Injabakkam, the route we would take to Cholamandal, and we were told to find bus 599. There were dozens and dozens of buses in no clear order, but Jen’s keen eye spotted the faithful iron steed in no time. After securing our spot on the 599, the hour-long waiting game began in the oven like innards of the bus. We were hot; we were sweaty; and we were overwhelmed. Sitting still and drinking water seemed like the best thing to curb the dehydration setting in.

However, once we sat down, the beggars that lived at the bus stop spotted us and began to make their way towards us. One after the other, they came in waves of small children, crippled men, and mother’s with crying babies. A woman with steel needles piercing her cheeks even passed by and offered us the opportunity to pray to her small Hindu altar for a small fee. It was difficult to resist their persistence, and soon I had given away the scraps of food I had and every coin I possessed.  But it wasn’t enough to satiate their need or insistence that I should give them more.

The hardest part was seeing the little girls lassoed into the ring of women beggars. I watched the begging women gather in the center of the bus terminal, looking like football players formulating their next play. A little girl in a shiny, cheap satin dress with pink ribbons in her hair approached them. One of the women lifted her head from the huddle and pushed the little girl on the shoulder, indicating that the girl should get back to work. She came round to our 599 haven, singing an Indian song in a surprisingly clear and beautiful voice. Once her song ended, she very aggressively began demanding alms from each waiting passenger. I was somewhat taken aback at her adeptness at begging and scamming us, appealing to us with her need for food and money. I managed to snap a shot during her insistence…

After about 50 minutes, Jen and I noticed that people were getting off of the 599 and going to other buses. After asking around, we both discovered that we were in fact on the wrong bus. Frantic now, we approached the conductor and asked for more direction. He told us to look at the front line of all the buses for 599, giving us no real direcion. Knowing that precious time was passing us by, we ran up to the front to see the first line of buses leaving the terminal. We roamed the remaining aisles looking for the blasted 599, asking random strangers as we looked around. Our efforts were coming up empty, the sun was beating on our heads, and no one could seem to tell us if the bus had left or where it might be. My steely determination had kicked in as I searched, dragging Jen behind me on my quest to find the bus. After stopping to rack our brains and come up with a game plan, I realized that I was being repeatedly hit on my arm. Looking down, I noted the girl in the shiny cheap dress with pink ribbons demanding more money from me. I turned away, and she continued to twist my fingers and tap my arm firmly.  I needed to lose her.

Spotting the 599 at the back of the line, Jen and I ducked into the bus and picked out new sits. It was just after one in the afternoon, and the bus wasn’t leaving for another hour and a half. Sitting there, frustrated and sweating, I looked over at Jen to see her visibly wilting. She was growing more dehydrated by the minute in the intense heat. Still determined, I began to remind both of us how wonderful it would be when we arrived and were embraced by a commune of artists. We both smiled weakly at the prospect, sweat beading on our forehead and dripping down our backs. In that moment, another begging girl boarded the bus and made her way to us. In Jen’s face, she began to demand food and alms. After a firm no, she made her way to my side under our elevated seat and began to hit my feet, poke my toes, and tap my leg. Here we go again, I thought.

It was 1:30 and we had been at the bus stop for approximately 2 hours sweating the entire time. Jen looked at the little girl, at me, and then said very resolutely: “I’m done.” I knew then that my determination and resolve were not going to serve us if Jen dehydrated and we lost our tempers. Without further ado, I conceded defeat and we left the terminal. Both of us had one objective in mind: find air conditioning and find it fast.

Our day ended at one of the biggest malls in Chennai. I hate malls, but this was glorious in every way. It was cool, I wasn’t sweating, and there were no small children accosting me for money. I felt like a Western failure for not making it to the Cholamandal artists’ village, but sometimes things are not meant to work out. Not immediately, at least.  This weekend is another opportunity to make it happen under the right circumstances. Fortunate for Jen and I, its monsoon season. So instead of sweat, we’ll battle water of a different kind. But I’ll take it. Circumstances willing. 

This proves that we sweated....

I found a Go-Girl!