A Solo Traveler Learns How Strong She Is By Cabbing Through India’s Cities
“Kali Mandir, Temple, Madam?”
“Haan ji, yes,” I said, grimacing slightly as I slid onto the scorching leather backseat. I turned to each back door, pressing the locks down and saying a silent prayer that they did indeed lock. I rolled up each window, leaving only enough space for air to get in. I moved to the middle of the seat and sat stiffly upright, making myself appear much taller than my 5’2 frame ever did in any New York cab. I shifted my small black bag, which I had disciplined myself to wear across my head and shoulder, to sit snuggly on my lap. I methodically checked the zipper on my bag with my left hand, even though I had already done my routine check before leaving my hotel. Using both hands I pulled my salwaar, Indian blouse, up and back at the shoulders; my attempt to ward off extra leers from the front seat. I made all of these adjustments while keeping my eyes forward on the rearview mirror. Eventually he would look back at me, this I knew.
I also knew that he would ask me the very same question he asked the other four days a week as he dropped me off, “Waiting, madam?”
“Na, no,” I said, meeting his eyes quickly as I gave him 50 rupees.
I started to walk towards the Mandir when he yelled out the window, “Madam! Madam, Kali Mandir?” He made a forward moving hand gesture for which I knew meant tomorrow.
“Haan,” I said holding up nine fingers for nine in the morning.
A huge smile stretched from cheek-to-cheek as he held up nine fingers, shaking them violently.
“Theek hai, okay,” I said, without smiling. I turned again to walk towards the Mandir.
I heard him yell out, “Waiting, madam?” I kept walking towards the ringing of the bells and incense that was hovering in the air. “Jai Maa Kali, a devotional expression meaning Victory to the Divine Mother, Kali, Jai Maa Kali!” he yelled out as he drove away. Money and religion seem to go hand in hand for cabbies here.
Things weren’t always that easy with the cabbies in Kolkata. When I first traveled to India in 2005, it was challenging to find a cab driver in which I could communicate with. I didn’t speak Bengali, also called Bangla, or Hindi, the languages native to the area. I was there with a meditation group of devotees of the Goddess Maa Kali. It was still slightly uncommon to see Westerners of European descent at Mandirs other than the Hare Krishnas. West Bengal and its capital, Kolkata, is an area known for being rich in its reverence for Maa Kali. She is one of many Goddesses within the Hindu faith, and is most recognized in images as the Goddess with her tongue lolling from her mouth.
Fortunately, a teacher within our meditation group had traveled extensively to India. She knew how to get around. She badgered us when we smiled too much or tried to over-tip. She warned against leaving anything valuable out in your room. She’d get annoyed if we weren’t paying close attention as we walked down the streets. This was all for good reason. I heard of people having their luggage and wallets stolen, sometimes right off them when they weren’t paying attention. I will always be grateful to have traveled with someone like her. The advice she gave us has served me well on every trip thereafter.
When I returned to India again in 2006, to both enrich my connection to Kali and do some volunteer work with an orphanage, I watched a woman from Australia have a total meltdown. I listened, feeling helpless, as she told the staff at the hotel that all of her cash and credit cards, along with her passport, had been stolen.
When the manager asked her where she had kept them, she replied, “On my nightstand” I heard him tell her that this was why there was a safe in every room. This of course only made things worse and ensued in a screaming match. While I felt sorry for her, especially being another woman traveling alone, I wondered why she didn’t use the safe. I remember feeling grateful for my acquired street smarts from my first trip.
My first cab ride to the orphanage, which should’ve taken 30-minutes, took two-hours. In truth, I naively thought that if I told the cab driver the name of the orphanage and he responded with a, “Haan ji,” that he would then take me to said orphanage. Never assume. This was my new rule of cab. If you are planning on a trip to India, I would say never assume anything. If you are one of those people, who I refer to as planners, that like to plan every hour of your day; well, get ready for that to come to a screaming halt.
Flying back to India in March of 2011 was like traveling to a place I hadn’t been before.
Quite a few years had elapsed since my last trip. Not everyone had cell phones when I had last been there, and now I saw them everywhere. I knew things had changed when I saw a girl of about fourteen walking with her friends, wearing a tight baby-doll style shirt that read, “I only speak 2 languages, English and Body.” I cringed inwardly.
The main reason this trip felt like traveling somewhere new was that I was with my then-partner. I was used to being independent in India. I was also used to fitting into the hetero norm. I wore a wedding-type band on my left ring finger. I used this as a protective measure when traveling on my own. Whenever some random guy started asking me questions, I would purposely flash my hand and explain that I was on my way to see my husband. They always left me alone after that.
Towards the end of my initial group trip to India, which was tightly scheduled, I vowed to myself that I would have actual down time during my future stays. I got it on my next visit. I became accustomed to spending my days in lieu of any timetable. I enjoyed waiting to decide my day when I woke up each morning. All of that was about to change because I was with a planner, that planner being my then-partner. While she is a first generation Indian-American and grew up going to India during many childhood summers, she could not resist the urge to plan.
She would tell me, “Let’s go to that Mandir, then pick up a salwaar for this person, and maybe try to stop by that one store.” I would smile and agree, knowing there was no way we would get more than one of those tasks accomplished.
That’s just the way things work in India, at least in the places I’ve traveled to. My then-partner refers to it as IST, or Indian Standard Time. I noticed if someone said to meet at 1 p.m., that generally meant somewhere between 1 – 3 p.m. Of course there are positives and negatives, but the average person I met never seemed worried or rushed about time. I found this led to an overall more relaxed feeling, even amidst the craziness of the traffic. My then-partner said she always forgot how long it took to get things done in India until she went back. Then she would, as she said, submit and throw her hands up in the air, giving into the idea that what needed to get done would get done. I wonder how that thought process would work here in the US. I’m guessing not well.
After visiting my then-partner’s sister in Gurgoan, near Delhi, we took a trip to Kolkata. She had been telling me for months, two-years technically, that she wanted to see my India. My usual hotel, the Fairlawn, was booked, but I was able to find a nice equivalent Hotel Bawa Walson Spa on the same street. As we stood in line at the Dum Dum airport in Kolkata for a pre-paid cab, which is the best way not to get scammed on a fare, I warned her not to have her money out when we left the airport. The street kids, sadly enough, were known for pick pocketing as they attempted to help people load their luggage. I was simultaneously shocked and elated to find there were no children outside. “Perhaps they’ve opened more schools and orphanages for them,” I thought hopefully. I came to find out later that it, meaning the number of children and theft, had become such a problem that airport officials no longer allowed them to be there. I wondered what they were doing now to make ends meet.
We spent the next few days in Kolkata visiting friends and the Mandirs I frequented on my previous trips. We met with an amazing group of women, Sappho for Equality, doing equally amazing work on the political and personal level. This is a lesbian, bisexual, and transgender organization that is open to all self-identified women. We took a 15-minute cab ride to a corner for which they said they’d send someone to meet us. The corner was, of course, insanely busy with cars and people. I didn’t know how we were going to find her. I suppose this is where my vampire-pale skin comes in handy, she found us.
They welcomed us into their evening meeting and we both left teary-eyed and inspired.
In the cab rides, now accompanied by my Hindi-speaking ex-girlfriend, I took a more relaxed stance. I was less stressed about being ripped-off, but something wasn’t sitting well with me about my newly reclined attitude. I felt like the tourist who had never been there before. I had worked hard to earn my getting-around-India Girl Scout badge and it started to infuriate me that the cabbies and priests in the Mandirs wouldn’t even look at me now. They looked to my ex-girlfriend to converse about what we needed or ask where we were from. I watched, feeling lonely as she laughed with them in conversation.
It wasn’t until the end of our time together in Kolkata that I got my groove back. We took a cab to the Kali Mandir, asking for the meter to be turned on as per usual. The cabbie asked if we wanted him to wait and I hesitated, which was mistake number one. He explained that there wouldn’t be a lot of taxis around later in the evening. I was about to say no when my then-partner said okay. I figured why not, it was our last night in Kolkata together. She instructed him to turn the meter off. I told her to be sure he understood. I watched him shake his head yes in the traditional side-to-side gesture.
After about an hour we came back from the Mandir and found our cabbie, who was waiting anxiously. As we started driving down the street I glanced at the meter. He had left it running the whole time we were gone. I elbowed my then-partner and listened as she spoke calmly and inquisitively. I heard him explaining in his indignant tone that of course the meter was on. Apparently, tone does translate. I felt my anger rise and I told her we were getting out of the car and not to pay him. To her credit, she paid him the fare we owed him from our hotel to the Mandir. He started yelling and waving his hand in the air as he looked back at us.
After about one minute of this, I had had enough.
“Get ready to jump out quickly,” I said, waiting for the car to slow with the traffic. She looked at me in surprise as I hit the back of his seat and yelled, “Hey!” This caused him to also look at me in surprise, along with stopping the car long enough for me to open my door.
At this point he was irate and screaming at us as we jumped out. We started walking up the street and she asked me where we should go. We knew he was going to pull over soon to chase us down. We rounded the corner and saw him start to pull over when, low and behold, who just happens to be standing on that corner? Two police officers, looking rather bored, suddenly perked up. They were now curious as they saw the cabbie running over. My then-partner started talking to them, explaining his rip-off scheme. This was nothing new to their ears. I chimed in as well, and when that happened all discussion seemed to cease. They listened to him for approximately 10-seconds and waved him away.
We got another cab easily and headed back to the hotel. I remember the adrenaline rush as we waited in traffic. “That guy was crazy,” she said, her voice still unnerved. I nodded my head. We sat in silence for a minute or so. “By the way, baby, I have never seen you yell and take charge like that before!” she said with a huge smile on her face. “Yup,” I said, smiling back, “She (India) brings out the best in me every time.”
I’m happy to say that the rest of my time on that trip to India was uneventful in cabs. My then-partner went back to Gurgoan to spend time with her sister and nephew, and I got to do my own thing for a week. While I reveled in my independence, I found myself missing her ability to easily communicate what I needed. I had started getting used to not having to haggle for every little thing. I had become spoiled. For a short period of time on that trip I had, in my own way, lost my India roots.
On my cab ride back to the Kolkata airport, I reflected on my trip. The families and friends I’ve come to know over the years are some of the sweetest, most genuine people I have ever met. I’ve had the best Indian meals of my life on banana leaves on their cement floor. I’m always in awe of the hospitality. I’ve experienced nothing that even comes close to it anywhere else in my travels. I thought about all the time I had spent in this country I’ve grown to love, as well as dislike, as much as my own. I cringe as I see the West’s influence, the young girls on Park Street in Kolkata in their skinny jeans. I think this is the advantage of the naïve Westerner. I’ve met many people of European descent, like myself, searching for roots that have been long gone. We see the devastation that capitalism has caused, that some of our ancestors have caused. It makes me want to scream at those girls, “Don’t buy those jeans!” But, alas, I have several pairs of them in my closet, so who am I to advise?
To my surprise, that last bout with the irate cab driver, reminded me of why I love India. The lessons I’ve learned there have taught me to stand up for myself and given me a confidence I didn’t think possible. I came back from that first trip in 2005 changed, though I didn’t know how. There were no huge spiritual epiphanies. In fact, I felt overwhelmed by what I didn’t know. I did feel more connected to myself and the world around me, which sometimes made me feel like doing a little jig and other times punching a wall. This is what She, India, means to me. She is a land of unsubtle paradox and reality, and I will always respect her honesty.
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