A Guest in a Hut

Continuing my exploration of my neighborhood and also seeking a good area for walking, I crossed the busy underpass of the Thiru Vi Ka Bridge and into the section of Arunachala Urur Puram (don’t you love the Indian names?). At first the street was rather quiet (a rarity in Chennai) and paralleled a forested area of the Theosophical Society with its surrounding wall, but then it took a turn. Two cute kids with large dark eyes were there, a little boy squatting (doing his “job”)” and a young girl with a purple skirt out on the road. Suddenly I was once again in a poorer area, a dusty road with thatched huts and simple concrete homes, a few bottomless children playing in the street, and more garbage than normal.

A man with a full head of hair was in a small overhang of his house, leaning into a mirror appearing at first glance to be shaving. Spotting me (very easy to do, as I stick out with my light skin and red hair), he greeted me and invited me into his small home. Kicking off his sandals at lightning speed, he entered the main room and invited me to do the same. Seeing his wife, I also took off my sandals before entering and shook her hand as she greeted me. Immediately a plastic chair was drawn over for me, the only one in the room. After being introduced to the wife and two daughters, the man asked if I would like some fish curry. With an unacclimated stomach, I politely declined, saying that I had recently eaten, even though it was about 2 in the afternoon. He then asked if I would like coffee. I felt that might be safe and simple. The aluminum cup was extremely hot, so the wife smiled, took the cup from me and began pouring the coffee back and forth from another cup from a rather large distance. This action reminded me of the tea preparation in Mali and Tunisia, an expert ritual practice that produced a slight froth on the top.
Cement walls painted in pink formed the lower interior of the house, reaching the height of the rather short (by American standards) man. A few shelves ran around the perimeter of the interior walls, holding the family’s simple belongings. On the entrance side the wife had a collection of various sized aluminum pots and pans and hotplate powered by a gas canister. On the top shelf of the next wall, I spotted a Barbie doll with pigtails sticking up. When I pointed to it, the young daughter smiled in a bashful manner. You could tell that she played with her lone doll a lot, styling the hair like any girl would. Just above the cement wall where the thatched roof began sloping to a peak was a black and white photo of the husband’s parents. A ceiling fan, along with the painted cement floor, kept the room surprisingly cool. In the corner of the room was a battered armoire, perhaps containing the family saris (traditional woman’s dress). The older daughter stood in the doorway of a second tiny room that contained a TV. On the wall next to me was a picture of Jesus with an enlarged glowing heart, along with a rosary with a cross. Asking the husband if they were Christian, he smiled and pointed to the corner of the wall where the shrine of a Hindu god was, explaining that even though they were Hindu, all religions were basically the same and respectable by him. Smiling instead of agreeing with him, I admired his tolerance and respect for other religions.

After some small talk about our families and other simple topics (the husband was the only one who was able to converse in English), I asked them if they would like their photo taken. When the husband asked if I would return again for some fish curry, I replied that I would come back as I lived close and wanted to give them a copy of the photos I had taken. Thanking them for their hospitality, I waved to the family as they stood in front of their home’s entrance and also waved bye-bye. I could tell that they felt honored to have me in their home. I was glad to oblige and do a bit of cross-cultural exchange and meet some locals of Chennai.

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