Chennai Experiences Part III

She was bold. Or was it that I, standing alone looking on, looking out of the ordinary with my paler skin, invited her curious attention? It brought her and her group of friends, but she spoke first, saying the phrase that they all probably know- "What is your name? - with that lilt all Indians seem to have. I say it, and in turn they tell theirs, in a fair exchange of words. Their tongues twist and tumble over them, and I have to ask them to go slowly so that I can repeat their names after them.
It's her turn, and she says "Su-ry-a", her smile widening. I think perhaps the word has to do with the Malay word "suria" meaning sun, and I try to say so. When they finally catch what I mean they laugh. Surya points at the scorching mid-day sun above and says "Surian". Then, pointing at herself, she says "Sury-a". I nod my understanding, and she smiles again, satisfied. That is how I will remember her, and her name, while the rest fades into dim memory.
They're all very smart, considering that their school is 8 km away, and not all of them go to school. Most of the girls, when they're past twelve, pierce their noses, stay back home, and get married off. But at this time, the teetering age between childhood and their maturity, the girls are carefree and open, even to a foreigner like me.
There isn't much to talk about, but talk we do anyway, trying to spite the language gap between us. Halfway in the shade of a nearby tree, and halfway out in the noon sun, we compare languages. They tell me the Tamil equivalents of "beach", "sand", "shell", "sky", "voice" (because I was having a sore one that day), "shirt" and "skirt" (what they were all wearing), "fish" ("min"), "eat" ("sape") and countless other inane things. They bring their siblings out, tell me that they are the "tangachi" of so-and-so, and stand together grinning while I exclaim over their likeness. One of them brings their youngest sister "Abi", and I amuse her, and them, with my little toy dog. They are enthralled by how the little doggie can clamp onto my finger, and they in turn fix it onto their fingers, then their hair, Abi's ear...
In those inane things, a bond was formed, a friendship. And I was inducted into Surya's circle of friends, first by a handshake, then introduction, then small talk, then her declaration of "friends!", complete with sisterly kisses on the cheek by each one of them, as how they do with each other. A surprised girl kisses them back, giddy and unsure how to act in this newfound friendship. I know that it would be transient - I will climb aboard the bus, and be taken away for years, perhaps forever. But I let them take my hands and walk me towards the sea that so recently took their belongings and crashed them kilometres inland. I played catch with them and the waves; I walked along the sand picking up lovely delicate seashells with them. And then, it was time to go.
Yet they were not bitter. They understood goodbye, and they echoed my words, supplementing it with gestures of their own - the touching of cheeks and chin, before putting their fingers to their lips, and free waves of their hands, their smiles. I wave back, reluctant to leave them, yet knowing I must. What carefree spirit they have, even to the face of rebuilding their lives! I look into their futures and see hard times for them, and pray that their carefree spirit will carry onwards till they die.

This is for my girlfriends in Chinnakuppam...