"But I am Babu!"

Occasionally you might a character who is so odd that you just automatically know that you'll remember them, and whose exploits will continue to grow into myth through he retelling. This provided one of those characters: Mr. Babu. When we were initially scheduled to arrive at Katpadi Station at 5:45 on Sunday the good folks at the Christian Medical College arranged a driver, Mr. Babu from Babu Travel. Fortunately, they also sent along his contact information, because when the travel plans fell through we had to have find a reach to reach Mr. Babu - and ask him to not only come to an entirely different location (the city of Chennai - three hours away from Vellore - as compared to the train station next to Vellore) but to also show up almost ten hours earlier. I tried to call him several times, but without luck. As it turns out it just as well, because Mr. Babu doesn't speak much English, and, for that matter, not much Hindi - his main language is Tamil. As I came down to meet John for dinner on Saturday night he was talking on the phone and gave me the high sign that he had Mr. Babu on the phone - and he kept talking - and he kept talking (it ended up being a twenty-five minute conversation). What I could gather from the conversation was that John was having trouble getting Mr. Babu to understand him; the big bone of contention was John's request to have Mr. Babu write my name on a placard on a sign when he met me at the airport, to which Mr. Babu repeatedly replied, "But I am Babu!" And then John tried this approach of asking Mr. Babu to write Babu on the placard, which also earned the same response, "But I am Babu!" You would think the bigger problem would have been the change in time and location - and that the request was not coming from someone at CMC, but these strange people calling from Mumbai, but that didn't seem to matter as compared to the greater existential question of Babu's identity. Although John had some doubts, he felt that he had made his point, and we headed off to dinner. While eating Volga, who speaks much better Tamil than John, volunteered to talk to Mr. Babu - and then I got to sit and watch the comic opera repeat itself. At one point I heard Volga, switching back and forth between English, Hindi and Tamil, say, "yes, but how will Mr. Gary know Mr. Babu?" - which brought the obvious response, "But I am Babu!"

Nevertheless, true to his word, Mr. Babu was waiting for us at the Chennai Airport the next morning at 8:00 a.m. when we got off the plane. I can only say that looked exactly like a Mr. Babu should look - just dripping with character and attitude. After loading out suitcase in the car he immediately asked if we could stop at a hotel (really a restaurant along the road) so that he could get breakfast, because, according to him, he'd arrived at the airport at 6:30, and thus "no coffee and no coffee and no coffee." So, we stopped at a place about a half-hour further along, but he all but dragged me out of the car to get some breakfast. However, I didn't follow him inside, but instead just went for a little work and bought some ice cream. It took him a long time to eat breakfast, which I eventually figured out was because he waiting for me to join him - and, more importantly, buy him breakfast. After waiting a respectful time period he either didn't eat or ate and actually paid for his own breakfast. After that the rest of the trip was relatively uneventful, other than the first appearance of Mr. Babu's infectious and more than slightly maniacal giggle. He got us to the Big Bungalow at the medical compound just outside Vellore in record time, which was greatly appreciated because the last hour brought the arrival of some pretty nasty cramps from some dreadful lower intestinal miseries. Before leaving Mr. Babu agreed to come back Tuesday morning at 7:00 for the return trip to Chennai.

And bright and early Tuesday morning, on the other side of our visit to the Christian Medical College and my stomach issues, Mr. Babu showed up right on time. He immediately discussed the need for some breakfast, but we insisted on getting on down the road. Along the way I was taking some pictures out the window and he suddenly started talking about his nice house and taking pictures (at least that's what I thought he was talking about). We turned down a side road and slowed down next to a couple cows along the side of the road, and I figured that he just wanted to take some pictures of the cows - and I did. But then he stopped in front of a house and said, again, "nice house," to which I agreed - and he stopped the car, got out, and practically pulled me along after him into the house. My father and sister wisely stayed in the car. We entered a narrow courtyard, full of several women and a bunch of small kids. Babu started talking to several of the women, and they brought out a couple of plastic chairs, and Babu insisted I sit - and encouraged me, through sign language, to take some pictures, which I did - and then the fight broke out. Babu got into a huge screaming match - well, he was mainly on the losing end, with one of the women, who I figured was Mrs. Babu. I thought that maybe she was busy and didn't really have time to make tea for some strange visiting American, but who knows what was going on. I slowly backed away, while making eye contact and folding my hands in front of me in the classic Hindu fashion, which seemed to placate her immensely - at least towards me - it didnj't do a thing to save Babu himself. I just kept backing away, slowly, and have this clear memory of poor Babu trying to hold his own, looking terribly lonely and defeated. When we got back in the car he told me that it was his sister, which probably made even more sense.

Although temporarily defeated, Mr. Babu marched on. On the way outside of town he once again complained about the lack of coffee and stopped along the road to get some - and disappeared for several more moments, and came back looking frustrated, looked around the dashboard, and asked me for change for coffee, and I once again said no - and he got back into the car. We tore along, making good time, and no great problems after that, although he did want to borrow my phone to make a call (he even had me type in a phone number because I thought he wanted to give me another contact number for him) because his phone was, allegedly, not able to make out-going calls. Once again, I refused, much to his obvious consternation, although he remained very friendly. When we reached a point outside Chennai where he first tried to get me to buy him breakfast he once again asked if we could stop for breakfast, but by this time I was getting pretty good at telling him no. After he dropped me off he saluted us, and asked me to give him 50 rupees for breakfast (considering that I had just handed him 1750 rupees to pay for the trip - not counting the 2000 rupees from the trip in [somehow the change from the first trip never showed up, and I was too sick to pursue it]) I didn't have any trouble saying, again, no. He just smiled, saluted, and off we went his merry way.

The only other thing I remember was being stopped on the road from Vellore to Chennai by a truck wreck. Although the police told him clearly not to go, he drove around the policeman's outstretched three foot long wooden truncheon when he wasn't looking. The policeman yelled "hey" and looked awfully angry - and Babu just giggled insanely. I only hope that the policeman never catches up with him because I've seen some policemen and security guards put some pretty serious thrashings on folks, and despite Babu's general kookiness and conniving, I'd hate for him to meet that fate.

Be well, my friend, and you are Babu!!