I saw the colourful but unkempt gypsies on the streets. I always got the impression that they were aimless, like drifting logs. This nature is quite apparent in the way they move about. Even as everything around them rushes on, they are calm and unhurried, in their own serene world. This is evident even in the way they pick rags. I had seen them lying in the shades, relaxed, hassle-free. There is a huge tree in front of our apartment complex. When I return in the afternoons, they are the ones who lazily get up and open the gate for me. When I thank them they smile at me shyly. One day I saw a resident rushing to close the gate when he sighted them. I heard one of them shouting: "Why don't you bring a big lock and lock it? We are thieves, are we not? You think we are lying in the shade to steal your things! Yes, we are thieves, criminals!" One could feel the frustration, hurt and pain in his voice. I had no idea where the gypsies lived. I knew they had no permanent house, that they were wanderers. But I got a chance to go to an area where they lived together. I was told that there they lived in proper houses, lived like the members of a society. Vaidyagiri, a gypsy whom I knew, left in advance to tell his people that we were coming. Murugan was our guide, showing photographer Sanjay Ghosh and me the way. He cycled in front. As we drove behind, there were several questions in my mind. How would they receive us? Would they look at us as two intruders from the 'civilised' world (as Vaidyagiri had described us)? Would they talk to us? Finally, we entered a narrow, broken road. The first things I noticed were piles and piles of paper, and plastic and metal scraps. These were strewn everywhere. But this was not a typical gypsy -- known locally as narikkuravas-- colony. The houses were not makeshift sheds but pucca ones. The moment we stopped, curious kids crowded around. Women flashed friendly smiles. I was relieved. They were not angry to see 'intruders'. Both Vaidyagiri and Murugan were eager to show us the toilets that were built for them. "Please come. All the toilets are very clean. You won't believe that they have been used! We have a person here to see that nobody dirties them." Till these toilets came, the gypsies used to answer their call of nature out in the open. They consider the toilets a symbol of their climb to civilisation. We began walking and were caught unawares by a flying hen. It flew into a house. "These hens and cats and dogs are a major reason for fights here," said Vaidyagiri. "A hen from one house enters another and dirties it, and these women fight like dogs!" He laughed loudly at his own joke. The moment Sanjay uncovered his camera, the young and the old alike crowded around him, pleading for photographs. Dadavaram is in his sixties. Like all old gypsies, he wore his hair long and had beads around his neck. When he came near, we knew that he had not bathed for weeks. Vaidyagiri, a young man, sensing our discomfort, asked Dadavaram: "When did you take a bath last? Are you not ashamed?" Dadavaram looked unruffled. He was greatly interested in Sanjay's camera. "Will you please click a picture of mine with my child?" he asked. Without waiting for answer he walked towards a tree and searched for something inside a cloth bag that hung there. Out came a cute little monkey. "My child", he smiled, exposing broken teeth. The monkey sat on his head, his shoulder, his hips, smiling all the time, enjoying itself enormously. Sanjay clicked a few snaps. Dadavaram thanked him and requested for copies. "My child would love to see his photo," he said. He took the monkey to the cloth bag. It disappeared without any protest. An obedient son indeed! Young gypsies do not have long hair like Dadavaram. They don't wear beads either. Nor are they attired like their elders. Youngsters, I noticed, had haircuts like that of film actors Ajit, Vijay or Shah Rukh Khan. Some of them had huge posters of MGR and Shah Rukh on the walls of their verandas. "Do you see films?" I asked. "Yes, of course." came the chorus. Their favourite hero was not Shah Rukh or Ajit or Vijay but MGR! MGR? I was puzzled. I was under the impression that youngsters had forgotten the phenomenon called MGR. "Why do you like MGR? Have you seen his films?" "We have only seen a few of his films but we love him. Our elders have told us that he cared for the poor and the downtrodden. We know that there can never be another MGR." That was a statement I always heard from the poor Tamils. Dadavaram came back dragging a boy of around 14. He wore jeans and T-shirt, and had his hair cut stylishly. "Please take a photograph. He is very smart. He knows English," said the elder. The boy refused to look up, all the while trying to escape from the old man. "Have you gone to school?" I was curious. Without looking up, he said, "No." "Then how did he pick up English?" I asked the others around. "He was in Mahabalipuram, selling beads to foreigners. He is not very shy, madam. I do not know why he acts like this. He would go up to foreign tourists and ask, Want chain? Good chain. He would follow them for hours, till they bought at least one chain. Are we not right, Shammi?" The boy did not answer. He managed to free himself. The next instant he was gone. Vaidyagiri insisted that I visit his house. As I got up to leave after enjoying his hospitality, he whispered something to his young wife, Saraswathi. She ran inside and returned with a bag full of bead-chains. "Please take one as a token of our love." Vaidyagiri, his wife, his mother and sister insisted. "But I don't wear this. Thank you, Vaidyagiri." Their faces fell. "You can take one for your daughter," his mother said. "I don't have a daughter. I have only a son." "He can wear this to school," they insisted. "Oh, he doesn't wear beads to school. Please excuse me. I don't want it." I felt guilty and very disturbed to see their disappointed faces. I think they felt I was not reciprocating their love. So I accepted a cream-coloured chain. As I was about to start my vehicle, the mother forced another chain into my hand. "Please accept this too," she said, smiling at me wonderfully. "And remember us whenever you see it." I have the beads with me. I remember the gypsies. Shobha Warrier is rooted in Madras. Tell us what you think of this diary
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