Two months before I left for Chennai, I stopped by the Man Who Sold the World, an antique store in my neighbourhood in Seattle. I go to this shop sometimes to look through the old-fashioned stereoscope. You peer through the device at two side-by-side photos, soften your gaze, and these two slightly different perspectives become one three dimensional scene. On that particular day, I set my sights on India. One scene is of a cow in a crowded Delhi alley. Another is of a larger-than-life stone carving of a Hindu god. It felt as if I was surrounded by those pictures, but I knew they would reveal very little of what life is like in Chennai.

I first stepped into the real-life heat of the city a little before 2:30 am at the end of June. The airport was eerily calm given the hour. I was delirious from two days of travel. My mind, like my phone, wasn’t yet tapped into local networks. How was I to find the driver my mentor arranged to pick me up? But then there he was just outside the airport doors, Kannan, holding a sign with my name written in tall, thin letters. We made our way to the hotel. Kannan, like all the other drivers around us, simply steered to open spots ahead of us on the road, as if there were no traffic lanes or markings. I laughed in absolute awe. 

Learning new things in an unknown city

I slept off some of my jetlag at the hotel and took a walk the next day. Motorcycles and bright yellow autorickshaws fill the streets, creating a chorus of beeps and honks. I triple check every time I cross the street. Ornate rangolis, or sand paintings, adorn sidewalks. Fruit stands dot every other street corner, filled with mangoes, papayas, and bananas. Crows wear grey feather scarves, their wings shimmer blue. The heat is exhausting. 

These aspects of everyday life are new to me, but they have a storied past in Chennai. Citizen Matters has covered many of these topics. One resident group in Sholinganallur took definitive action to clear up recurring traffic jams in their neighbourhood. There is ongoing contention between street vendors and residents as to how and where stands should operate. Heat waves have worsened in cities across India, largely as a result of human infrastructure. 

Communication is challenging in ways I did not expect. I am not a particularly calm or self-assured person, even at home in Seattle. Cold calling research sources in Chennai is difficult. I hold my breath as the phone on the other end of the line rings, mulling over how they’ll respond to my American accent or if we’ll be able to understand each other at all. I can feel paralysed by all this doubt.

New sights and sounds

I find solace at Kapaleeshwarar Temple. Sinu, my host, took me there one morning. The entrance is grand, colourful and ornate, with hundreds of deities sitting at each tier. We find some shade and sit down and talk about religious philosophy. Sinu believes in fate, that one’s story has been written before it is lived. “There’s a reason you came to India,” she said. “Maybe it was some connection from your past life, or maybe there’s something you need to learn here.” I like the idea that my life is predestined. 

One day in early July, I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for a gap in the traffic that would never come. A young woman walked up next to me and beckoned for me to cross alongside her. She timed it all perfectly, walking quickly where the street was clear and holding out her arm to halt all other oncoming traffic. I thanked her when we reached the other side and tried to memorise her face before we turned and walked in opposite directions. 

Building my confidence

It’s been over a month since I arrived in Chennai. Much like that woman who helped me cross the street, my mentors have held my hand through the research process. They’ve pointed me toward angles and guided me to sources, especially for those first reports. Documenting abroad has tested and strengthened those skills that seemed simple as a journalism student in Seattle. My confidence has grown threefold, in getting around town, navigating language barriers, and asking for help when I need it. 

Those stereoscope photos I looked at so many months ago would look different to me now. They would spark to life all the pictures I now have in my head of little moments that have made such an impact on me. The goings-on of the street, the discussions of spirituality shared with a new friend, the darting through the traffic with the help of a stranger.

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