Saigon to Superior: The Headmistress and the Shaker

Rascals Outside the Temple, Madurai

I have finally arrived on a wave-washed South Indian beach and, alas, am a bit spent from a night of singing with "Shaker," an old voice in South India’s Tamil world of rock & roll.

Spent the past week in Channai, the economic hub of South India, a carefree, smog-ridden metropolis that is the Motor City of India—their very own Detroit. The proceeds of the auto industry here have sprouted large scale mega malls where one can competitively barter with the best of Kashmiri rug, Tamil leather, and Rajasthani linen dealers, then duck out for pizza in the food court, where people watching includes a hijab-clad Muslim woman with Harley style motorcycle helmet under her arm, and housewives sneaking into the mall's garage-level bathroom for a bit of water to wash the evening cookware they've collectively stacked up in metallic clusters on the outdoor parking ramp. A culture of contrasts, for sure. Five minutes to let the rug dealers ponder their prices, then back up four escalators for another round of haggling.

Those were our afternoons. Our mornings were spent at two all-girls schools founded by a Brahman doctor and the German wife who accompanied him back from his studies abroad before World War II. Caste blind and multi-lingual, the Children's Garden School and the Ellen Sharma Memorial School recruit young ladies from all religions, castes, and parts of the country. Page one of every text book reads:

"Untouchability is a Crime"
"Untouchability is a Sin"
"Untouchability is Inhuman"

In their dormitories live Tibetan, Nepalese, and Sri Lankan refugees. The strength found in the German pronunciation of the word "Kindergarten" has been blown into a full twelve-grade curriculum by the three Tamil-Deutsch daughters who now roam its campus wearing saris, bindis, and the fair and chiseled face of their German mother. The students create a hum of active learning, producing an air that is confident, inquisitive, and self-aware. They are, without a doubt, a group of very capable young leaders, a product of the opportunities that same-sex education can afford young women in a male-dominated world.

Each day at the school was filled with hours of lecture by visiting Indian academics – their monotone delivery a testament to the diligence and discipline exercised by the honor students sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of us – while afternoons were spent in whirlwind visits to various teachers’ houses, their families eager to share an abundant meal at each stop. In one afternoon I ate four times and almost popped.

It was humbling to have students drape fresh garlands or Kashmiri scarves around our necks each morning, or, even more so, to have an entire room full of students stand up in a show of respect for the guest teacher paying a quick visit to their class. As welcoming a contrast as these actions were when placed next to those of the rambunctious and challenging students in my own Chicago classroom, there was also something about them that made me smile at thoughts of my American homeland. Ironically, these feelings were buttressed by a multi-page article I read in a major Indian newspaper during our stay. Titled “Do Teachers in India Have Too Much Power?,” the gist of the piece was that educators were squashing critical thought with their too stringent expectations for student obedience.

A breath of fresh air blew into our rigid week when on Friday, Shaker, guitar case in hand, walked through the school’s front door. As he placed his case by the lunchroom wall, our Brahmin-German host cast an inquisitive gaze toward his instrument. "What style do you play, sir?" Her short, skinny, smiling guest quickly replied, "Rock & roll!,” as he slipped behind a squat table with an ease half his fifty years. Hands clasped behind her back, the headmistress answered with a mild nod. I felt like a school boy myself when Friday afternoon finally rolled around and I bolted to the bus where Shaker and his good friend Sally, our professor, had been rekindling the excited energy of their days playing together in a band. As we rolled toward a beach resort to spend the weekend on the Bay of Bengal, I knew a welcome American release was in store.

Shaker grew up in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu, when American draft-dodgers passed through in droves to escape the Vietnam War. What had been quiet seaside villages erupted in an explosion of Hippie excitement as soul-searching Americans mixed their drugs and their music with Eastern philosophy and mysticism. A number of young Indian folks joined in to bring the exchange full circle. Shaker was one of them, and while Sally studied in India in pursuit of a degree, the two of them spent their evenings jamming in a band that covered 60s and 70s rock & roll.

Today, they both work for study abroad programs in India, she stateside, he from the Subcontinent. Whereas Sally seems to have a friend in every Indian hippie hamlet, Shaker responds in kind with good buddies in U.S. towns like Boulder and Madison, where his kids also go for summer camps and he gets to nod approvingly at his daughter’s opportunity to date boys. That Shaker was on our own trip to India was a treat, made even better by our peer John, who lugged along a $90 acoustic guitar he had purchased at Costco for just such an opportunity.

Shaker and John whipped out their instruments before our first dinner together was even finished. Twelve teachers and their professors belted out the lyrics to many classic tunes as a Shaker cyclone ripped his pick into song after song, and John happily tried to keep along. His English verses a bit rusty from disuse, Shaker nonetheless belted out words in a voice that would make Creedence Clearwater Revival proud. He also repeatedly placed the flats of his hands together and against his forehead in an Indian sign of homage, respect, and apology for the occasionally botched line. Then in a flash, smile and hands would tear into the GCD chords of the next verse.

The Indians and Europeans scattered among the patio tables had quite the accompaniment with their beachside dinners. The manager strolled in broad circles around our table. Would she shut us down? A Bollywood agent at the next table over handed Shaker his card. We jammed on and on. Few moved from their seats and we kept on going. Many hours later Shaker glanced around:

“Do you all know David Byrne from the Talking Heads? A couple of years ago I got a phone call from my record company. We do a lot of work with American labels. So when David wanted to make a trip to South India they called me. I went ahead and prepared for his visit by sifting through his music and finding a tune I could rework in Tamil. I was a bit scared at first he might freak out over copyright infringements. I had all these images in my head of this rock star character getting off the airplane. But when he stepped off his flight he looked more like a tennis player. We spent a week together. He’s a great guy. And he loved my remake... Wanna hear it?”

With that, Shaker slowed down for the first time that evening, his strumming taking on an intense tone. The words were in a language with no parallel to my own, but the familiar notes and his expression shared every line. Psycho Killer in Tamil: A captivating version of a haunting tune.

The eternally twenty-year-old, fifty-something rock & roller then stood up and took a bow. “Ladies and gentleman, as I rode on a train all night to get here, it is time for me to turn in." The secret to rocking into your golden years became apparent: Never lose your inner-teenager, keep on jamming, and turn in when the moon is still high.

(8/01/03)