We sit on the
cheap squeaky metal chairs in the main room of the service center, waiting for
at least twenty minutes for the repair worker to tell us if our purchase of a
replacement LCD screen was the right solution to our currently out of service
tablet. “I’m hungry.” I say, and fiddle
with my camera settings out of boredom.
This is the second time we have visited the Asus service shop on
Lalbaugh Main Road. Last week, Sanjeev’s
GPS led us in circles through a Muslim ghetto in an attempt to lead us there. We ended up having to park on the side of an
adjacent main road in what was also an area populated largely by muslims. I had walked down the filthy road observing
the crows, goats and chickens scraping for food amongst the garbage thrown on
what would serve as the sidewalk. Women
walked by in their burkas, and I kept myself from making eye contact with any
of the men. I hate these parts of the
city, even if I only come across them occasionally. Bangalore as a whole is a dilapidated place,
but the muslim ghettos are its worst representations – serving as real life
models of what the world would look like after an apocalypse. Odd man out is the Hindu that walks through
these areas.
This visit
however, we managed to avoid the ghettos and parked in the visitor parking lot
of the still-in-construction building that contains the service center. The friendly and smiling security guard directs
us where to park, and the inside layout of the service center reminds me of a
small hospital waiting room. Except for
the low speaking voices in Kannada and Hindi, it’s too quiet inside, and I hear
saws going off in the empty parts of the building.
After waiting
for a good half hour, we decide to head up the street a few blocks to have our
lunch at the MTR restaurant. Today, the company is known for its high quality
ready-made food mixes and spice packets available everywhere, but its original and
quite dated restaurant in Bangalore still keeps its doors open. I was hesitant to eat there considering the
run-down state of the area, but it is the only place within walkable distance,
and it’s supposed to be very good food.
Down the main road, the muslim to Hindu ratio appears to have evened
out, but I am still in a defensive mood.
The lower level of the restaurant is crowded with patrons, and a passing
waiter makes a sort of grunt and motions with his head to take the stairs to
the second level dining area for seating.
At the first level of the stairs, I see a colorful mirror portrait of
Krishna playing his flute, and I immediately relax when I see that everyone
eating here is Hindu. A waiter motions
for us to follow him and pulls out two red plastic chairs for us to sit on at a
large marble-topped table. There are
three separate elderly married couples already sitting at the table, and I feel
rather puzzled that he is asking us to sit here when I see other tables in the
room are completely open. I don’t want
to refuse his request though, and we both quietly slide into our seats. Next to me an old uncle, neatly dressed in
traditional white cotton South Indian attire patiently waits for his food. Next to him, his wife sits quietly; just as
nicely dressed in a pressed green and pink silk sari, gray hair smoothed back
into a neat bun. Directly in front of us
sit an aunty and uncle in their late sixties.
They are more causally dressed in their ethnic wear and chatter in
Kannada between themselves. We order dosa and chai and quietly murmur to each
other. Though the elderly couples are
polite in acknowledging my presence, I feel awkward. Sanjeev sits in his best polite stance, back
straight, hands folded in his lap, and I know that he feels the same. We sit in silence for some time, and I feel
as though being inside this restaurant, I have stepped back in time a good
thirty years. The layout, the seating,
the people, everything inside this place seems to be reminiscent of an older,
much different India.
A waiter brings
each of the couples their orders. Every
individual is served a plate of idli (steamed
rice cakes) and steel bowls filled with sambar,
and coconut chutney. The dish is complete with the addition of a
tiny bowl filled with ghee. The aunty and uncle in front of us happily
drizzle their fattening ghee on their
idlis and skillfully use two spoons to
break apart the idli and dunk it in
the chutney and sambar. We wait, trying not
to look at them all eating. After what
seems like forever, our dosas are
placed in front of us. I feel compelled
to eat with my right hand in the presence of elders, and manage to tear apart
the dosa and scoop up chutney without making a mess. The food here is traditional Tamil style, and
perfectly spiced. In a gluttonous mood,
I decide that the dosa isn’t enough
for me, despite that it’s thick and cooked with too much ghee. We order two plates of
dahi vada (curd with a spiced
doughnut). In the meantime, the aunty
and uncle opposite us start on their second plate of food, a bowl rice and dal
in a spicy sauce; a dish I have eaten myself but fail to recall its name. The server finally brings us our chai, served
in good-sized silver tumblers. He gives
us each two tumblers, one filled with chai, the other empty. I sit for a moment somewhat self conscious
about the task that is before me. The
two tumblers means that I will have to perform a stunt with very hot tea
without burning myself or carelessly spilling it in my lap. Traditional tea in the South is served with
sugar spooned into the cup without stirring.
Mixing the tea and the sugar is done by pouring the contents of one
tumbler into another repetitively; effectively mixing the sugar and enhancing
the taste of the tea. People accustomed
to doing this can pour the tea from a foot above the other tumbler without
spilling a drop. I however, have only
done this a few times. I manage to mix
my tea without burning my fingers too much, and I only make a small spill. It’s made with the cheap residue tea
available everywhere, but it is prepared in a wonderful way and reminds me of
side stand tea from the chai wallas in
Delhi.
We finish our tea and overfill our stomachs with the dahi vada. For some reason Sanjeev gives the server a
large tip, who makes sure to ask Sanjeev twice if the amount is really for him.
As soon as we
exit the building it begins to rain, and we dodge traffic to cross the
intersection, running down the sidewalk to find shelter from the downpour. I cover my camera with my kurti and skillfully avoid the cracks
and holes in the sidewalk as I run. We
find a store with an awning and take our refuge next to three other men. I wipe the water droplets off my camera and
sit on the entrance’s marble ledge while we wait. A few minutes later, the coast is clear. Sanjeev tells me to go back to the service
center and wait for him while he crosses the busy street to use the atm. I walk back down the brick laid lot and lean
against the entrance wall. Across the
long glass wall, a security guard with chiseled features who looks to be either
Nepalese or Assamese directs the random cars and people to their respective
places. I notice the appealing architecture
of the building’s complex in front of me, and the neatly maintained shrubs and
plants. I fidget with my wet hair, attempting
to smooth and reshape my limp curls.
Three middle-aged women, clad in traditional saris walk by me, each
giving me a sweet smile that I return.
As they pass me by, speaking in Kannada amongst each other, Sanjeev
comes around the corner. I know that
they are speaking about me, so I ask him if he heard what they were
saying. He replies that they were
impressed with my appearance being fully immersed in Indian culture, complete
with my mangal sutra necklace. As we walk back into the large building I
can’t help my smile knowing that the women approved of me.
Back in the
service center waiting room, we are told that the new LCD screen has not fixed
the problem and that our tablet is still not working. He informs us that it is most likely a video chip
in the motherboard that has gone bad, and that it would cost more than the
tablet is worth to replace it. We pay
out another $100 for the extra screen and spare part and pack up our useless
tablet. On the way home through the
obnoxiously loud traffic jams, I vent out my frustration about the death of our
hardly used tablet, and the waste of invested money in an exaggerated,
breathless ramble that keeps Sanjeev laughing the whole ride. I swear off buying useless electronics and
pout the rest of the trip.
Back home, I
retrieve a squealing Bubby from his bedroom and take the elevator
downstairs. Outside the entrance of my
block, I see fresh puddles in the uneven brick layout, and know that it has
rained in this area as well. The sun is
getting low in the sky hidden behind the rain clouds, and the evening light is
tinted a beautiful pinkish orange. I let
Bubby pee and decide to make him take a round in the complex. Coming around the corner of another block,
with Bubby behind me doing his speedy spider walk, I begin to see the edges of
a rainbow in the South. Around the bend,
I see its true brilliance, colors vivid and distinct, its wide arch peaking
high above me. I stop and admire it for
a minute, deeply breathing the moist cool air, and finally head back to my
block. I don’t ever recall having seen a
rainbow in India. Perhaps it is a sign
good luck to come.