[Note: this is a work of fiction. Any persons alive or dead who identify with these characters or settings shouldn’t be affronted, or otherwise count themselves special.]
I was debating whether to wear my second-best kurta or my best shirt. Both had their merits, but I fancied that my kurta hid my paunch better and complemented my casual sanskaar vibe. Plus, I was going to meet my father’s twice-removed cousin from his mother’s side. Over the years, and with great difficulty, I had managed to make some sense of the unnecessarily convoluted family tree that plagued both my parents. I had memorized it the same way I’d memorized the reactivity series of metals in grade 10 – by turning it into a ghastly sing-song. ‘Binnu-dadu isss Dadu’s brotherrrr, and his sonnnn is Tabluuuu…’
It wasn’t terribly nice, but it was efficient. And it was due to this mnemonia that I knew which branch of the tree Potol kaku dangled from. When mum mentioned this name on the phone, I had burst out laughing, not least because ‘potol’ happens to be the Bengali word for pointed gourd (parval in Hindi).
The brief given to me was as follows: Potol kaku was in Bangalore for work, and had reached out to my father because his sister-in-law had informed him that my father had bought a bungalow in the city and was quite well-off, didn’t he know? After clearing up the misinformation re: our alleged wealthiness, my father told kaku that his son lived in the city, and would of course be happy to show him around town. Said son was of course not consulted for any of this. As always, my mother was asked to convey this info to me like some new-age switchboard operator. I then asked what work had led this previously undiscovered relative to disturb my quietude. To my utter lack of surprise, like most aspiring middle-class bongs of the previous generation, this uncle had risen to a middling rank within a nondescript state department. As a perk of his newest position, he had been dispatched to attend a meeting with the Karnataka government. His wife, her younger sister, the younger one’s in-laws and consequently everyone within the mohalla was excited about kaku’s trip. The imagined mundanity of his job was at once horrifying and fascinating to me.
I was given the uncle’s number and sternly warned to call him as soon as possible and fix up a dinner appointment. My mother was well aware that I would go to great lengths to avoid meeting random strangers. I was also warned to ‘please wear something respectable and pick a nice place to eat, not one of those shady pubs where you spend all your time with your useless friends’. With due reluctance, I glared at the phone screen and jabbed in the number. (Mobile screens are woefully inadequate for expressing annoyance or anger; where is the protesting haptic feedback?) A grainy, low-pitched voice picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello, who is this?”
Me, in English: “Hello kaku, this is Mintu. Piplu’s son.”
Him, immediately, in Bangla: “Oh, Mintuuu, yes your baba told me. How long have you been staying here?”
Me, in measured Banglish: “Er, almost 3 years, er, kaku. Where are you putting up in Bangalore?”
Him, butchering the pronunciation and making it sound like an imminent attack from the Peshwas: “The guesthouse is in Maraathaa Hollee or something. Veeery far. Muuuuch traffic in your city!”
After establishing that I was not responsible for the state of road transportation in B’lore, I suggested a place and time that would be convenient for both of us (not so much for me, but I was playing the gracious host for a city that I barely call home).
The next evening, I stood in front of a place called Car-Khaana, which I’d picked based purely on its Google rating. Now I was regretting said decision. It was a pun, like most expensive upstart restaurants these days. It’s almost as if they charge a premium for coming up with the name. People were sitting in booths designed like car seats and were served by people dressed like F1 drivers. I was fairly embarrassed at this point. I half-hoped my uncle wouldn’t turn up.
Based on his pet name, I was unconsciously expecting a well-rounded moustached gentleman with a pointy head (possibly wearing a striped green corduroy coat) to materialize nearby. Instead, a clean-shaven, somewhat gaunt fellow with salt-and-pepper hair walked up to me, smiling. I smiled back uncertainly, like I tend to do when I’m not sure whether someone’s addressing me or someone behind me.
I could see from his movements that this uncle was preparing to hug me. Me, well, I’m not a hugger. I launched an outstreched hand at his mid-riff, stalling his advance and causing momentary surprise to show. Clutching a respectably old leather briefcase in his left hand, he offered me an equally leathery-looking right hand. I shook it firmly, while going over a list of potential opening lines and coming up with two ad jingles from my childhood. Eventually I settled for saying, “Oh!” while carefully withdrawing my hand. I was certain that he would now be thinking that all was not well in Piplu’s son’s head.
Unfazed, he said, “So this is the place, haan? Daarun (wonderful)! Let’s go inside.” I nodded with my smile frozen on my face, not trusting my brain to come up with intelligible words and phrases.
By the time our server escorted us into our car seats, I could see that kaku was also somewhat discomfited, having gingerly balanced his briefcase on an adjacent seat. Since he was in my world now, I felt much more empathetic towards him. Two awkward individuals surrounded by people experiencing normalcy; us vs them. My triumphant refusal to accept the server’s offer of bottled water gave me an opening to discuss my fight against climate change and pollution, which involved making the barest minimum effort to avoid plastic and a lot of sneering at those who did not carry gramudyog jute bags for grocery shopping.
Even as we made small talk, I waited for the inevitable questions about my salary, marriage prospects, and a summation of my social ranking vis-à-vis cousins. I had gotten used to such intrusive questions and evaluations by my relatives over the years. To my surprise, the inquisition did not appear. I grew suspicious of this mild-mannered fellow who was not behaving in line with my expectations. Had I picked up the wrong uncle? Or was it possible that I had finally found the ur-kaku, the diamond in the rough sea of judgmental kinsfolk? This one seemed to be interested primarily in the advances in agricultural equipment and the world of Indian hockey, both of which I knew little about save the fact that they existed. But he seemed to need little encouragement or input in expounding upon these topics. Such was his zeal in describing the advantages of chisel ploughs that I felt myself being drawn in. Any good story is as much about the delivery as the story itself, and I’d never been picky about content as long as the world-building held my attention.
While we waited for menu cards, I was amused by the almost childlike wonder with which he surveyed our surroundings. It made me, in turn, look at everything from a fresh perspective. It was like one of the thought experiments that I liked doing on flights, by rewording normal things so that they sounded absurd and new. Clouds became ‘ice floating on air’, and aircrafts became ‘flying tin cans with tiny fires’. This native-american-tribal-chief nomenclature had inspired a lot of my self-proclaimed ‘surrealist’ poetry.
When the menu options appeared before us, Potol kaku looked fairly embarrassed and said that I would have to decide, as he had never had ‘continental’ food before. He went on to explain how he had always carried his own lunchbox even to out-of-office lunches, preferring the expert home-cooking of his wife – he repeatedly extolled her culinary prowess – over pricey and oily restaurant food. I couldn’t help but be amazed at the sheer dedication that it would have taken to avoid eating out for over 30 years, stubbornly holding out against the globalization-fueled march of McDonald’s, Domino’s and other creatures riding the fast food wave. My stubborn flab and bank balance agreed with the comment about oiliness and costliness.
Filing further questions to the back of my head, I quickly ordered a grilled chicken burger, a farmhouse pizza and pasta arrabiata, the holy trinity of safe western pub grub in India. Whenever I order food at unknown places, I avoid playing the heroic gourmet explorer and instead focus on worst-case scenarios. Par example, the worst that a manic chef could to with pasta arrabiata would be to make it out of Maggi tomato ketchup, which is still edible. If a restaurant passes the worst-case test, it can be upgraded to the status of ‘will order strange spinoffs of known dishes’. This particular restaurant had items to the tune of ‘Must-tang risotto’ which I thought was trying too hard.
When our food arrived, I graciously offered the first servings to my companion (I have learnt, through years of faux pas, that it is unwise to expect everyone to just grab whatever dish is closest to them and save time). After a few rounds of ‘no you first’ that I was determined to win, he hesitantly picked up a slice of pizza with the spatula. Holding his fork and knife like surgical instruments, he started cutting it up with utmost concentration. At first I wanted to laugh, but on hearing the grating and clunking noises coming from the protesting plate I whipped my head around instinctively to see if we’d drawn anyone’s attention. (Even in our embarrassment we seek validation.) Sure enough, a family at an adjacent table was sneaking glances at us out of the corners of their eyes, and a server was failing to hide his grin. My face betrayed my thoughts as it heated up and, I was sure, had the colour of a ripe papaya’s innards.
At this point I was faced with a dilemma. Should I course-correct Potol kaku and give him a lesson on culinary etiquette? (Even now he was chasing a piece of fusilli all over the plate.) Or should I let him enjoy his meal and spare him the humiliation? I had no doubt that it would be doubly painful for him to be schooled by someone half his age in a setup where he felt alien to begin with. I looked at him closely, this man who had never stepped out of his town or bothered eating out in his entire life. I saw how gleefully he was warring with the new shapes and sizes of food in front of him. He looked up in the middle of a dance-off between his knife and a piece of lettuce, and inquired as to why I wasn’t eating.
I smiled widely and proceeded to pick up a slice of pizza using my knife and fork as tweezers. I tilted my head and flashed the same defiant smile at the surreptitious glances our way. We ate the mediocre food in relative silence, interrupted only by the postmodern jazz of our cutlery.
Afterwards, as we prepared to part ways, I extended my hand and told kaku in all sincerity that it was the most I’d enjoyed a meal in a while. Instead of taking my hand, he hugged me and thumped my back for good measure, letting me know that I still had a lot to learn about etiquette.
Mind Palace? More like Mind Barsati. 