Identitea

This is a work of fiction. Some of the characters described herein may or may not be based on real people, but it doesn’t really matter.

My values and opinions were forged over the fires of patilas filled with boiling water and tea leaves. I can understand why people say that revolutions are born in the gathering of ordinary people at coffee houses. Four ordinary people assembling during teatime at my own house used to be enough to spark much drama and revolt. It was like the annual flooding of the Nile, but twice-daily and deliberate.

Conspiracy theories about the real instigators of inflated prices of onions, experiments concerning the right duration for which a Marie Gold biscuit was supposed to be dipped in tea, and games of chess and scrabble (which sometimes ended in up-ended boards) were regular attractions at the teatime mela. Later, when my mom decided my sister and I were old enough to not be considered active pests, a dog entered the fray (or at least attempted to). We would sit in a tight circle like aunties at a séance, trying to prevent Lulu from squeezing in and upsetting the tea tray. This would then bring up the question of whose idea it was to bring a dog into our otherwise insipid lives, and accusations would fly over the chai.

So moved was I by the influence of tea in our house that in 2nd grade, I participated in an elocution competition where I outlined the steps to make ‘very good tea’. This was based largely on my keen powers of observation, supported by my annoying habit of hanging by my fingertips from the kitchen slab and asking my mum ‘What are you doing now?’ every five seconds.

Idiot savant that I was, I quickly learnt to read people’s character through the quality of the tea they’d make. (I only found out much later that you’re supposed to read the dregs, which was difficult as they’d usually go straight from the patila to the compost bin.) Per my wisdom, mum’s tea was always strong and consistent, like her opinions about the laidback attitude of the newest house-help, or how my paternal relatives were incarnations of notable demons. Pa’s tea was often weak despite his best efforts, as evidenced by how quickly he’d give in to my whining for a G.I. Joe, or to his friends for a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ property investment that seemed to bless us suspiciously often. My sister’s tea was different every time, but never critiquable and always in perfect quantity even when an unexpected guest turned up. My tea, on the other hand, was exceptionally unreliable (swinging between sweet-strong perfection and sickly white abomination) to the point that even when I would gallantly offer my services, Ma wouldn’t bother with niceties in asking me to occupy myself elsewhere.

By the time I entered college, I had figured that most of the important social decisions were bound to be taken at the makeshift cafeteria run by the talcum-reeking elderly Punjabi lady (who was suspicious of everything and would never give us credit lines). Everything from anime´ to Anarkali was deconstructed over tea sessions on the makeshift hillock next to the cafeteria, where we would condescend over the uneducated masses from 40 inches above sea level. It was also in college that I developed a taste for the thick, sickly-sweet tea that you get on the streets (fondly insulted as ‘sadak-chhaap’ chai). Even today, whenever I walk by one of those unassuming all-in-one shops (where a tobacco packet and a mop are given equal display rights), a flask in shining armour beckons to me, promising procrastination and mild indigestion.

Five years after college and having moved across multiple cities in search of an Ikigai-esque job, I found myself back in Delhi in early March for a meeting with some uninspiring bureaucrats of the Education Ministry. (I’m half-convinced that I wanted to work with the government because of the endless supply of tea and coffee that is hesitantly interrupted by work.) I called up my old college friend who I knew was still swimming in Delhi’s academic pool, and without much being said we ended up in Connaught Place. It was a cold evening. A storm which was headed towards the city had gotten rid of the families and couples that usually occupy every available inch of Lutyens’ Delhi. We idled in the bylanes, surveying landmarks that had survived and mourning those that hadn’t, like withered generals in a war memorial. The wind was picking up, causing flex boards and flyers to flock across the streets in panic. We sought refuge in the interstitial spaces between the neat whitewashed blocks of Connaught Place. All restaurants and shops have backdoors that lead to these spaces, and hence they are the dominion of overwhelmed staff. The only other type of citizen that hangs out here is the retired middle-class uncle, the tired sex worker and the bored college student.

Like moths to a tubelight, we were drawn to the chatter from a small paan-cum-cheap-electronics store. An uncle (who was old yet sprightly enough that his age was hard to determine) was arguing with another uncle (who was probably not much older than us, but in my lexicon anyone over thirty is an uncle unless proven otherwise) about the state of politics in our country. In India it is rude not to listen in on conversations at public places, so my friend and I pointedly turned to the duelists while we waited for the shopkeeper to brew us a fresh pot of tea over his sputtering stove. It was the ageless uncle’s opinion that religion was being abused by political parties, and people had forgotten about the things that they ought to actually care about, like the economy, welfare etc. The young uncle was adamant that things were the way they were because of policies by previous governments, and that religion wasn’t as trifling as the gentleman seemed to think. The ageless uncle insisted that we were being brainwashed into religious bigotry, and that it was our responsibility to speak out against radicalization. To emphasize his point, he quoted a shayari –“Bol ki lab aazaad hain tere, bol ki zabaan teri hai…” (Speak, for your lips are free; speak, for your tongue is still yours). He then turned to us and explained that it was an excerpt from one of Faiz’s famous verses. This was another reason that I loved these tête-à-têtes – the inbuilt educational bonuses.

To this, the younger one said that his adversary was being too pessimistic, and expecting too much from the agitated majority. He wiped his glasses with his shirt and opined that people were expecting too much to be fixed within too little time. Not to be left behind in poetic prowess, he paused for a moment, then smugly singsonged, “Hazaaron khwahishein aisi, ki har khwahish pe dum nikle…” (A thousand such desires, that each saps my strength). Using us as one would an index, he said, “This is by Ghalib.” My friend was thoroughly enjoying himself at this point, and I could see him racking his brains for some way to prolong this battle of wits till either party ran out of poetic retorts. I too, was glad that the spirit of shayari was alive in the obscure urban corners of my country, although I was displeased that people of my generation were the ones with problematic views. I heard a not-so-muffled snigger from the stall, and turned to the shopkeeper who was barely trying to hide his grin while he poured out tea into tiny glasses. The younger uncle also seemed to have heard the snigger, and decided to take mild offense. “Well, why don’t you tell us what you think, eh?”, he demanded with furrowed brows. Without pausing in his task of handing out the glasses, the shopkeeper quipped, “Kabira khada bazaar mein, maange sabki khair. Na kahu se dosti, na kahu se bair,” (Kabir stands in the marketplace, wishing everyone well. He holds neither enmity nor friendship with anyone.)

For a long moment, each of us stood cupping a glass of tea in our cold hands, like an offering to the gods of silence. The tea was strong, but sweet.

Etiquette

[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.

 

No Man’s Mall

I was lazing around one fine morning, with a full loafing schedule planned for the week. Just then my friend Moros Sophius, a wise senile old man, popped up and blocked my view of the ceiling. He cackled, “Haha! Prepare to be astounded!” I sighed and asked him what the matter was, this time. He’d been visiting me quite often since the commencement of my holidays, and it was always to show me some “great wonder” of the world. He usually did this by teleporting me in a clichéd manner to some obscure corner of the globe. Once, he took me to Normandy to see the remains of an old parachute (fitted with the skeleton of the man who was shot while landing), and once he transported me, without any warning, to some obscure underwater cave in the Atlantic Ocean. He excitedly pointed out a rotting hulk of wood and said it was the real Queen Anne’s Revenge. I was thoroughly wet and angry, and I saw nothing extraordinary in decayed timber. When we got back, he seemed very smug. I couldn’t hold back. I shouted at Moros that if one couldn’t travel back in time, there was no point in teleporting at all. I scornfully told him that there was nothing of interest in the present day. He unfortunately did not possess powers of time travel.

I hadn’t seen him for a long time since our last fight, and was not in the mood for another instant icy bath. Moros put on his wise-man look, with droopy eyelids and all, and said, “Today we shall visit No-Man’s Mall.” I nearly choked with laughter when I heard this ridiculous name, but the old geezer was unperturbed. He said “you and your kind, you are very interested in malls, are you not? I will take you to the greatest and most unique one in the world.” I mumbled something like “No thanks, I’d rather you took me to Ambience in Gurgaon” but he wasn’t listening. He grabbed my hand. As I sighed yet again, we vanished in a puff of smoke. We reappeared moments later, lo and behold, in the middle of some god-forsaken desert. “I should have known”, I wailed. “Delhi’s sun obviously wasn’t good enough to kill me. So you brought me here for a faster demise.” Moros snorted, which was in itself a rather depressing noise. “This is a beach, idiot.”  I looked around and to my surprise saw a huge waterfront stretching for miles. “Okay, so it’s a beach. You plan to drown me again?” I was still quite suspicious, as the memory of our previous misadventure hadn’t yet faded. “That,” said Moros, “is the Mediterranean.” “Yes, I’ve heard of that. Are we in Africa?” Moros scratched his scruffy beard and thought about that. “Well, yes and no. We’re in Giza.” “That’s Egypt! We are in Africa. Well at least I can see the Pyramids.” Then Moros hastily corrected himself and said “No, no I meant GAZA.”

After that last sentence I just stared at him with my mouth hanging open for a few seconds, and he kept smiling insipidly. “You brought me to a WAR ZONE?” “Au contrare,” said he, lifting a gnarly forefinger, “this is…well okay this is a war zone.  But it’s also a nice place, I mean, was…” He saw the time travel issue was in danger of being raised, so he stopped talking. And started walking. The only options I had were to follow him and hope he’d take me home, or to find a phone booth and explain to my parents how I ended up in Gaza. I chose the route less likely to get me killed.

As I caught up with Moros, he started talking again. “The No-Man’s Mall is run by a very experienced businessman called Mammon. He started off as a hawker along the Berlin Wall, then expanded as his profits increased quite a bit during the Cold War. Now he’s found a huge piece of land here in the Gaza strip. His enterprise has numerous franchises throughout the globe, but most of his profits come from the popular Mall.” “Why is it so popular?” I wondered. “You’ll see when we get there”, said Moros with a sly grin. And then we did get there. Right in the middle of a jungle of rubble and dilapidated houses, stood a gigantic shopping complex towering over the area like a malevolent mountain. There were posters of every brand I had ever seen or heard of, displayed on every inch of the mall’s exterior.  We went inside to be relieved of the merciless heat. The mall’s air-conditioning, which in Delhi would have been welcome, somehow gave me goosebumps in this place. The mall was crowded, filled with people of every ethnicity. Moros seemed to read my mind. “Very secular, is it not?” I nodded, and looked at some of the shops. I saw the usual brand logos, but noticed something odd. The names of the companies were garbled.  McDonald’s and Burger King logos were set together in an eatery called ‘Blacking Modern Drugs’. Google was set within Microsoft in a messy symbol which made both illegible. Their store was called ‘Some Forgot Logic’. Apple had it’s own store, a large one at that. But instead of the bitten apple symbol was a bitten globe, which made me uneasy. There were countless such perversions of every major brand in the world. And there were some stores that had never existed, like  ‘The Everyday Arms Corp.’ a supermart selling weapons. People were buying them as they would buy groceries. An ad above the store read, “Get your neighbours before they get you!”.

By this time I was positively freaked out and opened my mouth to ask Moros to take me home. I looked back and saw a well-built man in a suit standing next to him. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, because every time I blinked, his face seemed to change. Sometimes it was Slavic. Then it changed into Persian. Then just as quickly, it became Indian. This only served to increase my bewilderment. The only thing that remained unchanged were his eyes. Bright, piercing eyes that looked straight at me as though gauging my worth in a sale-mart. Only later did I remember the word for it- avarice. Moros quietly introduced him. “This is Mr. Mammon, founder of The No-Man’s Mall.” Mammon laughed. It was an eerie, false laughter that reminded me of someone laughing at a joke at his expense, while plotting a payback. He noticed my uneasiness and said, ” You must be wondering about the..unusual nature of the stores in my Mall.” I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything. Mammon chuckled. “Have you seen the people who shop here? I give them what they want, and they keep coming back for more. Every time they want something better, I change the brands to suit their needs. That way, I have a loyal customer base, and I get new ones every day. The word spreads quickly, you see.” (Like a disease, I thought). “Well I wouldn’t use that metaphor,” Mammon said, and I saw a glint in his eyes. So he was reading my mind. “No, a disease spreads misery. But people here are happy. See?” He pointed out the burger joint.

As I moved closer, I saw one of the customers. He ordered a small burger with fries, then consumed it at a speed even I couldn’t have matched. He looked up at the menu again, and ordered a larger one with fries and coke. This time he finished it even faster. He looked up again, with a confused and dissatisfied expression. And ordered two mega-burger meals, which simply disappeared before my eyes. I was shocked when I saw the man get up again, and order a meal to feed an entire family. I looked in horror at Mammon, who was grinning. “You see? I always have something better to offer, and so they’ll always keep buying.” I backed away from him, frantically looking around for Moros. But Mammon wasn’t finished. “Wait, you haven’t heard the best part. You see in my travels I’ve..erm… collected many people, people who weren’t wanted by any country or couldn’t be claimed. I keep them busy in running my mall, and also to keep buying from it. I usually prospect for my staff and customers in areas where anarchy has overthrown law, order and sanity.” He kept advancing towards me, and I kept backing away, barely listening to him. “So you see, I usually find them lying dead on the streets, and I reanimate them. So they technically don’t exist.” At this he flashed his teeth in what was a self-congratulatory smile. And I found myself backed against a wall, in a mall full of dead or enslaved people. Mammon was barely an inch from me, and he asked, “would you like to join my staff?” Just then a familiar gnarly hand grabbed my shoulder and I felt myself dissolving into a puff of smoke.

I blinked and found myself back in my room. Moros the moron was sitting coolly in a chair in front of me. I, on my part, was shivering all over and sweating profusely. I managed to ask, “What was that place?” Moros smiled and said, “I took you across space, to another world exactly like this one, but with slightly more greed and indifference in it. Was it as enlightening as travelling back in time?” He smiled coldly. But then it turned into a sad sigh.