This is not good. This is so not good. This is the kind of thing you read about in the paper where someone dies, and when in the aftermath a suddenly sober bystander admits that someone should have done something to stop it before things started to get out hand. That moment is now.
Varkala – 5 Days Ago
We sit down at our regular table at the Juice Shack, purveyors of spectacularly bland Western dishes. I’m unstoppable. I’ll eat anything and everything. Like a dog who doesn’t know when he’ll get his next meal. We have a lot in common, that dog and I.
Even the starchy white bread that is served by the loaf with each order of “Toast-Butter-Jam” is a welcome addition to our breakfast table.
I decide to venture a little on the wild side this morning and order the Spanish Omelette, knowing full well that green peppers are included in the ingredients. I like to live dangerously.
The Swede, he being the madman staying in the room next to ours that Balram had forewarned us about, stops by our table before finding a seat of his own.
“How are you finding the place?” he asks.
“Fine, I guess. Nothing special. It’s clean at least.”
“We could do without the slightly unhinged employee,” says Andrea.
“Balram!” I exclaim.
“Balram,” she says.
“Who?”
“Nevermind.”
“What ever happened to him anyway?” I ask. “He hasn’t been around the last day or so. Last time we saw him he was sleeping in the well behind the stairs.”
“He’s probably taken off on his motorbike,” says the Swede.
“What?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got fired.”
Great. That’s perfect. Now he could be anywhere, pop out at anytime when we least expect it. Like the sidekick of a James Bond villain whose sudden re-appearance near the end of the film to avenge his Master’s death is both unexpected and predictable – it is a James Bond film after all.
At least before he was contained, restricted to one small tract of land with walls and a gate. No chance of escaping him when you were within those walls, but at least you knew you were safe outside of them.
“Why do you think he got fired?” asks Laura. “I mean, apart from the obvious harassment of customers.”
“I saw his boss and told him about the other night. He woke me up by pounding on my door and shouting something about how some men had come through the gates and were going to murder him.”
“So what did he want you to do?”
“Come and help him I guess.”
“And did you? Was there actually anyone there?” I ask.
“Well I did open the door, and there were a couple of guys standing by the gate. They weren’t actually doing anything and didn’t look like they were going to do anything.”
“Just hanging around."
“In the middle of the night.”
“Right.”
The thing is that what the Swede was describing wasn’t altogether out of the ordinary. Everywhere, and at all times of the day and night, can be found throngs of people just congregating on street corners, in front of shops, on the sides of roads, and in places you’d least expect, such as closets and dresser drawers, just hanging around, passing time. I guess that’s the benefit of living in a country of one-point-something billion – there’s only so much work one person needs to do.
“Anyway,” says the Swede, “that’s the last I saw of him.”
Kalpetta, New Year’s Eve – 2 Hours Ago
Can we have more of this? Please? I mean really, if I’d known this was part of the package, I might have just skipped it altogether. Not worth the food promised. Who is this guy? Where did they pick him up? Is he paying them so that he can play in front of a live audience?
Honestly, I could play better than this and the only thing I can play off the top of my head is the last twenty or so bars of an arrangement of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody, which I had once memorized in about five minutes in large part due to my affinity – scratch that – obsession with cartoons in general, specifically the dueling ducks scene from Who Framed Roger Rabbit?. It’s enough to impress people and make them think I’ve got some real skill and leave them wanting more, which inevitably is what happens, but not because that’s my intention – although, I usually give them that impression with a dramatic flourish on the last three chords, followed promptly by an abrupt exit from the room.
“This guy sucks,” I say to Andrea. “it’s like he’s just fumbling his way across the keyboard for minutes at a time trying to plunk out some semblance of a melody.”
“I know what you mean. I really hope we don’t have to sit through much more of this.”
“Why can’t we just eat?” asks Laura. “All that food, just sitting there. Calling out to us.”
“It’s going to be cold, too,” I add, “which you’d think wouldn’t be a problem – India’s supposed to be hot, right?”
“I just don’t want to be the first one to go up and get some food,” says Laura.
“We are the only white people here. We’re kind of obliged to follow everyone else’s lead”
“I just want to eat.”
“Man, I can’t get over how bad this guy is.”
The Backwaters – 4 Days Ago
We’ve chartered a boat. A whole fucking boat, complete with cook, captain, and skipper. Who does this kind of thing? Charter a boat. Jesus.
I look around the deck, littered as it is with a fine mahogany dining table, plush couch and bamboo chairs, the entrance to the deluxe bedroom that separate s the stern from the bow just visible from where I sit.
We’ve just sat down when all three crew members emerge from the kitchen at the rear of the boat with garlands of vibrantly coloured flowers which are placed around or necks, as well as three coconuts for each of us, complete with straw and napkin.
Is this really happening? Are we really doing this? Who do we think we are? Can we really afford this? God yes, we’re rich! Rich like kings and queens from far off lands where we live lives of decadence and splendor, where everything and everyone is beneath us. They are all inconsequential. We are indifferent towards matters that don’t affect us directly; the plight of the poor, the hunting of baby seals, the hole in the ozone layer – they are none of our concern. We are certain of our innate superiority over all of earth’s creatures!
I turn to Laura who seems to have adopted to this new way of living and traveling all to easily.
“Oh God,” I say, overcome with a sudden realization of apocalyptic clarity.
“What?” asks Laura, puzzled, sipping from her coconut.
“Can’t you see? This is something they would do.”
“Who?”
“Our parents. We’ve become our parents.”
“Oh God.”
Kalpetta, New Year’s Eve – 1 Hour, 30 Minutes Ago
A hand is gently placed on my shoulder and I turn my head around to see the manager of the hotel smiling at me.
“You are all having a good time?” he asks.
“Yeah, this is great. Great music.”
“What is your good-name, sir?” he asks, taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket.
“Brett.”
“Brent?”
“No, Brett. B-R-E-T-T.”
“Brett.”
“Yes.”
“From?”
“Canada.”
“Canada,” he repeats, a wide smile forming once again across his face. He thanks me and returns the notepad to his pocket. He turns his attention back to the other guests with whom he seems to share more than just a passing acquaintance. All of these people seem to be related to one another, and if they’re not, they’ve at least known each other since infancy. Our presence here tends to invoke the “One of These Things Doesn’t Belong” song from Sesame Street.
“What was that all about?” asks Laura.
“No idea. But I can almost guarantee that he’s going to single me out at some point.”
“I’m sure you’ll love that.”
“Better believe it.”
Laura rolls her eyes just as I see the keyboardist from earlier in the evening return to the center of the courtyard. He is being led by the arm by another man, presumably his father, who positions him facing the audience and hands him a microphone.
The Backwaters – 3 Days Ago
I wake with a start. It’s still dark. Heart pounding, disoriented, caught in the ever-tangling web of mosquito net that surrounds our bed. Is this happening? Is this really happening? No. There’s no way. Come on! It is happening, there’s no mistaking it. There’s no mistaking the fact that I’m awake and it’s dark and there’s no fucking way I’m going to fall back to sleep. Please, please make it stop! We’re in the midst of untamed wilderness for God’s sake! Okay, so untamed is a bit of an exaggeration. I fully admit that. But let’s face it – this is India – this is as untamed and wild as you can get without stepping into a dark alley in Calcutta. Is there such a thing as peace and serenity in this country? Is there even a single square foot of land in this goddamn country where I can escape from the endless sea of humanity and its’ by-products of car horns, burning piles of garbage, shouting, vomit, excrement, sacred livestock, sacred livestock excrement, rickshaws, rickshaw drivers, spicy food, contaminated water, and long wait-times at restaurants that never have what you want even though it’s listed on the menu so you end up settling for Chinese-style fried rice or toast-butter-jam? Is there? Because I’d really like to know. Actually, what I’d really like to know is why every goddamn Hindi song sounds like it was recorded before 1948 and why someone along these shores thought it would be a great idea to blast its thumping rhythms and whiny melodies for all to hear for miles in anticipation of the coming dawn.
Fort Kochi, Lunch – 1 Day Ago
This better be something special. I mean really fucking special. It says so in the menu anyway. “Toasted Cheese Special.” Emphasis on ‘Special.’ What makes it so special, I wonder? Is it a special cheese? A special bread? A special way of toasting it, a technique discovered and kept secret by these culinary masters who clearly take an enormous amount of pride in their work.? Not work. For them it’s a calling. It’s spiritual. That’s what it must be.
These men (and woman) are true artisans of their craft. Each stage of preparation in crafting the “Toasted Cheese Special” is carefully executed, each slice of tomato measured for consistency in width, each spice sprinkled evenly across the toast one granule at a time to ensure an equilibrium in flavour, each square of white cheddar cheese sliced in even-sided triangles, allowing the chef to conceal entirely the thick slice of Texas white bread under a blanket of processed dairy heaven.
“Why is this taking so long?” I say aloud.
“I have no idea,” says Andrea. “It doesn’t seem like a very complicated dish to make.”
“My thoughts exactly. I might add that it’s like the only food item on the menu. Apart from the toast.”
“Maybe we would have been safer with that one.”
“I don’t know. I’d like to think that the ‘special’ part of “Toasted Cheese Special” really mean something.”
“We can only hope.”
“What’s that thing?” I ask Laura, who is rummaging through the day’s purchases, which, as usual, seem to be quite numerous.
“It’s a letter opener,” she says, holding up a carved wooden stick. “I’ve always wanted one. Now I have one.” I find it interesting that nearly everything she’s bought on this trip is something she’s always wanted, yet failed to obtain at any other point in her thirty years of existence. I guess she’s just been waiting for the right opportunity.
“But it’s made of wood and wood’s not sharp,” I say with a tone of disdain.
“It’s sharp enough,” she says, annoyed. “Normally I use my finger“ (pointing her finger out like a gun) “and my finger is not sharp. Look, I’ll show you.” Laura takes the brown paper bag that the letter opener had been in, folds it in half, and holds it up to demonstrate. “First you rip the side – “
“But you shouldn’t have to rip the side. What’s the point of having a letter opener if you have to rip the side first?”
“Well, if it was a real envelope, I wouldn’t have to rip it,” she says, mockingly. She proceeds to cut the bag cum envelope with the letter opener, leaving a jagged slice along the top of the fold she’d made.
“See? Now I can read my letter.”
“But you don’t have a letter.”
“Yeah, but if I did, I could read it now,” she says triumphantly. “That was just a demo.”
“This is fucking hilarious,” says Andrea while fishing through her bag. “I need to write this down.”
“Where is that goddamn Toasted Cheese Special?”
Kalpetta, New Year’s Eve – 1 Hour 25 Minutes Ago
“Yes, hello,” the hotel manager mutters into the microphone. Customary feedback ensues. “Hello, thank you,” he says. Most of the crowd seems to quiet down to listen.
I like this guy, this hotel manager. There’s just something genuine about him. Sincere. He really believes in the potential for good in humanity. He’s an unwavering optimist. Never looks to the future with dread and uncertainty, but with the belief in the possibilities, the ability to make good on the goals he’s set for himself and his family. And despite all of the forces that work against him, the poverty, pollution, corruption and degradation that surrounds him on all sides and is a daily part of life, he surges forward, undaunted.
“I would like to thank Mr. ----------- from Bangalore for singing such a wonderful song for us.”
Everyone claps. I look at Laura. “This is it.”
“What?”
“Just wait for it. I can feel it.”
The hotel manager continues: “I would like to invite our friend from Canada, Mr. Brett, to come up and present a gift on our behalf.”
“See?” I whisper.
I stand up amidst a chorus of claps and cheers, raising my arms in the air to acknowledge their praise of adoration as I march triumphantly to the center of the courtyard.
“How is India treating you?” he asks, proceeding to point the mic in my direction.
“I love it,” I say, amidst another chorus of applause. I’m given a gift-wrapped parcel and turn to present it to Mr. ---------- from Bangalore, who only moments before had been the subject of much ridicule on my part.
As I pass him the gift, I shake his hand and am momentarily startled by the two blind eyes looking back at me.
Fort Kochi, Dinner – 1 Day Ago
We’ve failed. Look at us. Pathetic. Like puppies with their tails between their legs. Licking its’ wounds. Pitiful. A disgrace. We just couldn’t handle it. So here we are. In a restaurant that’s probably three times more expensive than anywhere we could possibly go in this city, just so we can eat something, anything, that is as far removed from Indian that an Indian wouldn’t even feed it to a stray dog.
But worth it. Oh yes. It’s worth every last drop. Every last bite. It was worth almost falling into another hole in the sidewalk. It was worth getting into that rickshaw with that guy with the bloodshot eyes who kept snorting and wiping the side of his nose. It was worth the entire hour it took to travel ten kilometers, stopping every few meters so that the driver could ask pedestrians for directions, only to ignore them, and instead venture down every other road and alley in Ernakulam, crammed as we were in the back of a shoebox-sized rickshaw and subjected to waves of nausea induced by an ever-growing disposition towards motion sickness.
Oh yes. We’re something special. A cut above the rest. So much better than those other tourists. What do they know about travel? About real travel? Nothing. Nothing at all. Not like us.
Kalpetta, New Year’s Eve – Now
This guy’s setting himself on fire. He’s really setting himself on fire. What is he thinking? What is everyone else thinking? That this is okay? That it’s normal? Are they honestly okay with this? Are their consciences aware of the potential, inevitable, consequences? Are they that unaware?
There he goes. Arms wrapped in blankets, soaked in gasoline, the same gasoline he’d been swallowing earlier, shooting flames from his mouth while dancing spasmodically around the enormous bonfire situated in the center of the courtyard, surrounded, as he had been, by a throng of drunk men whose lack of concern for the heat of the flame prompting them to get closer and closer to each volcanic exhalation.
Now, screaming in agony, the fire-breather stumbles onto the bonfire, knocking loose an assortment of fiery debris. He dunks his arms in two buckets of water rushed out from the hotel kitchen, extinguishing the flame. The chanting and thumping techno music abruptly stops and a hushed silence fills the void.
“We should leave,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Laura.
“Definitely,” adds Andrea.
We exit by the courtyard gates, only to be stopped by the hotel’s two drunk security guards.
“Did you have a good evening?” they ask with a tone of worry and concern as they stumble over one another.
“Oh yeah,” I say, “this is one I won’t forget.”
End of Part Three
1 comment:
Oh Beej - you needn't worry about becoming one of your parents! We would NEVER be chartering a boat in India! Another memorable episode!
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