Mirror Magazine

Mirror Magazine

A neighbourly experience
By Indiaoholic
I’m envious of anything that flies. The travel bug has bitten me. It may be attributed to watching too many travel programmes on a newly discovered channel. I want to venture out into the world and see it for what it really is. I want to walk the Great Barrier Reef and escape into one of the Great Pyramids.

I decide to start close to home. I’ll visit India for a week and try to explore the sights and sounds of the country. My guidelines run thus, I’ll eat everything there is to eat; I’ll see everything there is to see and I’ll carry a bottle of mineral water everywhere. It seems the perfect recipe to a holiday of discovery.

I studied what little Hindi I could during the flight and tried to act as local as possible. Everything about the country is reminiscent of good old Sri Lanka. The people are the same and the roads are the same (there are potholes every few yards and the most important roads are wrenched apart on a regular basis). There are idiaappa and aappa to satisfy even the most patriotic of tastebuds. Good old Sri Lankan bailas are sung in perfect harmony along the coast.

I was to explore Karnataka, but ended up with an introduction to every single state! The number of ‘mothertongues’ being so large, hardly half the Indian population knew which language they should speak! But language is no barrier. A cart full of guavas once caught my attention. A few were cut as samples and they looked inviting. I pointed to one and asked, “How much?” The salesman muttered a few inaudible words. I repeated myself. No answer. I gave it one last shot. He promptly reached into his wallet, pulled out a few coins and laid them carefully next to the fruit I’d selected.

One fact that amazes me about the country is the number of fresh fruit stores lining the streets. The basic principles of these ‘Juice Junctions’ being that once one walked up and picked a fruit, it would immediately be washed, cleaned and chucked whole into a blender. The outcome would be a fresh fruit juice that is enjoyed by almost every single pedestrian.

I am yet to master the art of gulping down a Pani Puri without messing up my attire. This is an experience; the ‘chef’ stands by the side of a round table. On it are two large stainless steel bowls, one of which is full of crispy rounded puris. The other contains a masala like paste made of a collection of spices. The customers stand around this table with their small saucer like stainless steel plates.

The chef then begins the serving routine. The puri is filled with the masala paste, subsequently drenched with lime and tamarind water and must be gulped down whole. It’s an incredible feat, even among the locals who have mastered the art. Anyone who has attempted to eat (or is it drink?) a Gola is sure to sympathise with me.

The beauty of India is that even though it is a country that has ‘developed’ during the last few years, it has held on to its ethnic identity. So much so that by their second day on the land most tourists are dressed in typical Indian clothing and have jasmines in their hair.

The palaces in Bangalore and Mysore were breathtaking. I stood still and imagined the worlds where the Maharajas and Maharanis would greet their subjects dressed in all their finery. The paintings that lined the palace walls were beautiful to look at.

Getting around Banagalore is a dream. Simply hail a taxi by screaming ‘Auto’ at the top of your voice, step in, tell the driver your destination and yell “Stop Bai Sahab, stop,” when you reach it. If in doubt hang on to your map and walk. On one occasion I followed the relevant guidelines for hailing an ‘Auto’ and asked the driver to take me to the allotted place. He nodded and I crept in at which point he yanked me out again. I’m yet to understand if according to the constitution of India, a nod means yes and a shake of the head means no!

Public transport is a dream come true for all feminists, as there are eight seats on each bus reserved for the ‘weaker sex’. The policemen stand in the middle of the road upon their small platforms that advertise the latest in Indian ware, totally ignored, while the rules pertaining to Right of Way are blatantly flouted by motorists.

My week in India done, I am now a completely ‘Indianalized’ individual. Take my advice, if you feel lost with too much energy, hit the airport and head to India; you won’t regret it!

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