Taking a break from all the fiction I have been putting down in my assignments, I actually decided this story was worth a write. Sagar, my roommie back then had told me it deserved to go to the blog, but I decided I needed to wait until the post trauma stress had subsided before I made this public. It has been 8 months now since the incident so I am assuming I am either twisted for life or cured although most people who know me would say I was already twisted for life.
This occurred in late February when I had to travel back to Delhi for a function at home. Having lost some money in rescheduling the tickets to accommodate my IIM Trichy interview later that week combined with the my lack of any enthusiasm for functions in general and the fact that I would be busy with nothing for a whole week of vacation meant I was waiting at the bus stand in Silk Board for a bus to the airport in a fairly bad mood. The buses do take their own sweet time and music is a great companion, so when a man in his fifties, well dressed, wearing glasses and holding a briefcase asked me if we would get an airport bus there, I politely replied in the affirmative to just avoid any comment that could get me to snap.
The bus arrived in a while and as I took my place, this man sat next to me. The previous and the remaining conversation had all taken place in Hindi (despite my obvious South Indian name, there is nothing at all in my accent that says I am not from the north. In fact my accent varies depending on the person I speak to and is usually the Delhi kind). He started up the conversation again, as any other patriotic Indian does by cursing our politicians, in specific about a certain lady whose statues and garments worn by the statues on the lines of some reporter pulling her sari. I removed my headphones just to be polite. I have made some friends over my travel and met an amazingly diverse bunch of people so I figured it would be an experience if not anything else. Pretty sure now that Dante must have thought the same when Virgil started to give him a tour of the cooler. He had slowly moved the topic through to financial policies and the recession’s effect on local real estate cussing at a few other politicians along the way.
We then ran through the second most favorite topic of any patriotic Indian. You guessed it, the sport which actually puts religion on a backburner sometimes. He started off with how hard a cricket ball is, and when I told him of injuries from it, he decided a statistical analysis of all past, present and future “death by cricket ball” was a legitimate topic for study. This had a few alarm bells ringing in my head but then I guess if Satan has decided you need some head chewing with Brutus, Cassius and Judas for company, there is not much you can do. He asked me about a couple things which he could buy at the airport for a friend of his. Having been to that part of town (the airport) enough number of times, I told him to go find it after checking in.
At this point of time he decided that he needed to vent his rants out about the Southern part of the country. This with two guys from Andhra chatting in Telugu in front of us, a tamilian on the phone behind and a bus in Bangalore which I am sure would have at least the driver and conductor understanding Hindi perfectly. Way worse off than when a cousin of mine thought it would be a joke to call ourselves ‘sardars’ for a stupid mistake in a train to Delhi. Fortunately nobody except a nice Sikh heard it back then. Was just wondering now if my Tamil would hold up to scrutiny if any of them decided to teach us political correctness.
This was the nasty part; he starts off with how Southies wear nothing but a dhoti to marriage, about how they would give a chunk of gold or cash for dowry: about 16 lakhs he had heard on one case. He then gave me a break up of the entire dowry he had set aside for his daughters: a car, tv, fridge and some cash, all in all 8 lakhs per gal but well split up. One of them was a doc, the other in college. Of course neither was too far away from home and neither would ever work for a woman’s place was at home. I started to look around to see if there was a feminist anywhere near loading a gun. He had a son as well 18 years of age and cute enough to still share a bed with his grandmom. Norman Bates in training I would say for a Hindi remake of Psycho. He continues by more bad-mouthing of the food in South India. Either too spicy or too bland and the cost as well and of course like a few other North Indians, he talked about how much better the South Indian food tasted up in the north.
He stopped all of a sudden, with the look of a detective who had just bid farewell to his prime suspect at an airport, he asks me: Are you an Indian or a foreigner? He meant of course north or south, and for some reason I decided that the show needed to go on. I told him North Indian of course. Not convinced, he asked me my full name. “Arun Sharma” I said and his face lit up. I am also a Sharma, Yogesh Sharma (In the style of Bond only dubbed). Looking around he pointed at a metal fan. “These days children are crazy, look at the hair, you can’t even make out if he is a guy if not for his unclean beard. You are smart and decent. It is only the previous generation which was totally mad; your generation is very smart.” The conversation veered in the direction of my family. Told him parents were from Mumbai, me from Delhi unfortunately working in Bangalore, hint of settling in Mumbai added for some melodrama. That gave him enough fodder to go on.
Relatives are the greatest backstabbers, he started. He had a cousin who was like the rich evil guy from a bad 70s movie (not his exact words but this is how I remember it). Had infinite money but wouldn’t share it with this guy which is why the poor man had to work. Then he talked about his thoughts on love and arranged marriages. In short, love marriages were marriages arranged by the devil. He had apparently tortured other innocent souls like me on his other trips and one of them had gotten into a love marriage so he never spoke to the bride. Then he talked of how even the conductor in the local bus in Delhi recognized him and thought of him as interesting (choice of words I now reserve for my next trip to the loony bin). He then proceeded to tell me in detail the conductor’s love story and his part in giving unused ‘valuable’ advice.
With him talking about cooking and his recipes, by now I was contemplating on my options of suicide. The airport however was getting closer, and somehow he had time for one more topic on how tigers are disappearing off the country, its implications and his expert opinion in teaching birds how to migrate (this was purely my fault, should have never told him about my hobbies). He did buy me a cup of tea before we parted near the entrance but he made sure we exchanged numbers (missed call to ensure I gave him a valid one). I was just glad I was not on the same flight. I almost killed a person next to me in the flight for reading ‘Who moved my cheese’ but mostly I was just catatonic.
This is of course dedicated to Mamta Mittal who patiently heard me repeat the entire drama over phone in front of the boarding gate for half an hour before politely telling me to hang up as I had given her a headache. Also to my roommie and others who said it wasn’t fair that they were the only ones who had to listen to my rants.
This occurred in late February when I had to travel back to Delhi for a function at home. Having lost some money in rescheduling the tickets to accommodate my IIM Trichy interview later that week combined with the my lack of any enthusiasm for functions in general and the fact that I would be busy with nothing for a whole week of vacation meant I was waiting at the bus stand in Silk Board for a bus to the airport in a fairly bad mood. The buses do take their own sweet time and music is a great companion, so when a man in his fifties, well dressed, wearing glasses and holding a briefcase asked me if we would get an airport bus there, I politely replied in the affirmative to just avoid any comment that could get me to snap.
The bus arrived in a while and as I took my place, this man sat next to me. The previous and the remaining conversation had all taken place in Hindi (despite my obvious South Indian name, there is nothing at all in my accent that says I am not from the north. In fact my accent varies depending on the person I speak to and is usually the Delhi kind). He started up the conversation again, as any other patriotic Indian does by cursing our politicians, in specific about a certain lady whose statues and garments worn by the statues on the lines of some reporter pulling her sari. I removed my headphones just to be polite. I have made some friends over my travel and met an amazingly diverse bunch of people so I figured it would be an experience if not anything else. Pretty sure now that Dante must have thought the same when Virgil started to give him a tour of the cooler. He had slowly moved the topic through to financial policies and the recession’s effect on local real estate cussing at a few other politicians along the way.
We then ran through the second most favorite topic of any patriotic Indian. You guessed it, the sport which actually puts religion on a backburner sometimes. He started off with how hard a cricket ball is, and when I told him of injuries from it, he decided a statistical analysis of all past, present and future “death by cricket ball” was a legitimate topic for study. This had a few alarm bells ringing in my head but then I guess if Satan has decided you need some head chewing with Brutus, Cassius and Judas for company, there is not much you can do. He asked me about a couple things which he could buy at the airport for a friend of his. Having been to that part of town (the airport) enough number of times, I told him to go find it after checking in.
At this point of time he decided that he needed to vent his rants out about the Southern part of the country. This with two guys from Andhra chatting in Telugu in front of us, a tamilian on the phone behind and a bus in Bangalore which I am sure would have at least the driver and conductor understanding Hindi perfectly. Way worse off than when a cousin of mine thought it would be a joke to call ourselves ‘sardars’ for a stupid mistake in a train to Delhi. Fortunately nobody except a nice Sikh heard it back then. Was just wondering now if my Tamil would hold up to scrutiny if any of them decided to teach us political correctness.
This was the nasty part; he starts off with how Southies wear nothing but a dhoti to marriage, about how they would give a chunk of gold or cash for dowry: about 16 lakhs he had heard on one case. He then gave me a break up of the entire dowry he had set aside for his daughters: a car, tv, fridge and some cash, all in all 8 lakhs per gal but well split up. One of them was a doc, the other in college. Of course neither was too far away from home and neither would ever work for a woman’s place was at home. I started to look around to see if there was a feminist anywhere near loading a gun. He had a son as well 18 years of age and cute enough to still share a bed with his grandmom. Norman Bates in training I would say for a Hindi remake of Psycho. He continues by more bad-mouthing of the food in South India. Either too spicy or too bland and the cost as well and of course like a few other North Indians, he talked about how much better the South Indian food tasted up in the north.
He stopped all of a sudden, with the look of a detective who had just bid farewell to his prime suspect at an airport, he asks me: Are you an Indian or a foreigner? He meant of course north or south, and for some reason I decided that the show needed to go on. I told him North Indian of course. Not convinced, he asked me my full name. “Arun Sharma” I said and his face lit up. I am also a Sharma, Yogesh Sharma (In the style of Bond only dubbed). Looking around he pointed at a metal fan. “These days children are crazy, look at the hair, you can’t even make out if he is a guy if not for his unclean beard. You are smart and decent. It is only the previous generation which was totally mad; your generation is very smart.” The conversation veered in the direction of my family. Told him parents were from Mumbai, me from Delhi unfortunately working in Bangalore, hint of settling in Mumbai added for some melodrama. That gave him enough fodder to go on.
Relatives are the greatest backstabbers, he started. He had a cousin who was like the rich evil guy from a bad 70s movie (not his exact words but this is how I remember it). Had infinite money but wouldn’t share it with this guy which is why the poor man had to work. Then he talked about his thoughts on love and arranged marriages. In short, love marriages were marriages arranged by the devil. He had apparently tortured other innocent souls like me on his other trips and one of them had gotten into a love marriage so he never spoke to the bride. Then he talked of how even the conductor in the local bus in Delhi recognized him and thought of him as interesting (choice of words I now reserve for my next trip to the loony bin). He then proceeded to tell me in detail the conductor’s love story and his part in giving unused ‘valuable’ advice.
With him talking about cooking and his recipes, by now I was contemplating on my options of suicide. The airport however was getting closer, and somehow he had time for one more topic on how tigers are disappearing off the country, its implications and his expert opinion in teaching birds how to migrate (this was purely my fault, should have never told him about my hobbies). He did buy me a cup of tea before we parted near the entrance but he made sure we exchanged numbers (missed call to ensure I gave him a valid one). I was just glad I was not on the same flight. I almost killed a person next to me in the flight for reading ‘Who moved my cheese’ but mostly I was just catatonic.
This is of course dedicated to Mamta Mittal who patiently heard me repeat the entire drama over phone in front of the boarding gate for half an hour before politely telling me to hang up as I had given her a headache. Also to my roommie and others who said it wasn’t fair that they were the only ones who had to listen to my rants.
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