Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Dinner Suits at Breakfast
The Bangalore Club is heavily fortified with a sky-blue wall and is protected by colonial guards dressed as clowns. It was designed so that British soldiers would never have to experience the filth of the outside world. The club is replete with a swimming pool, badminton courts, tennis courts with ball boys, a billiards room, a rummy room, a library, a gentleman’s only saloon, as well as a “mixed” bar for when the lady needs a shpritzer, multiple dining options, a beauty parlor, a grocery, a stuffed leopard in the breakfast room, and most important of all, a bridge room. The bridge room is where Simone and I spent most of our time. It’s also where we made life long friends… well, with the average age creeping past 95, “life long” is not much to speak of. Bangalore Club bridge champion Shri Das Kapoor was recently hospitalized when his partner failed to respond to an opening bid of 1 Club.
Lurking in the back of the bridge room was a nameless wonder. Nameless, because he served the drinks to the room, and as I write this, Simone and I must admit the horrifying truth that we never bothered to learn his name. Or maybe he told us, and we didn’t fully understand his words. Or maybe his name was Ramesh, but despite that glaring question mark, he brought us delicious teas and soda. He was a gentle soul, a real mensch, and would always greet us with big smiles. He was also a bridge master. One night, at 3 in the morning, Simone sleepwalked to the bridge room chanting “We should have made slam!” I followed her there to find our nameless friend sitting there in the dark, dealing out a full hand, and practicing bidding scenarios all by his lonesome. He wouldn’t have dared invite us to sit down with him, and besides, we didn’t want to intrude on his meditation. But that night, as we glanced across the dark card room, the nameless wonder became our friend, and he would later reward with a custom “Bangalore Club Bridge Scoring Card” for accepting him as one of our own.
Bridge was for the evenings, but the mornings were dominated by Captain Prakash, and his world renowned breakfast. Captain Prakash controls the dining hall, and the only thing he is lacking in is mineral water, which he dutifully runs to the supermarket to buy for us. Every morning, provided we were appropriately dressed in our formal breakfast attire (button down shirt, slacks, and shoes) he would send his minions to make us sweet lime juice. With a twinkle in his eye, the Captain would remark, “India has the sweetest limes. No other country in the world has such lime.” Sweet lime juice is a staple in Bangalore, and yes, Captain Prakash is right, no other country can boast of such sweet limes. But that is only because we call them oranges.
At a place like the Bangalore Club, the head waiter and other semi-important staff members become Captains or Generals. Captain Prakash was something of a celebrity, except that he carried an autograph book for his patrons to sign, not the other way around. Every morning he would survey the landscape of the mess hall, and bring around his trusty autograph book for patrons to comment on his superior service. The one time the Captain dared speak to, or even look at, a woman, was to obtain her autograph in the sacred text. A typical autograph read like this, “We thank General Prakash for his truly outstanding service, just marvelous service. We couldn’t imagine eating breakfast with any other staff. He manages to transform a mundane Wednesday morning breakfast into a ravishing tea party the Queen herself would be proud to attend. And please, in the future, have a bigger selection of fruit. Sincerely, X”
Food plays a central role at the Bangalore Club, just as it does at any other Miami Beach retirement community or Pesach program. It was at the Bangalore Club that we discovered our love for naan, which is the Indian equivalent of a fresh baked laffa. Indians do not understand the concept of ordering naan without a curry to dip it into, so if you do plan on ordering naan in the future, consider a curry, or make it very clear that you would never spoil the innocent yet bold flavors of the naan dough by dunking it in that over-spiced sewage.
Lurking in the back of the bridge room was a nameless wonder. Nameless, because he served the drinks to the room, and as I write this, Simone and I must admit the horrifying truth that we never bothered to learn his name. Or maybe he told us, and we didn’t fully understand his words. Or maybe his name was Ramesh, but despite that glaring question mark, he brought us delicious teas and soda. He was a gentle soul, a real mensch, and would always greet us with big smiles. He was also a bridge master. One night, at 3 in the morning, Simone sleepwalked to the bridge room chanting “We should have made slam!” I followed her there to find our nameless friend sitting there in the dark, dealing out a full hand, and practicing bidding scenarios all by his lonesome. He wouldn’t have dared invite us to sit down with him, and besides, we didn’t want to intrude on his meditation. But that night, as we glanced across the dark card room, the nameless wonder became our friend, and he would later reward with a custom “Bangalore Club Bridge Scoring Card” for accepting him as one of our own.
Bridge was for the evenings, but the mornings were dominated by Captain Prakash, and his world renowned breakfast. Captain Prakash controls the dining hall, and the only thing he is lacking in is mineral water, which he dutifully runs to the supermarket to buy for us. Every morning, provided we were appropriately dressed in our formal breakfast attire (button down shirt, slacks, and shoes) he would send his minions to make us sweet lime juice. With a twinkle in his eye, the Captain would remark, “India has the sweetest limes. No other country in the world has such lime.” Sweet lime juice is a staple in Bangalore, and yes, Captain Prakash is right, no other country can boast of such sweet limes. But that is only because we call them oranges.
At a place like the Bangalore Club, the head waiter and other semi-important staff members become Captains or Generals. Captain Prakash was something of a celebrity, except that he carried an autograph book for his patrons to sign, not the other way around. Every morning he would survey the landscape of the mess hall, and bring around his trusty autograph book for patrons to comment on his superior service. The one time the Captain dared speak to, or even look at, a woman, was to obtain her autograph in the sacred text. A typical autograph read like this, “We thank General Prakash for his truly outstanding service, just marvelous service. We couldn’t imagine eating breakfast with any other staff. He manages to transform a mundane Wednesday morning breakfast into a ravishing tea party the Queen herself would be proud to attend. And please, in the future, have a bigger selection of fruit. Sincerely, X”
Food plays a central role at the Bangalore Club, just as it does at any other Miami Beach retirement community or Pesach program. It was at the Bangalore Club that we discovered our love for naan, which is the Indian equivalent of a fresh baked laffa. Indians do not understand the concept of ordering naan without a curry to dip it into, so if you do plan on ordering naan in the future, consider a curry, or make it very clear that you would never spoil the innocent yet bold flavors of the naan dough by dunking it in that over-spiced sewage.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Great Escape
We escaped under the cover of pollution-obscured moonlight. Breaking out of Yelahanka was risky. If the guards had known about our plan, who knows what would have become of our fate. But there was no choice. It was only a matter of time before the intense claustrophobia and the tireless boredom of rummy would have crippled us, emotionally and physically. My wrists had already felt the wear of dealing. Our escape route was set. A getaway car, headlights off, crept onto the dirt path in front of our prison, and we bolted… or rather unbolted the 8 locks, moved the couch and TV stand that were piled up behind the front door to keep it shut, and armed ourselves with Simone’s secret all powerful weapon.
This weapon, which to the untrained eye looks like a TV Remote Control, and is just as easily misplaced, is known to those of us in the industry as “The Dog Clicker”. The mythology has it, that in the early stages of the universe, when Lord Brahma created the primordial canine, he also fashioned a magical charm that would be able to defeat even the most ferocious of wild dogs, by singing them a beautiful lullaby… well not exactly a lullaby, but a high pitch scream, so loud and so high pitch that the gods and ordinary ears of human beings would not hear its shrieks. Only the canine would appreciate this deafening sound, and would, upon hearing it, vanish into thin air. Countless explorers and Greenbaums have searched out its services, but Lord Brahma, knowing better, hid this magical weapon under Mount Kailasa, in the Himalayas, where it has rested for many thousands of years. Unfortunately, Duracell Batteries don’t last that long, and “The Dog Clicker” takes a nine volt. So when “The Dog Clicker” found its way, via the internet, into Simone’s hands, the thing couldn’t scare off a mouse. We didn’t know this at the time.
Those four days in Yelahanka felt like an eternity. The time was upon us. I motioned to Simone to put down her Indian Vogue, and draw arms. We let out a battle cry, with one big kick, four massive pieces of luggage proceed ahead of us, rolling down the stairs, announcing our imminent departure and killing any ambushers laying in wait below; we run after our bustling projectiles, Simone furiously pushing “The Dog Clicker” with both hands, her menacing growls and violent twitching are enough to scare off dog and human alike; I fling a wad of Rupees across the room at the stunned barefoot man standing behind the reception notebook to appease him for our stay. It hits him in the chest. Before he could thank us for coming, we were in the getaway vehicle, fresh out of that desolate hellhole.
“To the Bangalore Club”, I proudly announce to our chauffeur. He nods horizontally, as Indians do. He was impressed. Simone and I exhale, I look into her eyes, she looks into mine, and we raise a toast of Larium to celebrate our near-death escape. Off we were to the Bangalore Club in style.
This weapon, which to the untrained eye looks like a TV Remote Control, and is just as easily misplaced, is known to those of us in the industry as “The Dog Clicker”. The mythology has it, that in the early stages of the universe, when Lord Brahma created the primordial canine, he also fashioned a magical charm that would be able to defeat even the most ferocious of wild dogs, by singing them a beautiful lullaby… well not exactly a lullaby, but a high pitch scream, so loud and so high pitch that the gods and ordinary ears of human beings would not hear its shrieks. Only the canine would appreciate this deafening sound, and would, upon hearing it, vanish into thin air. Countless explorers and Greenbaums have searched out its services, but Lord Brahma, knowing better, hid this magical weapon under Mount Kailasa, in the Himalayas, where it has rested for many thousands of years. Unfortunately, Duracell Batteries don’t last that long, and “The Dog Clicker” takes a nine volt. So when “The Dog Clicker” found its way, via the internet, into Simone’s hands, the thing couldn’t scare off a mouse. We didn’t know this at the time.
Those four days in Yelahanka felt like an eternity. The time was upon us. I motioned to Simone to put down her Indian Vogue, and draw arms. We let out a battle cry, with one big kick, four massive pieces of luggage proceed ahead of us, rolling down the stairs, announcing our imminent departure and killing any ambushers laying in wait below; we run after our bustling projectiles, Simone furiously pushing “The Dog Clicker” with both hands, her menacing growls and violent twitching are enough to scare off dog and human alike; I fling a wad of Rupees across the room at the stunned barefoot man standing behind the reception notebook to appease him for our stay. It hits him in the chest. Before he could thank us for coming, we were in the getaway vehicle, fresh out of that desolate hellhole.
“To the Bangalore Club”, I proudly announce to our chauffeur. He nods horizontally, as Indians do. He was impressed. Simone and I exhale, I look into her eyes, she looks into mine, and we raise a toast of Larium to celebrate our near-death escape. Off we were to the Bangalore Club in style.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
In India...
...white men are treated like the the holy Vishnu himself, and white women are treated like prostitutes. Simone would like an edit; she says "white women are treated like they are invisible and contagious." Burping, she remarks, "the only disgusting thing I haven't done in the last hour is fart." Our bodies are not yet adjusted to the masala, at all.
We are not sure what to fill these pages with. We considered writing about a proper park avenue Victorian lady and how she handles slum life. We considered writing about how my job is having me sell houses to slum-dwellers, and then securitize the mortgages, and sell them off as bundles to outside investors. If this "housing charity project" blows up, I hope they don't blame it on the Jew from NY. These pages can be about our apartment hunt, rickshaw drivers, cows, almost anything. We hope it will develop some identity, but until then, we'll just write about our first weekend in India, spent in the wonderful town of Yelahanka, known affectionately to native Bangaloreans as "vahi wal se soca", which roughly translates to, "the bottom of the toilet".
We got off the plane 3 AM, hopped in a cab, drove 30 minutes, got a receipt that claimed we drove for 4 hours, paid 1300 rupees for our fare because arguing would save us 75 cents, and got out at a roadside dive motel in Yelahanka, a desolate suburb 45 minutes outside Bangalore. We tell the cab driver he must have come to the wrong address. Then I consider the possibility that this cab driver may kill us. Who would know? Our three bags of clothing and one bag of drugs and wacky mac must be worth something. What if they sell Simone into prostitution? That would be a tough phone call to Wendy. I decide that I will exit the cab and scope out the situation. But I don't want to leave Simone in the cab lest the driver steal her. And I don't want to have Simone come with me and leave all the bags in the car, lest he steal our wacky mac. I decide to leave Simone in the cab, but opened all the car doors. He would be crazy to drive like that.
3 barefoot uniformed men were sleeping on a queen size mattress on the ground of the lobby. With a simple nod, they welcome us to the illustrious Hoppers Stop Motel. None of them speak a word of English, except "Passport". We try to check in. They lack a computer. So we sign our name in a black and white notebook. After we write our names, he adds "USA". The three barefoot men carry our bags up a flight.
At 5 AM, I begin to have a nervous breakdown. I think we should check out, immediately. Our motel is in the middle of a slum. There is a tarp hut filled with squatters outside one window. Outside the other is a stone roofless shelter, and a huge pile of trash. By 7 am, I see a half naked man chopping up the bark of a tree with a Machete. I lock every one of the 5 different bolt locks on our front door, and the three bolts on the bedroom door. By 10 am we were still both awake, trying to figure out what we could use as a weapon. We have a pair of 4 inch Prada heels.
I decide to go the bodega next door, and lock Simone in the room, because I am not convinced she should go outside all year. There are tons of wild dogs, cows, people sleeping and bathing in piles of trash and shitting on the floor. We had four days of this. We must of spent 85 out of the 96 hours that weekend huddled in our room playing rummy.
We did make it into Bangalore proper though on Friday. We took our first auto rickshaw. There are 80,000 of these high powered 3-wheel golf carts in Bangalore, and every single one is driven by a barefoot union-issued uniformed man with a deathwish. On the highway we encountered traffic, because about 30 people were sitting in the middle of the highway, screaming, for no apparent reason. Simone would like an edit, she claims that this sit-in was inspired by Gandhi. Thank you Simone. Our driver gets out of the vehicle, physically moves one of them, screams a bit, and drives on.
We stayed in Yelahanka because that's where the spiritual leader is. He lives in a gated community which looks like its from the set of Stepford Wives. Its quite nice, but very sterile, and obviously filled with deviants. Our motel was very much on the wrong side of the tracks. We ventured over there for some of the meals, and even had a Minyan for Simchat Torah HaKafot. One of the Jews present was a member of the Bnei Yisroel, the lost tribe of Indian Jews. The rest were Israelis. Many had little kids. None of them stayed in Yelahanka for the holiday.
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