Reversals

 Bumping into each other on a dating app had made the two connect after over a decade since college days. In a different city. They decided to meet over dinner. “Strictly dinner. Not a date. Don’t expect anything else”, she had been clear in her message even though she had added smileys for a good measure to soften the blow. 

Surprisingly to both, the time spent felt great, and not laboured. They hardly spoke to each other during college. He was considered a snob sob, and she a bookworm. He came from an obviously privileged background, while not many knew about her social status; she kept her hardships - poverty and scholarships - hidden carefully with her ‘don’t mess with me’ demeanour and fake glasses (inspired by Bollywood). 

Delectable food brought out the smiles, and good wine eased the conversation. She decided to prod. 

“I am surprised to see you working. Don’t you have a vast empire to run already?”

“Things were not working well in business. Also, I did not have the aptitude for it. What is your story?”

“First few years went off in repaying all the loans. And, getting a roof over my parents’ head. I have only begun now to explore life beyond the town I grew up in”. 

“Your game at college kept everyone at bay though. We just assumed you were haughty and hard to crack”. 

“Helped me hide my woes and complexes. It’s a different phase now. What’s your story, Mr Moneybags?”

There was that faint hesitation before he chosen to open up. 

“Business losses prompted dad to commit suicide. Mom almost followed suit, unable to overcome that loss. It took me a while to sort the mess out and make her feel it’s a life worth living”. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know. Shouldn’t have asked you, I guess?”

“I had never known money troubles. It was a great learning and sobering experience. Taught me what struggles meant for the less privileged. I guess I’m so much wiser and better because of that”. 

“And desirable…” she added almost inaudibly. He pretended not to have heard, but his smile was a giveaway. 

Authenticity

 It was an early morning date. The two had chosen to meet over a run and go for a leisurely breakfast thereafter. Since it was weekend, it only felt appropriate.  

The weather was perfect; the winter cold was slowly getting replaced by the warmth of the spring.  The run in the expansive park felt invigorating too. After matching step for step - a slow burn run - over the 7 km trail, they headed to a well-known eatery. 

“They serve authentic food here”, he beamed, as he took a deep breath of the wafting fresh aromas of steaming idlis and filter coffee. She smiled noncommittally. “I particularly love their sambar. It couldn’t get anymore South Indian than this”.  She stayed quiet for a moment, took a sip of the filter coffee she had ordered, and then said slowly. “What is authentic is defined by time. And space. What is authentic today may not be so in future, or elsewhere”. 

He wondered if she was confrontational but realised she wasn’t as he looked at her open, clear face and expression. He chose to curb his itch to argue, and instead asked, “Care to explain that? You got me intrigued there!”

“You think this is authentic sambar and coffee. But it may not have been considered so, maybe a century ago. The notions of cooking have changed with time, no? Also, coffee preparation too is different in geographies. For example, Mysore coffee and Madras coffee”. 

“But then, we do claim that this was how it has been taught to us over generations. And exclaim it’s just like how our ajji and paati used to make it!”

“We both know sambar is only a few centuries old, and it possibly is Maharashtrian in origin. Plus, there wouldn’t be sambar without the Portuguese bringing in those chillies into the country. Yet we fight how Madras version is better and more authentic than other versions!”

He chimed in, as the understanding descended upon him. “True! There wouldn’t be masala dosa either, without the Portuguese bringing in the potato! And, yet we claim that it’s authentic here, and crib with each variation that we find. Imagine saying ‘authentic Chinese’ about what you find at Mainland China!”

She ribbed a little with the quip, “the only authentic thing is gobi manchurian!” 

“Ouch! That hurts”. 

Airport Diaries

It’s time to head back to the islands after a sudden long trip. I was here in Bengaluru to take some classes to a batch of trainees. I had to abandon my trip back, as dad suddenly developed heart complications and had to be admitted into ICU on emergency, just as I was about to head to the airport. The trip got extended by over a week. After his discharge from the hospital, I chose to stay back to get his first review done. 

All went smoothly thereafter, and I booked my tickets after the doctors declared he’s doing good and he can travel too.  I’m at the airport lounge (privileges of a card) to grab some breakfast, as the flight is at an early hour. 

The lounge at the new terminal (Terminal 2; my flight to Port Blair is Vistara) feels Claustrophobic in its design. Narrow aisles, crowded seating arrangement, and a caged metallic structure all over. The lounge is buzzing with travellers, all heaping up their plates with idlis, poha, paranthas, pooris, and accompaniments, surely to waste most of it. Some are even carrying two plates, another filled with all the baked goodies - croissants, cakes, and pastries. I am certain these very people would be posting lengthy notes on poverty and food on social media.  Just when I think my sarcastic brain has had enough fodder, I head to get myself some coffee before I head out to board the flight. 

I wait patiently at the counter, as a huge man bedecked with multiple thick gold chains and diamond rings blocks me from the tray that contains sugar sachets, napkins, and stirrers.  I notice from the corner that he is grabbing multiple tea bags the same tray contains. There are at least six different varieties of tea bags for the discerning tea drinkers. This man surely is a tea connoisseur. He has already bagged at least 12 - two each of every variety. For added safety he grabs some more, and shoves most of them into many pockets that his flowing dresses have. 

I am yet to decide if:

1. He’s truly rich, and all that glitters may not be gold?; or

2. He lives just by tea over the day, and hence he was stuffing himself with so many tea bags; or

3. He believes in tea therapy for his skin; or

4. He’s one of the regular Indians who loves anything available for free; or

5. He’s just another Uber rich person who believes all the resources are his, no questions asked!  

Do you agree with any of those five options above, or do you have your own theory about this?Anyone who can help me?