Thursday, July 07, 2005
Sleepless in Scottsdale...
Foreword: Lifting my article from elsewhere and publishing here on demand - not advertising at this point though just to get a quantitative feel of it's worthlessness...
As anticipated, it turned out to be a memorable, exciting, abnormal and hungry two year stint in Scottsdale. It struck me hard during this period in the desert that there's just a thin & transient line between being a vegetarian & being a herbivore. I had to endure and consume so much of greenery (also referred to as 'Subs' in most parts of America) that Chlorophyll often clogged my eyes. Either that or I felt like a Russian in the midst of a revolution with plenty of stale bread, torn paper napkins and missing tables. On top of this, I was burdened with a good amount of inferiority complex, for I had to choose the type of stale bread that I would want to chew. I repeatedly asked for 'modern' bread and 'milk' bread but was refused even an empty tray until I could fluently pronounce French adjectives like 'croissant'.
And then, I returned to Gachibowli* with horns over my head instead of a halo. The inevitable followed - With a very high degree of voluntary assistance from the radiant Hyderabad sun, I couldn't miss the Food court* in all it's grandeur. It stood like a mighty ship some Furlongs away from a deserted, starved and determined sailor. It represented eternity, amidst an ephemeral and restless human crowd rushing towards its polished granite steps. I slowly felt my legs, heart, appetite & wallet walking in its direction. Despite repeated Bulletin board* criticisms about quality and monotony, I was determined to tour around the vast expanse of cooked food. I gave myself a well-deserved opportunity to make a prudent decision on what I wanted to gobble down.
As I stepped in, Food court reminded me of the Titanic - exquisitely maintained glass doors, fresh paint that brought along bright colors and tight odors, high-decibel speakers that were tailor-made for Irish party music, hosts & hospitality services at the front door and plenty of suffocation that goes hand-in-hand with a crowded pub-like environment. Initial routines were strikingly effortless – I asked for a twenty-five rupee coupon instead of a ‘single cheese burger with extra-pickle & no meat, medium French Fries & two packets of hot sauce and a large diet-coke with no ice’. I was promptly returned seventy-five rupees instead of standard questions like ‘I’m sorry, come again?’, ‘for here or to go?’ or ‘wanna pay by cash or card?’. I was still under the impression that things were going right….
It didn’t take time to realize that chaos thrives in such environs. With utter disbelief, I stared at the queue for ‘South Indian food’ that not only brought back haunting memories of the Russian revolution, but also an image of Oliver Twist this time around. And also, some relevant questions started popping up in my mind (why wouldn’t Oliver Twist ask for more health food?). At this very point in time, a fellow employee whom I shook hands with 4 years back walked upto to me (with his ubiquitous identity card safely perched in his front pocket for a change) and asked with a condescending smile if I remembered him. If I had such a memory, I would win blind chess in Ukraine!
Of course, the conversation ended soon and I did get my turn to pick the platter. What followed was intense Euclidian geometry. There was this small surface area split into 5 unequal portions where 3 octagonal cups of fluid had to be placed along with Roti, Plain Rice, Friend Rice, Curry, Papad & Desert (which come in all shapes and sizes, thereby preventing best-practices). Each one of the cups made it a point to compete for a long and enduring session with my bright neck-tie. Just when I thought I was doing o.k, another employee appeared from nowhere to disturb the eco-system around me-my line- my plate-my necktie, took a napkin out of turn and left with a triumphant look on his face. He made me feel good for a minute, for I was getting invisible even without dedicated sessions at the Foothills gym* and that kept me going….
And going and going until at last I fount a solitary seat towards the west (A place that could seat a four-year old with a cup of strawberry ice-cream in her hand – not one that could seat someone like me and my plate that weighed almost as much as I did). Yet, I squeezed in and sat down. The food went in relatively smoothly, unlike the music. I thought I heard Irish party music when I stepped in but now it resembled a haunting Stanley Kubrick background theme. It actually was Rafi but he was tired & melancholic after singing the same song, day in and day out, from dawn till dusk, for the same hungry audience.
When I was done with grub, as a good citizen of this world, I had to dispose of my leftovers (which happened to be just a used paper-napkin) and now, the queue was more competitive. Long lines, meticulous people scratching away the last bit of aluminum left in their plates, sleepy people who threw cups in the spoons tub and spoons in the plates tub and so many other kinds of people who did so many other things. I lasted this line as well and then went to wash my hands. It was Russian revolution for a final time with automatic taps – haves who washed and left (working taps) and have-nots who watched and leapt (dodging taps).Finally, it was time for drinking water. All of Rome stood by the water cooler thereby causing mayhem. Just managed to get my share and gulped it down in a jiffy like there’s no tomorrow, just in time to be pushed out by the next in line.
After this memorable experience, I managed to walk out to the open air, as the mild monsoon and a gentle breeze decided to give me a well-deserved smile. With renewed exuberance, I went back to my desk and dozed in peace. As the wise say, some habits are eternal….
* A bit contextual..
- posted by Badri @ 7/07/2005 06:52:00 AM
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