All this and more...
Young speak
By Abhilash Gaur

TO borrow an expression from the matrimonial columns, I am what you might aptly call, a ‘homely’ chap, disinclined to travel of any length or sort. Indeed, nothing short of intense physical, emotional or financial duress can compel me to overstep the self-imposed bounds of my cloistered existence. And over the years, this almost adhesive intent towards home and hearth has left me with a happy disregard for all geographic and cartographic detail. I admit that the radial extent of my world is confined to the unaided range of my vision.

Hence, it was with much effort that I steeled myself to embark upon my maiden trip to Delhi. Delhi, that proud capital of a great nation! The occasion for this unhappy embarkation were the approaching nuptials of a dear friend who had just returned after a long stay at Cambridge.

On the appointed day, I... but, of course, you do not wish to know what all I did on the appointed day, do you, therefore suffice it to say that by seven in the morning. I was washed and dressed and fed enough to be seated in the third row of a Delhi-bound bus. My mother, her usual doting self, lingered at my side for as long as she could and it took a resolute burp from the monster’s innermost depths, followed up with a frightful lurch, to get her to part from her treasure. Though this kept her from fussing over me to her heart’s content, before she alighted from the bus, my mother made sure that not one of my fellow-passengers remained unapprised of the delicate natures of my constitution and temperament. Consequently, when I pulled my head back inside the bus, having lost her somewhere in a quick succession of turns, I found myself the centre of the most gratuitous and, as such, vexing solicitude. At least three determined hands were patting my hair down to a plateau even as a set of stubby ladyfingers stroked my wind-exposed cheek to warmth. Under the circumstances, it would have been the most natural thing for one (of my years) to feel provoked, but being of a somewhat unnatural turn myself, I made the most of this benign assault and was, in no time at all, swept into the patient embrace of darling sleep...

Till date, I am not sure what roused me from my slumber, but even as I struggled to knead the sleep from my eyes, to collect my bearings, I became painfully aware of a near-deafening silence around me. The thought that my coachmates had deserted me in the midst of nowhere caused me no end of consternation. Lord above, where th... but the benign preserver, sensible of my plight, anticipated my query and responded to it with such unexampled expedition that no sooner did I trip in the aisle and come crashing down on the bonnet than I had my answer !

On peering through the windscreen, I realised we were stranded — whether by accident or by design, I know not — in a cul-de-sac terminating in a horse-shoe cluster of small structures and amidst these, I descried what seemed to be the moving forms of my fellow travellers. Intrigued, perhaps for the first time in my life, I collected my limbs, got off the bus and set out to explore the scene further...

Gradually, as I approached them, the structures resolved themselves into establishments of the type called dhaba and the bipeds milling in their midst were confirmed as my fellow passengers.

Of the dhabas, the largest measured the entire width of the path in its facade and was chiefly responsible for occluding it. At one time, it must have been a prosperous venture, patronised by the discerning, but the ravages of time had reduced it to a state of abject dilapidation. Nonetheless, it was trying to revive its fortunes by cashing in on the craze for Italian cuisine, especially pasta and pizza.

Abutting it on the right was another dhaba, a relatively recent structure which, although not lacking in strength or grandeur, appeared to have been founded on quicksand and, as a result, was gradually subsiding under its own weight. This establishment claimed swadeshi or indigenous cuisine to be its forte.

Opposite it and abutting the Italian joint on the left was a vast cluster of small establishments that excelled in no particular type of cuisine but enjoyed a reputation for concocting ‘customised’ dishes meeting the specific needs of individual customers.

Yet, notwithstanding their diverse claims, the different establishments were essentially alike in that there was a complete absence of ready fare — even leftovers from the night before — on their larder-shelves. Instead, they sought to sate their customers’ appetites by supplying them with all kinds of glib avowals and specious pleas. For instance, when I approached the Italian joint, its proprietor announced his regrets over the incidents of food-poisoning that had occurred within those premises a couple of years back. He expressed his ‘heart-felt’ sympathies with the families of those who had suffered. At this, the head-waiter trotted out of the kitchen and assured me that the utensils in which the contaminated meals had been served had already been rinzed and disinfected.

Meanwhile, from the swadeshi dhaba were heard to emerge the strains of a spiel set to classical music. The cooks assembled in the balcony were proclaiming the superiority of their palak-paneer over any served elsewhere in the country and, as if to substantiate their claim, the sweeper of the establishment was seen pointing at a large garbage-pit, the blasting of which, he insisted, had been their own handiwork. Impressed by the apposite nature of this proof, I was about to enter their premises when someone — I know not who — informed me that the curry that day would be rather bland as one of the partners had sold off their entire stock of condiments while the others had failed to procure fresh supplies in time. Disappointed, I bent my steps towards the smaller dhabas that promised to provide customised solutions to their clients’ gastronomic problems.

On nearing their cluster, I spotted certain small similar-looking placards dangling in their doorways. These read, "Dear Customer, we would have ensured the complete satiation of your appetite had the big two come to our aid or, conversely, consented to our assisting them. We regret our inability to serve you." Ironically, instead of exerting themselves to bringing about the desired mutual association, the proprietors of these dhabas were, at that moment, busy pulling the straw out of the others’ thatchings...

All this and more I saw, but having lost all appetite in the course of my perambulations and sensing, from the manner in which my fellow passengers were hanging on to every word uttered or displayed at these dhabas, that it would be a long while — much longer than the five hours promised initially — before we reached Delhi, I strode wearily towards the bus and was, before long, swept back into the patient embrace of darling sleep.