Just another Saturday
Chapter 1: Bullshit
Bullshit. I thought it would be Just Another
Saturday, but I was wrong.
I wanted to explore more of
Bangalore after spending the entire week held up in an office complex while the
new and interesting world of India sits merely on the other side of the thin
glass window. Sure, it is cool and
air conditioned in there, but IÕd rather be sweating completely unlike a pig in
the blazing UV.
Alas, traveling by one's
self is not necessarily difficult so much as it is boring. Walking around town is OK the first
couple times you do it. Hitting up
a few pubs at least sounds like a
good idea. But when you get down
to it, spending a complete day by yourself really starts to suck
locker-room-toes when you are on your 4th, 5th, or 6th
hour.
I checked out a small
musical instrument shop, or, more accurately, alcove. It was a 3 by 5 nook that had shelves packed from floor to ceiling with a seemingly unorganized
cement of All Things Musical. A
few guitars, sitars, harmo-ni-things, and nick-natties sitting outside being
polished by a local boy. The
proprietor of the shop sat behind what at the time seemed to pass for a
counter, but in retrospect I canÕt recall if it was a glass counter or merely a
well-laid pile of All Things Musical oatmeal.
In the paragraph I just
wrote, I lied. There were no
sitars. There were things that
vaguely resembled sitars lying about, and to my untrained eye I knew that they
werenÕt sitars, but close cousins.
The owner, upon being asked about the location of a potential sitar,
said that there were none, but that he could have one in a week. He dove his hand into the All Things
Musical porridge like Ewen McGregor in Trainspotting swimming to the sounds of
Brian Eno in search for His Precious; suppositories. Alas, his hand did not come out with two elongated oblong
sphincter nuggets, but instead a shiny new business card.
ÒAh! Ok, I will call him later to work
something out,Ó I didnÕt think.
I could tell by my very
quick inspection that the instruments this man was selling were not concert
quality. Yes, I am picky. Yes, if I am going to shell out the
bucks for a sitar, I want one that will last and, donÕt get me wrong, fucking
sound good!
I moved on to delay my
search until later, if at all. It
seems more and more likely that just purchasing an imported, and
well-inspected, Indian instrument in the US might be a better idea. Lugging that thing home would really
blow chunks into the airsick bag of my life.
I decided to have the driver
merely drop me off Downtown at Brigade Road and M.G. Road. (Everything here is abbreviated. I work at the ITPL, you make calls on
the STD ISD, and you take a right at M.G. road, the list GOAO. [Goes On And
On]) You have to also understand
that when you hear these
pronounced rather than reading them, it can make for a very difficult
time. I thought that it was
ÒBrideaide and Emghee Road.Ó
M = Mahatma
G = Gandhi
Ah! ÒMG RoadÓ now makes some sense.
I had spent the Saturday
before loafing around Brigade Rd. and Commercial St., and the Saturday before
that I spent completely at Brigade Rd.
I know this place. I know
where the little park is off to the side.
I know where the two malls on the street are. I know where the kid says ÒGeev Meay Muh NayÓ like a
uni-lingual American singing along to Wayne NewtonÕs ÒDonkah
ShinÓ. I know the little cafŽ on
the side street where I can get chai (real chai) for 6 rupees; The cafŽ that let me use their bathroom last timeÉ
