My foot was on fire from the exhaust. My thinning sandal provided little insulation, and the tops of my feet were being burned by the noon sun. I rode on the back of my friend's motorcycle to the train station to get back to Mumbai from Pune.
Just before we reach the train station we are stopped by an officer. My friend doesn't have the official papers to document the purchase of the motorbike and the officer says he must deliver a fine of 500 ruppees. This is how I discover that my Canadian friend has learned enough Marathi to get himself out of the situation. I catch a word here and there, and then they start throwing around numbers in Marathi. In a country where Corruption may as well have its own section in the newspaper, it becomes clear that they are negotiating a bribe. It happens on a daily basis.
I hear my Indian friends vent their frustration. When they are caught with pot, drinking on the street, or anything else, they know they are they are completely in the hands of the officers. Their price is the law.
There are a lot of smiles and handshakes, and they've settled on 150 ruppees. My friend knows that this is how things work and doesn't let it bother him, and I think the officers are happy to let him go, impressed with a white man's Marathi. I've heard that speaking Marathi rather than Hindi is the first step to winning over an officer.
I get to the train station and bolt to platform 6, learning that the train for Mumbai leaves in 15minutes. When I get on I find out that this train doesn't go to Mumbai, and the next train to Mumbai will arrive in three hours. Cringing at the idea of sitting at the station for that long, I decide to take this train, which will be a bit slower and will mean that I will have to transfer along the way. The train on the way back is considerably less crowded than on the way here, which is a relief.
On the way to Pune I traveled in a women's compartment that was packed to the brim. Four or five women sitting on a bench that was once upon a time designed for three. The remaining passengers lying down or sitting on the floor.
Many of the women begin to unload snacks. One of the looks at me and points, "Pune?". I nod.
She puts her hand to her mouth to ask why I wasn't eating. It's only a four hour train ride. I shake my head and smile to tell her that I am okay. She points to some of the food she has packed for herself, offering it to me. With Middle Eastern roots, I also come from a culture where feeding a person is a gesture to show that you care-it is a gesture of love.
I thank her, and say I am not hungry.
As soon as the train begins to slow down at the next stop, men begin to dart into the ladies' compartment with buckets, vats, and trays of food tied around their neck. They skillfully hop, step, and stretch over the ladies who are lying or sitting on the floor of the train--a maze to which their feet have grown accustomed.
One man walks outside of train, sure to visit every window:
"Varrrrrrrra Pow. Varrrrrrrrra Pow. Varrrrrrrrra Pow."
He rolls his r's as he packs up two--kind of fried vegetarian burgers, but with that Indian kick that can never quite be mastered in the West. It's bread also looks like a burger bun, but it's a traditional Maharashtran bread called pow.
Recently, having breakfast at a friend's place her father offered me pow, which I have grown very used to. With a smile he said, "this is Pow, you would call this," his eyes widened "BR-EAD."
The man quickly packs up the two varapows in newspaper, and even more quickly drives his hand between the window bars.
Most street food is wrapped in paper, typically newspaper. Once when grabbing a bite, I saw someone next to me eating out of a document that read "CONFIDENTIAL" in bold letters. I couldn't help but smile. Just another testament to how nothing here is truly private.
The man passes the varapows to me, to pass on to others, while collecting his money--the window seat has never had such a down side. My nap was shattered by varapows.
As I was busy at my task another man sped by, "Idli. Idli. Idli. Idli. Idli." He called out in rapid succession, as he delivered these steamed rice patties with chutney.
A saleswoman could be heard on the other end of the compartment, "Paneeeeeeeeer. Paneeeeeeeer. Paneeeeeeeeer." She said it long and slow, with a nasal voice and completed the repertoire of sales at that stop.
All of them called out as though if these dishes had voices they would speak in their own peculiar way. If spices were personality, and character could be measured by the palette, I think there would need to be a million voices to speak Indian cuisine.
I quickly grew to love Indian food, but having spent many days at home, bucket at bedside, I have one question: Why can't Indian food love me?
Just before we reach the train station we are stopped by an officer. My friend doesn't have the official papers to document the purchase of the motorbike and the officer says he must deliver a fine of 500 ruppees. This is how I discover that my Canadian friend has learned enough Marathi to get himself out of the situation. I catch a word here and there, and then they start throwing around numbers in Marathi. In a country where Corruption may as well have its own section in the newspaper, it becomes clear that they are negotiating a bribe. It happens on a daily basis.
I hear my Indian friends vent their frustration. When they are caught with pot, drinking on the street, or anything else, they know they are they are completely in the hands of the officers. Their price is the law.
There are a lot of smiles and handshakes, and they've settled on 150 ruppees. My friend knows that this is how things work and doesn't let it bother him, and I think the officers are happy to let him go, impressed with a white man's Marathi. I've heard that speaking Marathi rather than Hindi is the first step to winning over an officer.
I get to the train station and bolt to platform 6, learning that the train for Mumbai leaves in 15minutes. When I get on I find out that this train doesn't go to Mumbai, and the next train to Mumbai will arrive in three hours. Cringing at the idea of sitting at the station for that long, I decide to take this train, which will be a bit slower and will mean that I will have to transfer along the way. The train on the way back is considerably less crowded than on the way here, which is a relief.
On the way to Pune I traveled in a women's compartment that was packed to the brim. Four or five women sitting on a bench that was once upon a time designed for three. The remaining passengers lying down or sitting on the floor.
Many of the women begin to unload snacks. One of the looks at me and points, "Pune?". I nod.
She puts her hand to her mouth to ask why I wasn't eating. It's only a four hour train ride. I shake my head and smile to tell her that I am okay. She points to some of the food she has packed for herself, offering it to me. With Middle Eastern roots, I also come from a culture where feeding a person is a gesture to show that you care-it is a gesture of love.
I thank her, and say I am not hungry.
As soon as the train begins to slow down at the next stop, men begin to dart into the ladies' compartment with buckets, vats, and trays of food tied around their neck. They skillfully hop, step, and stretch over the ladies who are lying or sitting on the floor of the train--a maze to which their feet have grown accustomed.
One man walks outside of train, sure to visit every window:
"Varrrrrrrra Pow. Varrrrrrrrra Pow. Varrrrrrrrra Pow."
He rolls his r's as he packs up two--kind of fried vegetarian burgers, but with that Indian kick that can never quite be mastered in the West. It's bread also looks like a burger bun, but it's a traditional Maharashtran bread called pow.
Recently, having breakfast at a friend's place her father offered me pow, which I have grown very used to. With a smile he said, "this is Pow, you would call this," his eyes widened "BR-EAD."
The man quickly packs up the two varapows in newspaper, and even more quickly drives his hand between the window bars.
Most street food is wrapped in paper, typically newspaper. Once when grabbing a bite, I saw someone next to me eating out of a document that read "CONFIDENTIAL" in bold letters. I couldn't help but smile. Just another testament to how nothing here is truly private.
The man passes the varapows to me, to pass on to others, while collecting his money--the window seat has never had such a down side. My nap was shattered by varapows.
As I was busy at my task another man sped by, "Idli. Idli. Idli. Idli. Idli." He called out in rapid succession, as he delivered these steamed rice patties with chutney.
A saleswoman could be heard on the other end of the compartment, "Paneeeeeeeeer. Paneeeeeeeer. Paneeeeeeeeer." She said it long and slow, with a nasal voice and completed the repertoire of sales at that stop.
All of them called out as though if these dishes had voices they would speak in their own peculiar way. If spices were personality, and character could be measured by the palette, I think there would need to be a million voices to speak Indian cuisine.
I quickly grew to love Indian food, but having spent many days at home, bucket at bedside, I have one question: Why can't Indian food love me?
Love your commentary Rudyana you paint vivid pictures and memories of events faced.
ReplyDeleteI have grown to enjoy your blogs so much, (thought i should let you know) ;)
Sohaib
1. I love the BR-EAD, and there's a Tibetan version here that looks like a round hockey puck and is dry as one too... sold for five rupees, bring to a resto get it buttered and honeyed and you're set.
ReplyDelete2. Love the "Confidential" plate. Fabulous detail!
Great post!!
I wish the Indian food loved you too Roo! Toni E.
ReplyDelete