Kathmandu's karmasutra

Now that Nepal is in the news for all the wrong reasons, I thought one could look at it from a traveller's point of view...
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I could have done a Madhuri Dikshit and claimed Nepal as my own. It is the kind of place over which you can claim proprietary rights, since no one seems to show any enthusiasm about owning it.

Besides, it does remind you of home. Dust, cows in the streets, and the familiar disenchantment. If the hippies had once found their haven here, it was because no one cared. Ironically, they escaped to this place becausenobody cared back home. But in the anonymity and induced haze, they foundthe permanent siesta invigorating. Flower-power came from poppy seeds. The ephemeral became the eternal.

"Time is a stick of incense that burns without being consumed. One day can seem like a week, a week like months... There is time enough to do everything," so wrote Jeff Greenwald in the eponymous book Shopping for Buddhas.

Why Buddhas in a Hindu country? Because they have international appeal. Itis a great selling point in a country which strives to be ostensibly liberal. Beneath it all, however, the kingdom of Nepal is a Hindu rashtra.But unlike say Europe, where religion plays a subliminal and subtle role, in this part of the subcontinent it imbues people's everyday actions. They believe they are fated to be what they are.

Like the security guard at the Pashupati temple. You walk through a dirty pathway, trample upon people's discarded offerings, and then there is a loud declaration: "Only Hindus allowed inside." We are yards away from the sanctum, and since I don't feel any religion really wants me, I can convert to any faith. And becoming a Hindu wouldn't be difficult, since I come from a land where it would raise my status considerably. But the security man lunges menacingly towards me and giving me a shove with his hand just below my shoulder blade, screams, "Not allowed."

Why?

"Foreigner," he pronounces.

Much as I would have delighted for the sake of variety to pass of as an Italian mafia don or a Brazilian salsa dancer or even a Maori tribal, I felt strangely humiliated. I then spoke in Hindi and there seemed to be a bit of a thaw, till I was again asked to get out.

I wondered how 'different' and how holy the devotees were. Did they feel transported to heaven when the pujari broke a coconut and looked at their wallets? What kind of double standards forbid you to enter wearing any leather items, but may allow you to witness or participate in the sacrificial slaughter of animals? And what culture is it that says a man can manhandle a woman to save his bhagwan from the unholy sight of a non-Hindu woman?

The 'Way of life' theory of course hits you via Royal Nepal Airlines itself. Fatalism rules as four to eight hour delays are not announced but you are expected to report early, lest you are off-loaded even with a confirmed seat! Bhagwan ki marzi! Here, hospitality means announcing that they do not have vegetarian meals on board. Uparwala has ordained that all those who took the trouble for the darshan have to munch salad. As a small concession a surly air sundari plonked a different salad on the trays. I was told later, it was dessert. But if your soul is burning with the flame of dharma, all this is inconsequential.

Like the chap at immigration must have felt when he saw the embarkation card of a friend, who happened to be on the same flight. "Muslim, hanh?" he spat out as he read the name. This sets the tone and all the wonderful mountain air cannot blow away the stink. Why go through this charade?

Because tourism is the only business they know. And this they do better than us. Though again, the attitude is one of indifference. So when we decided to splurge on a Sunrise Balloon Ride, we were taken when the sun was happily smirking away. We had to wait for the balloon to be inflated, for as soon as we had got into our baskets it went 'phus'. After another long effort we were finally high up, but without butterflies in the stomach, or wind lashing the face. It was pure stasis and a reasonable photo-op. Those who paid in dollars tried their 'Gee, Whiz!' act, though it hurt their jaws to keep smiling at the 'phinaaminal veeyou'.

Being good suckers we also did the mountain plane ride in a 16-seater. Dense fog resulted in the inevitable delay. And then we were up again, over the Kanchanjunga and the Everest. Like good souls we ought to have felt humbled, but heck, we were on top and the great peaks looked like waffle-cones with vanilla ice-cream scoops. I know that such things are meant for very religious people who are overawed by everything, or theWesterner, who desperately needs to be.

So instead, I looked with new respect at a smart kid in Patan, who swooped down on us trying to sell us Tangkha paintings because we looked creatively-inclined. I did not wince when two guys working at a fast-food restaurant, around closing time, unmindful of their two remaining customers - us - locked themselves together in the loo.

From the junk paradise of Thamel to the electronic glitz of Durbar Square, I got what I thought I should have - a Mandala calendar and a calculator that blinks red, everytime a number is punched.

Since I always distort everything holy, I'd say the ultimate nirvana is, in fact, to be found in maya. And if you can count your days and pennies with it, so much the better.

(This was published in Feb 1999 in Mid-day.)

Delhi's Karim and Karim's Kamaal

I was shocked when the guy from a news channel reporting from the site of the blasts at Jama Masjid decided to talk about bad business for Karim's. Believe me, they were talking about kebabs.

All of us who are food connoisseurs know about Karim's. And I have my own story, which given the general insensitivity around will merely add to it...

Umberto watched as I worked with my fingers, his eyes glazing. I had given up the fork, knife, spoon to do what I was meant to. I touched the grains of rice, the aroma of biryani and the fat from the meat greasing my palms. Oh, I was ready for any bribe. And Umberto, in a voice laden with choked breath, said, “I am feeling sooo gilthy. My son is as old as you, buth I doun know whai I feel like kissing you.”

Believe me, this sort of thing does jolt me, but I was too busy tearing into the naan, that had the look of ready-to-be-shred hide, and pinching the galauti kebab, brown and tender…I imagined it shudder. This was my moment and I was not going to let any Italian come in the way of eternal self-love.

He had been on the same flight a few years ago and Delhi, our destination, was until now a tourist spot. Nothing more. I thought Umberto and I had said our goodbyes at Palam airport. The weekend went by with me calling up friends to check about the new food joints in the capital. Someone said “Karim’s”. I had done that place to death, having spared no bakra from taking me there. No, no, I wanted something like that, but not quite.

My friend was irritable: “I am talking about Karim’s at Nizamuddin, not Chandni Chowk. The food is as good and it may suit your la-di-dah tastes.”

I decided to make that pilgrimage, planning for it all day, dreaming as I tried to get work done. And there stood Umberto, having tracked me down. He was all red and sweaty and gestured a lot. Finally, he said the words I was dying to hear, “I am hungry!” Catch him by the collar and drag him? Too unladylike. So I took my time. He waited for two hours. I had been wondering who to take along on my culinary journey, and here was my answer. A hungry man.

I picked up my bag and said, okay, I know of this place where we could eat. He violently shook his head, “Naw, naw, I eat too mutch in Aaghraa.” What? Did he not say the one word that sent a shiver down my spine: Hungry? “Aangry, I was aangry…you justh left…Now you musth doo saamthin.”

Before he spelled out anything, I said, sure, I’ll show you what. So in the sunset light I walked him through the lanes of Nizamuddin. I hated the calls of, “Ai, gore ko bulbul mil gayee.” It was worse when Umberto smiled at those guys and then turned to tell me, “You seem to be very popular, they all know you!” Phew, this place better be good. We went past ittarwallas, a small masjid, hawkers selling trinkets and beggars sending you on a guilt trip. They know a 'Karimwalla', because they come in vehicles and a restaurant staffer helps with the parking, and suddenly waves you in the direction you are supposed to go. It would seem it is two steps away, but it is a bit of a walk. There is too much noise, too much happening, and suddenly you turn a corner and a durban is standing there, stiff turban and stiffer manner.

I found myself giggling. The place was carpeted, air-conditioned and smelled wonderful. We were given a corner table, but it is not that kind of place, if you know what I mean. The corners here are tables pushed against the wall for two diners. The waiters are helpful, explaining every detail about the kebabs and rotis, though the menu itself is self-explanatory, but I like these things from a male mouth. Finally when it was getting too graphic I just told the chap, now don’t tell me the name of the butcher.

Karim’s is not your regular Mughlai joint; it is UP, Hyderabad, Old Delhi and partly mother’s kitchen rolled into one. I wish I could tell you about how I forced Umberto to try out the shahi tukra, saying that it came from the royal family. He was willing to believe anything. He even thought that the lemon I squeezed in the finger bowl was some regal custom.

All I know is that the food is good enough not to make you feel so satiated and full that you will not return. And whatever happened to Umberto? Oh, he wanted to thank me with a kiss. I told him, “Look, this has been very special for me…I just have to retain the flavour of crispy browned onions.”

He shrugged, and in the dark he could not even find my cheek.