Alternate evenings at the ashram were assigned to yoga classes which weren’t as compulsory to attend as Swami D’s early morning philosophical orations. I skipped these sessions regularly because I found them quite boring. If I needed exercise, I preferred to be out walking along the river and taking in the breeze.
So, one day, while the rest of the group was shedding calories, I was putting on a few at the Green Italian Restaurant in Swargashram. It was a crowded afternoon and I was lucky to find a table in a corner by the window. Soon, two well-dressed people in their mid-30s, one in a bright violet kurta and the other in an exquisitely embroidered saree came over to ask if they could share my table. I was in half a mind to ask if they’d just come from a wedding.
Archana and Mohan were from Bangalore and had come to see their son who was studying at an International School in Mussoorie. They were wealthy people with Mohan running a highly profitable hereditary garment business and Archana managing a beauty salon in the heart of the city. My banal ice-breaker “So how do you like Rishikesh?” was answered not by glowing tributes to its spiritual air and chilled out atmosphere but a litany of complaints and a sociological analysis of everything they found wrong with it and how they have to deal with those effects at home.
Mohan was the first to open up on his reservations against the IT boom in his city. He was pleased to know that I had roots in the South and came from Mumbai because in Mumbai, he saw a certain kinship with his own beloved city. It cleared the way for him to launch a surgical examination of the decline of Bangalore.
“You see, North India is a big dustbin which is why you see, Bangalore is also becoming a dustbin. When I walk around my city nowadays, I don’t recognize it anymore. But when I come here, I see it. Everything is fake here, the people are fake, the yoga is fake, everything is fake. Only the money is real. And that is what is happening to Bangalore, too many fake people who don’t come from the city making a lot of money and cluttering the place.”
Archana then cut in with her observations, “If people go to another place, they should respect the culture of that place. That is completely missing when these people come to our city. They have also taken up all the local jobs. Most of the maids in Bangalore come from these places and they don’t even know how to communicate. My new maid is from North India and I have to spend a lot of time teaching what to keep where and how to clean things properly. It’s all become a big mess.”
So if North India is so bad, why send their son to school there? Why not the best school in Bangalore?
“Mussoorie is different from North India, you see. There are a lot of westerners in the school and it’s a safe environment. The school is 6 kilometers above Mussoorie, so it’s an undisturbed location. It’s only when you go to the main town that you see all the garbage. We want our son to grow up with clean air and beautiful surroundings and Bangalore air is very polluted now”, said Mohan.
Archana then chimed in with her thoughts. “The school also makes it easy for us to manage our business. It would be difficult to take care of the boy with our busy schedules and there’s so little help available in Bangalore nowadays. Can’t leave him with anybody.”
Mohan continues, “You see, there was no poverty in Bangalore before these outsiders came in. People had enough money to fend for themselves and didn’t have to go begging in the streets. It was a quiet, peaceful town where I could go driving or cycling every day without worrying about getting stuck in traffic or being run over by a car.”
Archana then said, “My sister lives in Denver and she says the same thing. She lives in a white neighbourhood and she makes it a point never to go to the black neighbourhoods because that’s where all the violence happens. But at least she has a choice to avoid the areas that are bad and can plan her life accordingly. In India, it’s impossible to avoid ugliness.”
Then wearing his concerned corporate social reformer hat on, Mohan said, “If India did as much for its poor people as America does for its black people, then we wouldn’t have these problems today. Our government needs to think more imaginatively to counter poverty. We need more good schools to educate these people and give them jobs so that we don’t have to complain about these things.”
I looked at Archana and asked, “But why does your sister fear black neighbourhoods if that’s the case? Shouldn’t she feel safer if America’s taking care of its African-American people so well?”
Archana said, “That’s a different issue. I think—”
And here, Mohan cut in testily with an irritated tinge to his voice, “People aren’t always grateful. Imagine, all of those people were slaves in the previous century and see how they have been allowed to come up. If black people are still ungrateful for what’s being done for them, they are the ones to blame. If they are so backward despite living in the most developed country in the world, they don’t deserve all that progress. In India, we didn’t even have slavery. Under the British, we were never slaves. We were free to do what we wanted as long as we accepted their rule. It is because of that co-operation that we reap so many of the benefits the British and the Indians under them left us. You think we could build the railways on our own? We can’t even take care it. We are capable of it but don’t have the drive to do anything.“
I wasn’t as woke in 2009 as I am now so all that naked talk of provincial superiority laced with racist and classist angles and stereotypes did not make me want to throw up my ill cooked pizza all over the floor like it might have today. Then, perhaps reacting to my non-committal nods and getting a hint that I was getting bored, Mohan deftly changed the topic and asked, “So what music do you listen to?”
Heavy metal, progressive rock and a lot of stuff in between, I said.
“Ah, I see. Rock music, eh? I am the biggest fan of Harry Belafonte in the world”, he announced.
I told him I had no idea who this guy was.
“You don’t know Harry Belafonte?”, asked Mohan with a look of profound bafflement that suggested I had spilt a bottle of tomato sauce onto his shiny kurta.
I shook my head.
He let out a deep sigh and said, “Harry is a legend. You know, he is a black man but he is also classy. The greatest folk artist ever. He understood America like no one did. He understood soul. You’ll know what soul is if you listen to—”
And here, my head which was nodding robotically was interrupted by a big pat on my back. It was Jasbir, who was standing behind me with some European girl and had a wide grin plastered on his face. I tried to introduce him to Archana and Mohan (who looked upset that his treatise on his beloved artist was being interrupted so rudely) but Jasbir just ignored them completely and went on his typically irreverent vein, “Arre tu yahaan akele kya kar raha hai? Aaj aaya nahi yoga class mein? Kya laundiyan thi yaar. Dekh, ye mili mujhe wahaan pe. Russia se hai. Badi feel aa rahi hai yaar.” (Hey, what are you doing here all alone? Why didn’t you come to yoga class? There were so many hot chicks today. See, I met this girl over there. She’s from Russia. She’s making me excited, man.”)
Jasbir then turned to the Russian girl and said, “He my friend. Good man.”
Mohan and Archana stared at this scene as if their worst ideas of North India were coming true in front of their eyes.
Then the Russian girl asked Jasbir if they could sit somewhere. Jasbir looked at the empty plates of Mohan and Archana and ordered them to get out. Mohan looked at me helplessly like he was counting on my support to get rid of this alien pest. But I just shrugged as if I didn’t care one way or the other. He then turned to the waiter for assistance, but the waiter just asked them to pay the bill and move on because more customers were waiting.
Archana then got up angrily and left the restaurant. Mohan stood up, looked at me and said, “I thought you were civil. But you are just like one of them.”