Popagandhi

For a good number of Australians headed for India, more often than not they find themselves in Singapore on a one or two day stopover before flying into Mumbai, or Chennai. Of late I’ve found myself to be the stopover guide to such people — friends in Australia frequently referring their friends and friends of friends to me (”First time to India? Go to her, she’ll take you to the best places in Singapore, as well as talk your ears off about India.”). And not without good reason.

I’m the one stop shop for good places to eat here, great places to drink in Singapore — and good places to eat and drink in various Indian cities and towns too, in addition to being an unintimidating tutor on culture, customs, practices. So last week Louise, whom I met briefly in 2004 while visiting a dear friend in Brisbane, was taken to Komalas Vilas (the original one, we just happened to pass by) after a 2 hour long quick tour of Little India. It’s amazing how much of a crash course about India you can give someone from another culture by simply taking them to Little India. In the right hands, you can fit in a comprehensive North/South Indian overview, plus a little sprinkling of Bangladeshi.

I took her to Komalas Vilas to demonstrate the idea that after dinner, Indian sweets like ladoo and burfi are to be expected; cloyingly sweet to the untrained tongue, but a delight once you’ve acquired a taste for it. The place was packed on both levels, so we sat down with two middle aged Indian men at their table. I got terribly excited when I found out they were from New Delhi, but had worked here for a few years, even more so when I find out one of them is Bengali — in a typical fashion, I began talking their heads off about India, Delhi and Bombay, amazing places to see that nobody knows about, political misfortunes of various Indian politicians, most scenic train routes, best airlines, how Guwahati to Kolkata cost only 959 rupees on Air Deccan (”unbelievable I know but Deccan was actually on time!”), the temperature in Varanasi in April (dispensing such wonderful advice as “don’t stay right next to the Manikarnika Ghat, I did and they were carrying corpses past my street all the time”), the rain in Cherrapunjee, the best place to eat momo in Darjeeling (”Penangs”), if they knew where in Bombay I could find that wonderful Rajasthani sweet I had just once in front of a haveli in the Old City in Jaisalmer…

After half an hour of intense reminiscing about India, they got up, went to the counter, and paid for my bill, saying: “Let me get the bill. You’re a guest today in this country. I’ll send you an email soon about my Manali trip; need some help.”

After he’d left, it suddenly hit me: Whose country is it anyway? An Indian national had just bought a meal for me in my country because I was, in his words, a guest here, when really I should be buying him that meal as a guest in my country.

Somehow I think his words had far more serious implications than even he knew them to contain. Hmm.