The Sultan of Swing- Part I

The round, friendly Kashmiri at whose once-home we were staying called out to us all from downstairs, and I shouted from the couch to my companion in his bed: it was time for dinner. Ever since we had been driven from the Hazrat Nizamuddin railway station after an exhaustingly boring forty-hour train ride to this quaint little three-storey guest house, I had been starving. While the others all crashed to sleep, my hunger kept me up through the three hours or so till dinner. As I sped downstairs, a dozen other fourteen-year-olds and a handful of adults stood waiting near the steaming, but closed containers. As one bespectacled, oily-haired adult groaned “It’s a good ten minutes past nine. Late again. When will we sleep?”, the round Kashmiri’s even rounder wife turned up panting. “The curd you wanted. The helpers mixed things up in the morning. I had to set the milk again, and...”. “Alright, alright! What do we have today?”, barked another teacher in front of me. As the Kashmiri with the greying beard and wizening, yet bright hazel eyes took off the lid, I breathed loudly Kamal ki kakdi. The teacher turned around as if I’d cursed him in French, but the man with the lid in his hands was glowing through the steam. “Lotus stems in spicy red gravy, sir”, I answered to no question from the teacher, quickly adding before he could point that out “A Kashmiri specialty”. He walked away to get himself rice, and as I served myself, the host couldn’t hide his glee. “Are you South Indian? Then how do you know about our dish?”, he asked. All I came up with was “I like food, from anywhere.” He moved along to tell me about their chicken special, when my vigorous shake of the head brought a slight dip in his spirits. “You’re vegetarian, too? Those people should’ve told us they’re sending all South Zone people here. They always...” “My friend here, though, will love this”, I said quickly as I dragged my partner, who was then told the story of how tender the chicken needs to be in Hindi tinged with Punjabi. He nodded on and smiled nervously, even though he couldn’t get a word. I couldn’t afford distractions as I poured ladle upon ladle of piping-hot rajma onto my plate.

One would have to be as dumb as Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua to not notice the tension in the air. The large portico behind the guest-house’s entry gate served as the dining area, which was torn through the middle by a silence best described as killer. An occasional spiteful glance here and there would be met with equal acrimony: the two sides mentally murdered each other repeatedly. Before we could think of a way to avoid it diplomatically, we were right there, in that deserted centre. Stuck in no man’s land, we had to decide which side to take. As my partner nudged me in the side to help decide, I made the soundest decision I could think of: stay close to the food. Our choice was made, and we, too, were now being quartered and battered in the other side’s mind. I went up to the nearest soul who didn’t look like homicidal, and asked why there were two sides looking at each other like wolves about to tear into each other. He replied with a question- “Where are you from?”. As quizzical as it seemed, I answered Visakhapatnam. “Didn’t they put the Andhra guys in another place?”. I wondered how long till I’d have answers instead of more questions. After three more, he bothered to help me. “Those cocky asses- they’re all from Bangalore. Think they’re like bloody Americans. Keep making fun of us for no reason. Think that 50Paisa guy is cool, and we’re not...” and he launched into a tirade of expletives, ending in Tamil. I nodded on, carefully picking out the chillies from my raita, and swallowed one when he asked “You’re with us, right?”. I grinned and said “Bloody Northies put too many chillies in curd, don’t they?”, earning his widest smile and silently praying to God for mercy.

For as far as I could remember that early in the morning, I woke up in a room before anyone else did for the first time ever. My roommate and partner proved to be a tough log to shake, and I was all clean, dressed and ready when he finally got up. It was five minutes to the end of breakfast time, and he rushed down with me as a thinner crowd stood having buttered bread and boiled eggs. I could notice no one of the Chennai side from last night and my partner yawned loudly. “Here comes another one from In Da Club”. That comment elicited a roar of laughter, as more jokes, almost all ending with da or something to with Rajnikanth, ensued. We took a corner and spoke softly in Telugu, when one of them walked up to us and said “You guys aren’t speaking Tamil. Not from Chennai?”. “No, we’re from Visakhapatnam, actually.” “Come on, you mean Vizag! Don’t make it so long! Hi, I’m Easwar.” Sides were asked to be chosen again, and we side-stepped again, but the rest of the meal did go smoothly. Both the sides weren’t too bad actually, and when my partner asked me who I preferred, I couldn’t pick one.

Before we left to crash in front of the TV again, I went up to the landlord and asked where we’d be taken, and when. He said “Those who had their slots today are gone already. All but two Chennai teams, and most of the Bangalore crowd. It’ll come back to pick you all up in about two hours. You’ll be going to Eagle Studios. That’s in Film City, Noida. Not too far from here.”

(To be continued)