I must apologize once more for the delay in posting and total lack of photographic supplements. You'll have to go to Jo's blog for those. I'm a photographing crisis. I'll just make up for it with descriptions I suppose...
Saturday morning I woke up as usual around 6:30 to see Nani and Kumar Mama off. They are spending a few days in Madras visiting relatives and traveling in and around the place my mother and aunt were born. Jo and I are alone in the apartment and it has felt so adventurous! After countless warnings from relatives and friends not to trust strangers, turn on the gas stove, go out on our own, lose money, forget to eat and let monkeys in to the apartment, we were wondering what we had in store for us.
Nani had made masala dosa (thin crepes with spiced potatoes inside) and chai for breakfast, so when Joanna awoke we heated them up and ate while planning our great day. We were going to go out with Shruthi (my oldest friend and neighbor) and her family, but their bathroom tiles broke and they had to go get new ones from some faraway shop. Unwilling to waste a beautiful free Saturday lounging at home, we called Peer Khan.
If I haven't mentioned him yet, he's an elderly Muslim man who drives one of the rickshaws that parks outside my apartment building. He's incredibly reliable and sweet, and has helped my family through a great deal in the past.
Unfortunately he was busy, and we had been extensively cautioned not to go out on our own.
A brief tangent...
After spending three months in weather that crept down to literally -24 Fahrenheit, the heat and sun of summer months is a delight. The transition between seasons is joyous- jeans and down coats and snow boots are discarded for shorts and tanks and flip-flops. Mmm beachy...
Not so in Bangalore. A woman wearing capris is a rare sight in this city. In the mall (discussed later) we actually saw one or two sundresses and it was shocking! Standard outfits are salwar kurtas (loose pants and somewhat fitted tunic tops), churidars (legging style pants and a tunic top) or maybe jeans and a top. As a notorious jean-shorts lover, I have more of an issue with this dress code than Joanna.
We spoke to Shruthi and her friend Atul about appropriate clothing to get the perspective of an Indian girl and boy around our age. We were told that if we wore shorts/tanks, men would "rape us with their eyes". Totally graphic, creepy and unwelcome. By the end of week 1 I was out of all appropriate clothing. Thus one important objective of our Saturday outing was to purchase a wardrobe acceptable by Bangalore standards.
Back to the story....
I called upon my dusty knowledge of the city and decided that Joanna and I should go to Commercial Street, a long avenue lined with large shops and small stalls swarming with Indian shoppers and plenty of curious foreigners attracted by glimmering racks of bangles and lots of cheap shoes.
We walked out of the Jayanagar apartment. I was wearing my dorky little passport holder that goes around my neck so that I could carry my big bills under my clothing and keep only smaller ones in the wallet. We kept our purses close and I put on my glaring street face to put off any interaction. It's a nice scary visage I reserve expressly for such occasions.
We found an auto driver and I managed to communicate in Hindi and basically English with a strong Indian accent. It was a long drive but I got to see parts of Bangalore other than those I pass on my usual route to work. Autos aren't allowed on the one-way shopper friendly Commercial Street so we were dropped off at the corner and miraculously as always, crossed the mess of the street.
I was already tired from rickshaw fumes and ready to get out of the pollution so I pulled Joanna into the first store on the corner, a fancy jewelry showroom. Indian jewelry is remarkably ornate and it is always fun to pretend you can actually afford to buy something and to try on sparkly things. The last time I was in a fancy jewelry store in India, we were seated on cushions and offered glasses of hot chai. I was hoping for a repeat...but instead we were just shown diamond noserings and quoted prices.
My father and I had visited a store on Commercial called Fabindia during my last visit to India. I remembered its cool interiors and cotton clothing in soft tones, and decided that would be our destination. We hastily exited the jewelry store in search of this simple oasis in a flood of jingle jangle colourful loud Indian merchandise.
On the way, Joanna and I entered a store selling handicrafts and cloths. We wandered to the back of the store and were followed by an overeager salesperson. He immediately offered to show us bedspreads and to appease him, I consented. Just like the rug sellers I remember from a trip to Morocco, he pulled spread after spread from the shelves and unrolled them with a flourish on the floor, one on top of the other. All I could think about was how irritating it would be for him to roll them all neatly back up again.
They were beautiful and far too expensive, so I pointed to cushion covers (much more affordable). Joanna wanted to buy some as gifts for her mum and the salesperson promised me in Hindi that he would give me a very special price. He told us the silk covers would be 250 rupees each and then when Joanna selected four he quoted an overall price of 1450. Luckily Jo's mental math prevailed and she caught the scam, skillfully coaxing him to a reasonable price all on her own!
We walked all the way to the end of Commercial without having seen Fabindia. Standing confusedly on the corner, an auto driver approached us asking if we wanted a ride to MG. I told him no and he persisted, even getting out of his auto to follow me down the street and ask what shop I wanted him to drive us to. We went into a large clothing store to ask for directions to Fabindia and to shake off the irksome auto driver. Both goals were accomplished and we finally found the store we sought.
Catering to a pricier bunch than average Bangalore, Fabindia falls into that organic, back to simple values, bobo category of stores. Rough cotton clothing and simple cut shirts and pants stack the shelves and Jo and I were calmed by its contrast with the sequined, jewel toned and patterned Indian clothing overflowing in windows lining the street. While there, I texted Shruthi, who agreed to meet us at the Coffee Day on Brigade Road with her friend Atul.
I have never shopped in India without my parents and am slightly embarrassed to say the idea of putting together a salwar kurta or churidar (bottom, top and dupatta) in an attractive combination of colours and styles was truly intimidating. I enlisted the help of sympathetic salesgirls, explaining my pitiful parent-less plight, and they expertly tossed clothing into a teetering tower for my benefit.
When we left Fabindia it was drizzling. Ambling through the wet crowds were the usual odd cows, mooing plaintively. I felt so sorry for them, wandering without owners, picking through trash, always in danger of becoming a road casualty (not that any Hindu driver would ever hit a cow). Jo and I wondered where they all came from and who they belonged to. No one really remembers the animals when thinking about all of the people, but animals in India have it rough sometimes. I made a mental note to always be sympathetic to bleating cows.
The first auto we found was driven by a sly young driver who sized up Jo and demanded 30 rupees to take us to MG/Brigade Road, a distance certainly not worth that price. I refused and we found an auto willing to take us for 20 (much more reasonable). He dropped us at the intersection of MG Road and Brigade Road, right in front of Cauvery Arts Emporium. This is a state-run store selling all manner of traditional Karnataka products, from sandalwood carvings to bidri boxes. [Bidri is a type of metal work- metal and silver inlays].
We were tired and wanted to sit, so we didn't explore Cauvery in favour of finding the Coffee Day as quickly as possible. There were obnoxious peddlers on the street in front of Cauvery who targeted Joanna, encouraging her to invest in a great new map or some shiny plastic toy. She was rightfully irritated by all of the unwelcome attention.
Coffee Day is like India's Starbucks-prices at the upper end, a trendy coffee spot where youngsters flock in droves for desserts, caffeine and loudspeakers blaring the new Britney album. It was like a little welcome taste of America. Jo and I split a veggie burger and sipped our bottled water while waiting for Shruthi and Atul.
Once they arrived we sat and talked for a while (Joanna and I split a brownie dessert that was out of this world- chocolate is a rare treat in our diet of spice and curds) and then left in search of a bookstore so we could replenish our mini libraries. We were going to go to Higginbotham's, a historic bookstore left over from British colonial times and recommended by my father. Before Higginbotham's, however, we happened upon two roadside booksellers with carts full of pirated literature for a fourth of the price and fighting a guilty conscience, we bought four books.
Atul and Shruthi wanted to take us to a hookah bar, apparently a popular hangout spot for Bangalore teens. The first one we went into was expensive, so we left and crammed into an auto, ending up at Java City. There was a shaded deck with tables and chairs and lots of lounging people. Every pair of eyes was glued to the tv broadcasting cricket. World Cup Fever.
We went upstairs for the hookah and settled into two couches facing each other with a low table between. The scene was dimly lit but comfortable and full of young people. We talked and got to know one another, and exchanged lots of cultural questions. After peaceful hours spent in this manner, we went home.
Shruthi's family had kindly offered to take Joanna and I out to eat. I was jarred by the experience of riding in a real car with working seatbelts and air conditioning. Bangalore traffic sounds were muted and it was oddly peaceful. I missed the hubbub of the streets. We ate at a steakhouse called Millers46.
This place was, to use Jo's phrase, "America on steroids". Wagon wheel in the window, waiters in shoulder padded flannel shirts, a placard that explained cattle roping and plastic bulls heads on the walls. The menus promised "Authentic American cuisine" just like they eat in the Wild, Wild West. I didn't enjoy the food because to be honest, I'm a masala dosa junkie and pasta is something I don't miss about America, but it was certainly an experience.
Dinner was long and when we got back to the apartment, I passed out immediately and slept like a log.
Saturday morning I woke up as usual around 6:30 to see Nani and Kumar Mama off. They are spending a few days in Madras visiting relatives and traveling in and around the place my mother and aunt were born. Jo and I are alone in the apartment and it has felt so adventurous! After countless warnings from relatives and friends not to trust strangers, turn on the gas stove, go out on our own, lose money, forget to eat and let monkeys in to the apartment, we were wondering what we had in store for us.
Nani had made masala dosa (thin crepes with spiced potatoes inside) and chai for breakfast, so when Joanna awoke we heated them up and ate while planning our great day. We were going to go out with Shruthi (my oldest friend and neighbor) and her family, but their bathroom tiles broke and they had to go get new ones from some faraway shop. Unwilling to waste a beautiful free Saturday lounging at home, we called Peer Khan.
If I haven't mentioned him yet, he's an elderly Muslim man who drives one of the rickshaws that parks outside my apartment building. He's incredibly reliable and sweet, and has helped my family through a great deal in the past.
Photo courtesy of Joanna Schneider
Unfortunately he was busy, and we had been extensively cautioned not to go out on our own.
A brief tangent...
After spending three months in weather that crept down to literally -24 Fahrenheit, the heat and sun of summer months is a delight. The transition between seasons is joyous- jeans and down coats and snow boots are discarded for shorts and tanks and flip-flops. Mmm beachy...
Not so in Bangalore. A woman wearing capris is a rare sight in this city. In the mall (discussed later) we actually saw one or two sundresses and it was shocking! Standard outfits are salwar kurtas (loose pants and somewhat fitted tunic tops), churidars (legging style pants and a tunic top) or maybe jeans and a top. As a notorious jean-shorts lover, I have more of an issue with this dress code than Joanna.
We spoke to Shruthi and her friend Atul about appropriate clothing to get the perspective of an Indian girl and boy around our age. We were told that if we wore shorts/tanks, men would "rape us with their eyes". Totally graphic, creepy and unwelcome. By the end of week 1 I was out of all appropriate clothing. Thus one important objective of our Saturday outing was to purchase a wardrobe acceptable by Bangalore standards.
Back to the story....
I called upon my dusty knowledge of the city and decided that Joanna and I should go to Commercial Street, a long avenue lined with large shops and small stalls swarming with Indian shoppers and plenty of curious foreigners attracted by glimmering racks of bangles and lots of cheap shoes.
We walked out of the Jayanagar apartment. I was wearing my dorky little passport holder that goes around my neck so that I could carry my big bills under my clothing and keep only smaller ones in the wallet. We kept our purses close and I put on my glaring street face to put off any interaction. It's a nice scary visage I reserve expressly for such occasions.
We found an auto driver and I managed to communicate in Hindi and basically English with a strong Indian accent. It was a long drive but I got to see parts of Bangalore other than those I pass on my usual route to work. Autos aren't allowed on the one-way shopper friendly Commercial Street so we were dropped off at the corner and miraculously as always, crossed the mess of the street.
I was already tired from rickshaw fumes and ready to get out of the pollution so I pulled Joanna into the first store on the corner, a fancy jewelry showroom. Indian jewelry is remarkably ornate and it is always fun to pretend you can actually afford to buy something and to try on sparkly things. The last time I was in a fancy jewelry store in India, we were seated on cushions and offered glasses of hot chai. I was hoping for a repeat...but instead we were just shown diamond noserings and quoted prices.
My father and I had visited a store on Commercial called Fabindia during my last visit to India. I remembered its cool interiors and cotton clothing in soft tones, and decided that would be our destination. We hastily exited the jewelry store in search of this simple oasis in a flood of jingle jangle colourful loud Indian merchandise.
On the way, Joanna and I entered a store selling handicrafts and cloths. We wandered to the back of the store and were followed by an overeager salesperson. He immediately offered to show us bedspreads and to appease him, I consented. Just like the rug sellers I remember from a trip to Morocco, he pulled spread after spread from the shelves and unrolled them with a flourish on the floor, one on top of the other. All I could think about was how irritating it would be for him to roll them all neatly back up again.
They were beautiful and far too expensive, so I pointed to cushion covers (much more affordable). Joanna wanted to buy some as gifts for her mum and the salesperson promised me in Hindi that he would give me a very special price. He told us the silk covers would be 250 rupees each and then when Joanna selected four he quoted an overall price of 1450. Luckily Jo's mental math prevailed and she caught the scam, skillfully coaxing him to a reasonable price all on her own!
We walked all the way to the end of Commercial without having seen Fabindia. Standing confusedly on the corner, an auto driver approached us asking if we wanted a ride to MG. I told him no and he persisted, even getting out of his auto to follow me down the street and ask what shop I wanted him to drive us to. We went into a large clothing store to ask for directions to Fabindia and to shake off the irksome auto driver. Both goals were accomplished and we finally found the store we sought.
Catering to a pricier bunch than average Bangalore, Fabindia falls into that organic, back to simple values, bobo category of stores. Rough cotton clothing and simple cut shirts and pants stack the shelves and Jo and I were calmed by its contrast with the sequined, jewel toned and patterned Indian clothing overflowing in windows lining the street. While there, I texted Shruthi, who agreed to meet us at the Coffee Day on Brigade Road with her friend Atul.
I have never shopped in India without my parents and am slightly embarrassed to say the idea of putting together a salwar kurta or churidar (bottom, top and dupatta) in an attractive combination of colours and styles was truly intimidating. I enlisted the help of sympathetic salesgirls, explaining my pitiful parent-less plight, and they expertly tossed clothing into a teetering tower for my benefit.
Photo courtesy of Joanna Schneider
When we left Fabindia it was drizzling. Ambling through the wet crowds were the usual odd cows, mooing plaintively. I felt so sorry for them, wandering without owners, picking through trash, always in danger of becoming a road casualty (not that any Hindu driver would ever hit a cow). Jo and I wondered where they all came from and who they belonged to. No one really remembers the animals when thinking about all of the people, but animals in India have it rough sometimes. I made a mental note to always be sympathetic to bleating cows.
The first auto we found was driven by a sly young driver who sized up Jo and demanded 30 rupees to take us to MG/Brigade Road, a distance certainly not worth that price. I refused and we found an auto willing to take us for 20 (much more reasonable). He dropped us at the intersection of MG Road and Brigade Road, right in front of Cauvery Arts Emporium. This is a state-run store selling all manner of traditional Karnataka products, from sandalwood carvings to bidri boxes. [Bidri is a type of metal work- metal and silver inlays].
We were tired and wanted to sit, so we didn't explore Cauvery in favour of finding the Coffee Day as quickly as possible. There were obnoxious peddlers on the street in front of Cauvery who targeted Joanna, encouraging her to invest in a great new map or some shiny plastic toy. She was rightfully irritated by all of the unwelcome attention.
Coffee Day is like India's Starbucks-prices at the upper end, a trendy coffee spot where youngsters flock in droves for desserts, caffeine and loudspeakers blaring the new Britney album. It was like a little welcome taste of America. Jo and I split a veggie burger and sipped our bottled water while waiting for Shruthi and Atul.
Once they arrived we sat and talked for a while (Joanna and I split a brownie dessert that was out of this world- chocolate is a rare treat in our diet of spice and curds) and then left in search of a bookstore so we could replenish our mini libraries. We were going to go to Higginbotham's, a historic bookstore left over from British colonial times and recommended by my father. Before Higginbotham's, however, we happened upon two roadside booksellers with carts full of pirated literature for a fourth of the price and fighting a guilty conscience, we bought four books.
Atul and Shruthi wanted to take us to a hookah bar, apparently a popular hangout spot for Bangalore teens. The first one we went into was expensive, so we left and crammed into an auto, ending up at Java City. There was a shaded deck with tables and chairs and lots of lounging people. Every pair of eyes was glued to the tv broadcasting cricket. World Cup Fever.
We went upstairs for the hookah and settled into two couches facing each other with a low table between. The scene was dimly lit but comfortable and full of young people. We talked and got to know one another, and exchanged lots of cultural questions. After peaceful hours spent in this manner, we went home.
Shruthi's family had kindly offered to take Joanna and I out to eat. I was jarred by the experience of riding in a real car with working seatbelts and air conditioning. Bangalore traffic sounds were muted and it was oddly peaceful. I missed the hubbub of the streets. We ate at a steakhouse called Millers46.
This place was, to use Jo's phrase, "America on steroids". Wagon wheel in the window, waiters in shoulder padded flannel shirts, a placard that explained cattle roping and plastic bulls heads on the walls. The menus promised "Authentic American cuisine" just like they eat in the Wild, Wild West. I didn't enjoy the food because to be honest, I'm a masala dosa junkie and pasta is something I don't miss about America, but it was certainly an experience.
Dinner was long and when we got back to the apartment, I passed out immediately and slept like a log.
My favorite bookstore - for the records - was Premier book store, owned by one charming gentleman called Mr. Shanbagh, who would give out discounts like the guy on "Whose line is it anyway", gives out points.
ReplyDeleteAt the intersection of Church Street and I forget (Miller?)... this bookstore was an institution... books stacked from floor to ceiling... there was only enough place for one person to stand between the rows or rather columns... the perpetual danger and threat of the whole stack tumbling down on you...
but that is where you shopped for books if you belonged to the 'well read',,, ukwim..... well... the bookstore is no more... Bangalore lamented its demise...and with it died one of my motivations to be back there...