BANGALORE! Pre-monsoons, disappearing trees, chai, and pan

Once I walked into Nimish and his mother Promila's home, I knew I was finally in India. It was the smell that hit me first. The smell of a well-kept South Indian home is a mixture of old wooden furniture, cooking oil, moth balls, and some foreign perfume or detergent that I could never place until I got a whiff of some beetle powder-- pan. Yes, I was back in India! It was fantastic to be in the hands of old friends. Being a house guest in India is a very special experience because guests are considered to be gods; I was offered the best room in the house, ate many delicious home-cooked meals, and was given abundant rest, something I greatly needed.

Bangalorians pridefully call their home, “The air conditioned city”. I was expecting May in India, even in Bangalore, to be sweltering and humid. I was prepared to be dripping all day long. Well, I spent three days in this city and I never broke a sweat. The monsoon was scheduled to hit Kerala early, and Bangalore was already getting late-afternoon pre-monsoon rains. This cooled the city off a great deal. One afternoon we were caught driving when the downpour came. It was a sight to behold! Motorcycles plowed through gushing water and were pushed sideways, people were up to their calves in murky water, and visibility was about 30 feet.

As my visit to Bangalore was coming to an end, I told Nimish and Chetan that I just wanted to walk to a coffee shop to spend the afternoon. The old, beloved coffee shop on MG Road where we used to go had been lost in the new construction jumble, and MG Road was hardly recognizable anymore with the subway being constructed and many big trees cut down. My friends were devastated by this. Nimish said, “Bangalore will be known as the city that committed suicide. Other Indian cities are already looking towards Bangalore to know what not to do.” It's unfortunate that Bangalore wasn't allowed to grow naturally; it simply exploded and things were built much too fast. Many of the gorgeous old trees that line the streets are alive and healthy, however trees are lost everyday. With the new road construction, they are cementing around the trees, leaving no water to get down to the roots. Oh Bangalore, the Garden City. Many citizens are protesting, but my friends explain that the politicians are pretty corrupt so few people are hopeful.

So, afternoon coffee. Nimish and Chetan put their heads together. Walking meant staying in Koramangla, so we headed out with a destination in mind. When we got there, I reflexively recoiled and blurted out, “Ah! The music is horrible!” We had walked into the McDonalds of coffee shops and it was like walking into a glaringly bright room after being in the dark. This place was playing loud electronic dance music and no one was there. My hosts looked disappointed-- I felt like I had insulted them. “Sorry guys, this just reminds me so much of America. I was expecting something more authentically Bangalore.” Unfortunately this was the new authentic Bangalore, and seemed like the perfect place to bring a young American. “I really liked the chai place on the street where we went yesterday....” So OK, it was time to be a real local. Chetan always knew how to sniff out the perfect chai vendor, so we went down a quiet side street to find our spot. Three happy kids sat down in front of a metal garage painted with the stripes of the Indian flag.

As we drank our chai, Chetan and I played the “What details do you see game?” This is a fun game for two filmmakers, one in their familiar surroundings, and one on a different planet. He noticed how the neighbors locked up their nice motorcycles. I noticed the old man with the new tennis shoes, how the chai place hung their “local phone” sign with a coat hanger from a nearby tree, and the demon masks strategically placed on each home.

On our way back, Chetan stopped at his favorite pan dealer. This man's shop is a tiny little closet on wheels. He sits inside smiling with white hair, dark skin, and milky cataracted eyes. His little storefront is dark mahogany and sells all sorts of tiny things-- I think cigarettes, amulets, and matches were amongst his wares, but I was too mesmerized by the making of the pan to notice. So the pan guy takes a beetle leaf, emerald and thick and shiny, and smears all sorts of things on top of it: saffron in some sort of oil, beetle seed powder, cardamom pods, seeds that made Nimish a little dizzy, some sort of flower blossoms, and little dates. He gave me a small fingerful of these dates, and as he sprinkled them in my hand I noticed how his fingers and the creases around his nails were stained deep red with pan. In my mouth the dates went without too much thought. These dates tasted like they had been soaked in menthol and perfume. I asked the guys if I was supposed to swallow them. Yes. Mmmmm, pan.




After this beautiful little thing has been made, the pan dealer swiftly shapes the leaf into a cone, then wraps it in a layer of plastic and newspaper. Usually the receiver quickly unwraps it and shoves the whole thing in their mouth. You slowly chew on all the flavors, spitting out red juice when you are finished. People are addicted to this stuff. Chetan explained to me how Indians are experts in the nuances of pan like some people are experts in wine. There is an art behind pan-- like cheese, cigars, or coffee. People get really picky about the ingredients and how they come together to make a particular taste. Connoisseurs have little silver boxes where they keep all the ingredients and throughout the day they will roll themselves their own special pan concoction suited to their tastes. Mmmm, pan. Do not be taken aback by all the red marks on the streets-- it's just spit. India reeks with the smell of this stuff, it's the smell I remember most.