Land de incompréhensibles

Some anti-social elements that think not well of humanity may assert that vis-à-vis I am about to share, I am to some extent or other, be blamed. But don’t you believe a word they say. Mark their expressions of astonishment. Note the disbelief in their laughter. Is it not mere pretence? Disregard their counter-allegations. They attempt to deceive you. What they have against me, I cannot say. But what I am about to tell you is unbiased and true.

Manipal truly is a land of incomprehendibles. The waiters, the peons, the newspaper boys; they know not what they say. Nor do we (know what they say.) In an attempt to adopt one million South Indian languages that they wish to preserve along with Hindi, they have succeeded in developing a hybrid that we, helpless migrants, fail to grasp and are consequently victimised.

Is there a different purpose behind developing this alien dialect? Is it to cheat us? To deceive us? I do not know.

I shall recount a few occasions during which gave birth to my allegations.

Incident one, two and three occurred at an Indian restaurant titled Sheela. Interestingly, anything that you may order here takes over 20 minutes to cook, inclusive of “Maggi’s 2-minute noodles”. Well, everything excluding “Idlis” and “Vadas”, which are served quicker than water.

If that isn’t enough to make you sit-up and take notice, there’s more.

The dishes listen on the Indian menu may sound conventional enough. But do not be fooled. Look at them carefully. Are they exactly the same? What is that you say? They aren’t? I didn’t think so myself.

The “Navrattan Korma” is conveniently re-titled “Mixed Vegetable Korma.” Any ignorant bystander would not have noticed the difference. But I am not to be bamboozled. Are the 2 dishes exactly the same? Or has the original recipe endured mutation so as to render it different in look, make, flavour and what not?

We are not ignorant bystanders. So we do what is expected of all those who are not ignorant bystanders. We hail a waiter and ask him “What does this contain?” And it is there that we err.

Under usual circumstances, you would listen attentively to every word he utters. You would jump for joy for every ingredient that you savour that has been retained, and adopt a look of grief and anguish for those that have been omitted in the preparation. As for those despicable constituents that you despise but have been included, you pucker up your nose, put on a frown, stick out your tongue and go “Blech!”, while spontaneously relieving your face of the nasty expression so that neither it becomes permanent upon your face (should the wind change its direction just then) nor the waiter becomes convinced that you are impolite.

But such is not the case in Sheela. For under the first 3 circumstances, the following ensued.

Incident One:

Me : What does the “Mixed Vegetable Korma” contain?

Him : *Mumble Mumble*

And I looked at him, expressionless as a goat, courteously waited for him to finish, turned to the person next to me and….

Me : (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident Two:

Me : How long will a plate of Maggi take for preparation?

Him : *Mumble Mumble*

……..

Me : (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident Three:

Me : Do you have any pineapple juice?

Bonus : Incident Four

Me : Boss, could we have the bill please?

(Five minutes elapse)

Me : Boss, we’d asked for the bill.

(Seven minutes later)

Me : Boss, bill please? It’s been ages.

Him : *Mumble Mumble……… Grumble*

Me: (Huh!) What did he say?

Incident 5 was fairly recent.

After 3 phone-calls, I had managed to convince the News paper agency that I, in fact, did not want newspapers delivered to my room for the three weeks during which it was to be uninhabited.

On the evening of the 3^rd call, a boy magically appeared at my doorstep with a stack of bills in his hand and a plastic bag containing money and proceeded to hand me one from the stack.

Doubtful of the fact that I had received merchandise (in the form of newspapers) worth the Rs. 200 advance that I had already paid, a perception that the boy echoed, I proceeded to clarify with him that I had absolutely no intentions of paying a further advance to him for two reasons, one that I had discontinued subscription and two, that I did not plan to revive it in the future (for that particular daily).

The boy peered at me in a most queer manner, as if I was barmy, and proceeded to mumble something that I did not understand. At that point, I was pretty sure that he was somehow or the other related to that waiter at Sheela.

I did, however, manage to catch a numerical figure in his oration, I believe a sum of 60 rupees.

Though sensitive of the fact that he was simply a functionary of the agency, a paid employee, sent out to do his work that he was expected to complete, and that he had not bargained for customers like my royal highness when he took up his position, I refused to be cheated, however meagre the amount involved may be.

I thus began to present him with evidences in support of the fact that I should not have to pay a further advance. And to that effect, I began to dig through the clutter on my study table, which at the time resembled the aftermath of a horrific calamity with the intentions of discovering and presenting to him a bill bearing the date I had paid the advance. The expedition was a failure, for I was pretty sure I had thrown it out ages ago, but I hoped that the boy, who now stood impatiently at the door, would give up on me and walk away, leaving it to the agency to negotiate with me. He continued to look at me as if I was loony.

My room-mate meanwhile had lain on his bed with an over-pronounced smirk on his face. After 10 minutes of excavations, as I stood gasping for some oxygen, he sniggered “He’s not asking you for any money, he simply wants to pay you your balance.”