(Note: I wrote this post about 5 months ago while I was completing my internship in India. I recently found it on my computer and decided to publish it to the blog.)
I have just returned from a failed attempt to search for Wifi in the neighborhood--with nothing but a sack of mangos. Now... how I GOT this sack of mangos... that is a story that I must tell.
I went out at about 11, looking for a restaurant, coffee shop, or something that would allow MAC to connect to the internet. Sadly, I found nothing. What I DID find, however, was a very talkative, slightly inebriated, Hindu Realtor in front of a large temple to the god Ghatrapathi, just about 8 blocks from where I am staying. He stopped me and asked where I was from. I answered, “the Philippines”... which gave him a somewhat confused look as he tried to process the anomaly of the color of my skin and the country that I was coming from. The man preceded to tell me all about the temple that he was coming from, which was solely for the worship of this particular god who had the head of an elephant and legs of a man. He told of the harsh conditions that were suffered by the people of this area, long ago, and how this particular god had brought liberation from that suffering. His story eventually lead him (how... I do not know how) into a long historical description of what India was like before and after the Arabs came and then a long lecture of british colonialization and how Ghandi finally sent them all home in 1947. As he told his story, the man kept meeting people, waving, and interjecting sentences to passers-by. I could tell this man was well-connected in the Bangalore “social scene.” Finally, at the conclusion and finale of his talk, I looked at the watch that I don’t own, which doesn’t sit on my wrist and said that it was about time that I be getting home. He gladly agreed and began walking alongside of me telling me that he just lives up the block, which meant that we could continue the stories as we walked.
Arriving at his apartment, he spotted a caucasian couple across the street and told me, “OH, wait here, I’ll introduce you, they are from Britain!” (As if their caucasian-ness would give us instant camaraderie). He quickly jogged off the edge of the curb and part of the way across the street, motioning the couple to come over. As they exchanged glances and began to walk over, I began inching away, as I felt my “awkward threshold” reaching critical mass. The couple walked over and, come to find out, they actually did know the man. In fact, he had sold them their house. We talked for a brief bit, exchanging where we were from and why we were here and they parted ways. I assumed that the talkative and slightly inebriated, Hindu realtor and I would part ways as well... but then he met his friend with the sack of mangos. This changed everything. As I introduced myself to the friend with the sack of mangos, the very talkative, slightly inebriated, Hindu realtor just continued talking, telling all about his friend and where he comes from. This seemed to be a relief for his friend who seemed to have a bit of anxiety about speaking in English. In place of words, the man offered me one of his mangos, a firm green one. I thanked both of them warmly, looked once again at the watch that didn’t exist, and told them that I must be going.
As I turned and began to talk the realtor stopped me and nearly insisted that I come up and visit his apartment. I kindly turned him down, but he insisted that he at least needed to get me a riper mango from upstairs. Slightly, apprehensive of what ulterior motives the talkative realtor might have, I, once again, turned him down. He insisted once again, and I began to analyze the situation. This man checked out. He was a realtor--the couple confirmed it. He knew everyone, and just about everyone on this block had noticed him, or at least heard him chattering on. He was too well known to be up to something, and beyond that, both he and his friend appeared to be unarmed. Not to mention, they were much smaller than I--I was sure I could take them if they tried anything. “Sure... but I have to get back in just a couple of minutes,” I told them.
Out of the nighttime air, we quickly ducked into his building and tromped up several flights of narrow stairs to the third floor where he lived and kept a small office. As I entered the small room, I watched their hands and looked for any suspicious shifting in their eyes. There was none. I was asked to have a seat just across from the talkative, slightly inebriated, Hindu Realtor. With the realtor seated before me, and the mango toting friend lingering over me at the back, the realtor ducked behind his desk, grasping a large mass that he had hidden out of my sight, and out towards me, on to his desk came... another sack of mangos! Only these were a bit more ripe this time. Following that, came a plastic bag from his desk, into which he placed about six very nice-sized green and yellow mangos. He then brought out a map and proceeded to show me the location of his village and the village of his friend with mangos. I pointed to Philippines, and showed him where to find Ohio, clarifying that it was NOT in Great Britain or Australia. After are short, but very kind meeting in his apartment we shook hands, he walked me down the stairs, and I have had a wonderful lesson in Indian history, I have a strange story to tell, and a several mangos to eat for breakfast in the morning. Not bad.
