Teething troubles

I met a senior of mine from school today; in Foodworld of all the places. Actually, I spied him from the personal section and promptly ducked behind a shelf of Garnier Fructis shampoos and conditioners. Now, being the practical cynic that I am, I usually never refer to the heart as the epicenter of mushy love and emotional nonsense. I strongly believe that the heart, like the rest of our body is doing its job as diligently as it can (in my case at least). So really, it is not right to draw it into all this scandal, associate with St. Valentine and other mythical creations of the greeting card companies and sully its reputation.
But in this case, an exception must be made for I could have sworn I felt the usually infallible cardiac stop for a millisecond, do a little skip followed by a whoopee! before it proceeded with its regular activity. Pretending to refix the Velcro on my floaters, I observed Senior Boy from my vantage point. I might have drawn the courage to accidentally bump into him if he actually knew I existed.

And then, I was fourteen all over again. Senior boy was the all-important school captain, air-borne basketball prodigy and quiz-extraordinaire. His girlfriend was naturally, too ugly and too stupid and didn’t deserve to be with him. Did I mention that she was a bitch. Besides, I was convinced that we shared a secret communication. Only much later did I realise that it was such a well kept secret that he didn’t know of it either. then there was this one time... he called me out of line and asked me to pull up my socks, I thought I would faint with excitement to be at such close proximity to him….

Now during my short lapse into teenage fantasy, I seem to have let the present haze over. As a result I had failed to track senior boy’s progress from the entrance to the aisle where your trying-to-be-21 narrator was situated.

“Pooja?”

It was He, separated from yours truly by just a 5 kg bag of Henko Washing Powder.
He knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name!
(At that moment my overwhelmed mind could hold no other thought, like- what was the 5 kg Jumbo pack of Henko stain champion doing in the Personal hygiene section?)
Moving on.

I got up, as gracefully as could, seeing that my arms were laden with various products for body and stomach. Oh why oh why, I wondered, why had I chosen this fateful day to purchase my six months supply of sanitary napkins? If you’ll observe, sanitary pad companies, for all their discreet advertisements fail to adopt the same sentiment when it comes to their packaging. So this is me, standing with peppy purple packets of Kotex Style, snazzy purple packets of Chocolate Pure Magic and a chain of Purple sachets of Cadburys Gems, trying to pretend like I had grown up. Nevertheless, I resolutely clung on to my last threads of composure and coherence and struck up some reliable Polite Conversation.


It started off with the usual “it’s been so long!” which in turn led to the “I miss school so much” reminisces. So far so good. Senior boy, still had that same lopsided whiskey smile and hazel eyes. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the explosion of purple in my hands. Maybe he liked my earrings. Maybe…. I was considering revealing to him, how I used to always walk past the floor where his class was even though I had nothing to do there. And how he was the star quarterback of my sweet valley saga…

But it was in the “so, what are you upto these days?” segment that my fairytale musings ran into trouble.

I went first, harping on about My Course, My College and My Future Prospects. This is a well rehearsed speech that every final year student must have in handy. (The authenticity of the report is insignificant, the main objective being to field off nosy relatives, Parents and their associates.)

And then it was in his turn that he dropped the bombshell. “So what are you doing these days”, I asked innocently, expecting him to relate to me glorious stories of how he had found a cure for AIDS, produced Quentin Tarantino’s latest bloodfest and was now on his way to patching up the ozone layer.

“I’m a junior copywriter at ___________ (fill in name of one of these monstrously successful gigantic advertising firms).”

And just like that, the foundation that my adolescent aspirations were built on came crashing down. I tried to hide my disappointment behind the aforementioned purple purchases. While they were useful in concealing the external reaction, they provided scarce emotional support that the situation demanded.

Now, no offence to any of you copywriter lowlifes (In fact in the Future Prospects monologue I have vividly outlined my desire to be one of them), but you must understand that Senior Boy was destined for greater things. Was this the culmination of all that superstardom? A junior copywriter? Drinking synthesized coffee substitutes from the vending machine, having his ideas rejected and then stolen by 27 year old pricks, befriending and adopting a pet rodent who then becomes his only company on a Saturday night binge…. Okay the last one is pushing it, but you get the picture. NO, he was made for better stuff!


There may be many of you who might think I'm overreacting; making a 'mountain out of a molehill' as it is commonly known. I'm not. When you’re in school, your seniors are the rockstars. They are smart, cool, confident, good-looking and everything else you ever wanted to be. You expect them to go on to become GOD or THE PRESIDENT … an Astronaut at the very least. You will understand that a junior copywriter isn’t quite in the same league (though it does share the same initials with an eminent ‘Christ’ian personality).

First it was the tooth fairy that let me down, then came my parents and now, it’s my seniors. I don’t think I can deal with the harsh realities of life anymore.

Damn I hate growing up.

Life and times in Koshy's

A lot of the recent Bangalore bloggers have recently turned their attentions towards Koshys aka Parade Café. Being an avid snooper into blogs, I can safely say that almost everything of consequence that could be said about it has already been said. From it being one of the landmarks of Bangalore to being the Headquarters of the jhola-fabindia Party- to the ubiquitous Mr. Prem Koshy’s -ahem- well thought out attire. From the excellent coffee to the Sunday morning appams and stew; anything of miniscule importance that might influence your decision to wine and dine good ole K has already been covered. So if you’re looking for a restaurant review, keep looking.

It had come to our notice that off late Pecos had officially crossed the thin line that distinguishes grungy from filthy. Our other regular bum zone the MG Road Barista had become too hip-hop for our liking. So Chatterbox, Secret Squirrel (SS) and I had no choice but to adopt Koshy’s as our sole foster home. And that my friend involves spending obscene amounts of time in prime property while attempting to do minimal damage to the already scarce resources.

Even if Barista and Pecos weren’t disqualified, Koshys has some inherent advantages that tips the scales-
There’s the friendly parking attendant who could probably fit my bike into a postbox slot. And silently waits as I walk up the parking lot at least twice before identifying my bike even though he knows exactly which one it is.
Then there’s the wonderful view of the traffic signal at Anil Kumble circle presenting Bangalore in all its claustrophobic, cacophonic glory. Secret Squirrel vehemently insists that if you look at a particular angle through the blinds in the restaurant onto St Marks Road it looks just like Europe. I think this is mainly because she has never been to Europe.
And last but not the least (I hate that phrase), the coffee costs 14 rupees 24 paise- exclusive of VAT and other dubious taxes.

From the many hours spent there, we have deduced from all the not-so-subtle hints, that the members of the Malyalee Waiters and Co. would rather not have us there. From the very beginning they correctly adjudged the strata of society the three of us were from i.e. the class of the Impoverished Students. Maybe it was our one rupee fifty paise tips that gave us away. Nevertheless, since then, they have proceeded to systematically discriminate against us.

Our powers of keen observation and lack of anything else to do have also led us to another important discovery unbeknownst to the average visitor. I\we have deciphered the secret code the waiters use to determine the treatment you receive at Koshys. Ah yes, the one item separates the man from the boys, the wheat from the chaff, the diamond from the stone… you get the point. This one item is… (drum roll)… the checkered tablecloth.

Ah yes, and not everyone is so blessed as to receive the tablecloth treatment. There are several things to be taken into consideration before the immigrants from God’s Own Country decide to bestow this honor on your table.
One might enter Koshy’s thinking, “Ah! Here is a place where I can unwind and relax and just be myself, away from the stress and scrutiny.” Sadly, this is not the case. For as soon as you enter, you are automatically subject to the instant appraisal of the white uniforms. Based on the results of these, you will be slotted into one of the following categories based upon which you might or might not receive the ultimate accessory to your table:-
Lawyer (read Mayo Hall) types
The ‘culturally enlightened’- those who fancy themselves to be photographers, actors, directors, authors, dancers…. (they ain’t buying it)
Repulsive yet powerful politician + cronies
Broker-client combination
Old timers
College bum
Significant someone

Another way of guaranteeing a tablecloth is if Mr. Prem Koshy feigns recognition and stops by to exchange a few pleasantries. They might have a union but they don’t want to displease the boss.

And finally, it’s just a matter of vulgar commerce. Mainly, what have you ordered today? If you’re going to order an iced tea and veg puff, you ain’t getting no tablecloth. No way hozay. Even a burger and coke doesn’t quite cut it. Get yourself some beer and prawn curry rice, or a steak lets see that bill climb into 4 figure zone and you got yourself one of those purchases from Bombay Dying gracing your table.

Needless to say, we have never been honored with such fineries. Yes we order the 2 cheapest things on the menu, and I eat all the yummy yellow sauce and ketchup that comes with the smileys and then ask for more. Yes we lodge ourselves for extended periods of time and point to other tables and guffaw ungraciously. So what if every bill presents its own unique mathematical dilemma of how to split it 3-ways? Is that any reason to treat us like the stale shredded chicken that comes in your hideously priced club sandwich? I mean, if you prick us do we not bleed? If you poison us do we not die… and so on.

Yet despite being consistently ill-treated and un-served, S Squirrel, Chatterbox and I never stop trying to gain their approval (much like the neglected children that we are). Who knows, one day we might be so lucky as to get a tablecloth.