Saturday, April 02, 2016

One of them

One of the thrills of traveling to Mexico and Spain is being mistaken sometimes to be their own native

And in Bangalore even after  20 years, Somanna, Proprietor of Swagath Tailors, whom I have known since  my school  days still recognizes me.  No, he does not stop and inquire, "Oh, when did you come from America?" or "Where have you been all these years?".  Instead he simply half-smiles and half raises his palm and moves on as though I had run into him only last week and had never left  Rajajinagar

 

Guadalajara, Mexico

 I was traveling on business to Guadalajara in Mexico and  had just dozed off  in the flight when a gentleman across the aisle said, "Ola!"  Thrusting into my hands his passport and arrival card he started muttering to me in Spanish as though I was naturally expected to follow him.  I turned towards him and raised my eyebrows. Although upset at having my sleep disrupted I was courteous enough not to vent. He muttered more Spanish and made a motion with his hands drawing my attention to what he had put in my hands. He seemed to want my help to complete his arrival card. His tone was more of a demand than a request for a favour. I looked at the document; it was in Spanish.

I stared at him closely, discarding my politeness. He must have been in his late sixties. With his dense hair, thick eyebrows and a formidable build he could have passed for one of those celebrity drug lords whom the  Mexican military arrests from time to time while they try to escape through sewer lines I indicated curtly  that I did not speak Spanish. He looked at me  in utter disbelief and snarled more Spanish which struck me as, "Is this a joke on me? Eh?! How dare you?"  I was glad we were not in a dark alley of his hometown.

I remained calm and shrugged an indifferent shoulder.  He turned his  face away and let fall a few curses.

I reached out my right hand to give away his stuff back and he stretched out his left hand reluctantly to receive it. It was only then I noticed how brown and how nearly alike our skin colours were. And only then did I realize  why he considered, me - the guy far across the aisle the natural choice to seek help instead of the white guy immediately next to him who looked like  the typical Tea party Trump type.

In a split second my bitterness towards him vanished. The  drug-lord had transformed into a dear uncle needing a nephew's help. I took back his documents and signaled him to wait and began to work on the English side of the arrival card.  I had no difficulty in locating his name and address in the passport and entered that into the arrival card. However when it came to the Yes or No questions on "Are you carrying drugs?", "Do you possess firearms?", "Have you been arrested before?", "Are you carrying more than $10,000 cash?".. I checked the "No" boxes without actually ascertaining from him whether  that was true or not. I stole a quick glance at him. He was smiling approvingly at this nephew. I smiled too, glad to be of help to that uncle,


Madrid

Fellow travelers of Indian origin in Spain are not as common a sight as in some of the other  European countries like UK, Switzerland, Italy and France. And it may also be because they too have a tinge of our own brown, Spaniards tend to think we are one of  them with delightful consequences.   
La Mallorquina


After a long and tiring afternoon of having explored Madrid by foot, we went to La Mallorquina  - the good old bakery in  the good old part of Madrid.  Ground floor  was swarmed by impatient lines of tourists, trying to get the attention of the brusque staff behind the counters  for their to-go orders. We were pondering over the racks of tempting pastries, unable to decide which, when much to our surprise, one of their  staff smiled and ushered us upstairs. We learnt that locals who want to sit down and savor, quietly find their way to the staircase at the remote corner. We headed  above and were delighted to find a place where we could unwind. As luck would have it, we got the table with the view of the lively Puerta del SolInside there were only locals: friends-only groups  in an animated conversation while enjoying their wine and sangria, next to our table was an architect, who, assisted by coffee was going over the drawings of home expansion plans with the couple seated opposite and there were big Spanish families relishing the freshly baked croissants and cakes. We were perhaps the only people, aliens, being taken in as one among them. 
Upstairs where the locals sit back and savor.


Rhonda

After briefly peeping in the gift shop displaying  made-in-China thingummies, I stepped out of the shop. They didn't interest me one bit. There were a few other men like me who were checking their mobile devices outside while their wives did the shopping inside. I leaned against the wall, switched off my phone  and watched the flow of life on the street. A few minutes later an elderly lady came out of the shop, looked at me and said, "Loved your place! You have such an amazing collection!" Instead of correcting her, I decided to take her complements. I bowed gently  and said, "Gracias!" (Thank you in Spanish) reminding her to have a nice day too.

With Flemenco dancers, Seville

Seville 

Of all the encounters this one tops.  We were walking briskly towards our hotel, having already checked the route on Google maps earlier. We saw a middle aged Indian couple approach us.  The lady in her saree and with her heavy shopping bag was slightly behind her husband. The gentleman, a sikh, with a guide book in one hand and water bottle in another, stopped us as asked, "Can you speak English?"  A little taken aback and wondering if I appeared to him an illiterate, I said, "Yes, I can speak Hindi too".  He looked both surprised and embarrassed and said, "I am so sorry, I thought you are from here!"  I smiled at him and was still able to help him with his question on directions to a flamenco show. 

Back in homeland

Now this is not about colour of the skin but about how the sound of my name makes me feel as one among them at places where I was clearly not.  

It seems my grandfather had actually named me as Jayateertha, a word designed to leave the caller with a feeling of oomph at having delivered  something delightfully mouthful.    Alas, the mighty Jayateertha, over all these years morphed into the tepid Jairaj. Interestingly it is only in Tamil Nadu that I do not recoil with horror while having to announce my first name.  In Coimbatore whose mapillai I am, I  realized that it would be a blunder to use my last nameMy first  name Jairaj was already a visa for being considered one among them. There my name makes me feel as much at home as  brother-Jairajs who are  brokers, barbers, rikshaw drivers, kerosine pedlars, chit funders, and the Jairajs who get routinely rounded up during political rallies.

However in Pune, where I spent the best part of my life, I had hidden  my first name like the convict who hides his face under a towel on his way to being arrested.  I merrily hobnobbed with the Puneris using just my last name. It did not matter that I could not  speak Marathi, thanks to my melodious Maharasthra-border family name, I  was always their "amchya Galagali".
With a kirthanakar in Pune