Culture Chaos

Hampi.
The town (wish I could say city, sounds so much more glamorous) of ruins from the Vijaynagar empire.
The town that's brimming with temples, rocks and soul space.
The town where you're better off not wearing the Indian tag for all to see. Doing so is guaranteed to earn you the scummiest of looks.

It's understandable. Firangs probably give the commercial establishments more business. Why else would every other restaurant - like a Muthuswamy Tiffins - boast a sign board with "Recommended in Lonely Planet in 1985" printed on it in big letters? Why else would a child of eleven years sell postcards of Hampi saying, "Wudya la-ikh to bai some paostcards madame?"

Ground floors and first floors of homes are converted into rooms with double beds, hot running water, 'shower baths' and 'laundry'. Some others are transformed into dimly-lit, big tents flaunting posters of Lakshmi, Shiva and the Sun Gods over long tables set out for breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The menu has more of Chinese, Italian - even Israeli food - than it has Indian. The pastas and falafals are more palatable than the kormas and chapatis.

Take Prince, for instance. On our first night at Hampi, we went there for dinner. We were told the place was pretty well-known for its bhaang lassi. The day was a very active one and the restaurant was a hundered yards away from where we were staying, so we decided we could afford to get a little tipsy. This TDH (thank you, Mills&Boons) South Indian walked up to us and said in his accented English, "You'll have to place your orders quick, because the kitchen closes at ten". It was just five past eight.

Little did we realise what was happening.

I'm terrible when it comes to making up my mind on ordering food, so while my friends decided quickly, I mulled over what I wanted to eat. Next thing I know, the man is telling me, "Tell me fast ma'am" in his sternest voice. There was no need to hurry up, but he did. I was a little dazed and my friend came to the rescue, telling him to come back after a couple of minutes.

Meanwhile, the opposite table filled up with a bunch of firangs led by a North Indian stud boy who we affectionately christened MC - short for 'Madar****'. Aura study would reveal his to read as 'I'm cool because I've got a bunch of firangs eating out of my hand'. Oh puh-leez.

Our food took twice as long to come as theirs. We had to put up with Buddha Bar dishing out fusion music - I'm not saying it's bad, but given the circumstances it just added to the pseudo-cool ambience. Then we had to put up with Harry Potter, played for the benefit of the little white kid in the group. Just when we were still contemplating leaving without having dinner, our food arrived. Fake smiles, ass-licking, accents... it's a wonder our fried rice and pasta were digested without too much trouble.

Disillusioned and nearing the end of our meal, we saw an Indian couple enter the place and take a seat close to the big gang. That didn't seem to have any effect on the TDH South Indian either. He ignored them as long as he politely could.

We paid our bills, didn't wait for the change, shook our heads in disgust and walked out of the place.