To The Manners Not Born

One Sunday we (Sang, Rory and I) went out for dinner to Blini. It’s a small restaurant at Anand Market that serves Russian fare. We’d been there a couple of times before. The place has four tables and a limited menu, but is great on service and limitless in charm.

We reached at about 8 PM and found all tables taken. Boris the owner, Captain, cook and Maitre’de wryly shrugged and asked us to wait about twenty minutes. We decided to take a walk. Going downstairs, we crossed this couple. The guy, an Anglo-Saxon was clad in a bedraggled T shirt and shabby shorts. Shabby had this creature clinging onto his arm who was mebbe far-eastern (Fern). Fern was expressing her undying love vocally and physically….and very publicly. We smiled by way of greeting, which this modern day Romeo-Juliet were oblivious of.

Fifteen minutes later we were back at the entrance when I saw that Shabby and Fern were also standing outside. I walked in and looked at Boris. He smiled this time and said “Aynother tayn meenutes”. When I told Sangeeta this, she laughed and said the food would be worth the wait. Shabby now notices us and questions me.

“Uhh, ummm uh what’d he say”?

I say “Who”.

“Boris, off course”.

I say” Oh another ten minutes”.

“Aaahh”.

Silence thereafter punctuated by Fern’s giggles and groans. “He’s always rude y’know”, grunts Shabby. I can’t agree so I say “Not really”. Fern finds this hilarious. But soon she’s all over Shabby and they promptly ignore us.

That’s when the door opens and the waitress beckons us. Sangeeta and Shaurya walk in. I am about to follow them when Fern let’s go with a shrieking yell. “How dare you, we are before you, the table is ours”. I stop. I am mumbling, about Boris, about the wait, about us crossing them on the stairs. Fern is having nothing of this. Shabby now turns into Neanderthal man, “We are going to take that table”. The vision of a quiet, peaceful dinner has gone puff. The Alpha in me is subdued by the desire to be polite. After all, they are people from another land, visitors, Athithi Devo. I call Sangeeta back. That’s when Boris steps in. He appears to have had enough. “Zey wer heeyer beefore you, the table is theirs, you want to eat, you wait”. Shabby mumbles something under his breath, Fern as lady like as ever bows theatrically and says the F word. We stumble in now very unsure.

Just then another table is vacated. Boris gestures at Shabby who clambers on to it. Fern is still going yackety-yack.

Dinner continues. I play around with my Lamb Stew with Rice; Sangeeta is looking at her Lamb Captain, while Shaurya valiantly attempts to finish his fries, chicken steak and coke; all at once. “Wonder why the beer tastes bitter, should we order some dessert”.Sangeeta smiles, says something about the manner in which it’s made, the manner in which it’s served.

Manners- to which some are never born.

Kalli

No, it’s not the Goddess of Death and it’s not that WWF monster (a favourite of India TV, yuck!). It’s an intense Mallu expression to describe a very complex emotion that we all experience, every now and then.

I turn right and enter the Tri-Shakti parking lot (the one for us lesser mortals), and the MP is working me into a nice little slot. The one that is going to ensure that I’m out of the gate in about a half-hours time after the guest lecture; which for my car pool is great going. The wife is back seat driving as usual. Suddenly, this guy pulls up behind, he’s blaring his horn and jams his way in. The others in his car look at me shrug wryly and walk away. You know the feeling that I’m talking about; that blinding rage, the anger, that fury, that utter helplessness. It’s not road rage; it’s Kalli.

Let’s do another situation. You are standing in line for that life saving coffee at Chanakya and this bloke comes over, grabs a cup, jams it in front of the machine and says, “ Jaldi karo”. What do you do? He’s three and a half feet tall, with a potbelly. Your seven–year old daughter could take him down. But you are a nice guy. You’re supposed to finish last. So you just look at him real hard. Oblivious, he chomps away to glory on his samosa. There’s stuff in his teeth, the chutney is all over his chin. You breathe deep and hard and feel. ……Yeah, you’re getting it, you feel Kalli.

Then there’s this milkman fellow outside your house on a Sunday morning. You place the vessel in front of him. It’s the beginning of a great day. You want to talk to him about the lovely weather, maybe even ask him about his cows, and how are they keeping, anything … just to share the joy of being alive in this wonderful world, this cauldron of people, events, happenings, experiences. It all goes phut when he sticks his finger deep inside his nose and says “ Dayd liter doon kya? (Give you a litre and a half?) ” …Kalli

Now you know why the production department doesn’t issue bazookas.

Look, I’m not trying to make a case against anybody. Perfection and me don’t know each other. All I want is a little consideration for your and my feelings. A little civic sense, some good manners, and as the pure Hindi wag would say Sabhya Bartav. You need not be politically correct all the time. You get wild, say so. You want to do your own thing, go ahead. However, that little bit of restraint, that check of your urge, that feeling for your brother being, will make this place a better place. With me?