FIX THIS RHAPSODY
1 August 2006
by Bi Lee
I got down from the long listless hours of flight at Indira Gandhi International Airport. Plenty of people wearing touristy caps and slogan shirts were crowding around the arrival hall. I paused, and let the distinct scent of jasmine and roses steal over me like paralysis. No doubt, I was ascending into the mystical embrace of India.
“Are you okay?” Saffin asked, interrupting my thought of how the beggars would beseech me for handouts and merchants trying every trick to part me and my dollar.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m probably too hungry,” I replied restlessly as he broke into a smile.
I first met Saffin three years ago when I was studying in the University of New South Wales. His family runs a farm in the heart of Avon Valley, Perth. The farm provides one of Western Australia finest bed and breakfast accommodation. His father is an Australian and his mother was born and raised in India until the age of seventeen. Saffin had always introduced the both of us as “best friends” to his family and friends. I must admit that at certain times I really do feel attracted to him and I wonder if he ever felt the same.
We quickly unpacked our luggage at Kaw’s apartment along Barakhamba Road. Kaw is Saffin’s cousin and has offered us to put up in his 1930s’ colonial-inspired apartment since he is always out of the country for business purposes. We embarked on a whirlwind rickshaw ride around Old Delhi. Shahjahanabad is still surrounded by crumbling city walls and three surviving gates. It is a very much individual city-predominantly a labyrinth of tiny lanes crowded with rickshaws, and lined with 17th-century havelis (Indian mansions). We stopped at Chor Bizarre along Asaf Ali Road, like Saffin said, “a perfect place for lunch”. Chor Bizarre literally means “thieves’ market”, and in it I discovered intentionally worn and mismatched china wares and a 1927 Fiat Roadster that serves as a buffet table. None of the chairs are the same and the walls are loaded with photos of Elvis and Marilyn. Luckily, the kitsch stopped here.
“What would you like to have?” Saffin asked.
“You decide since you’re the host and the one who will be paying afterwards,” I chuckled and in return got a weird glance from the exhausted waiter.
Saffin placed the order in a different tongue and his words seemed awakening to the waiter. Rice was served thereafter on pieces of banana leaves. When the dishes arrived, Saffin briefly introduced the orders. There were Rogan Josh (curried lamb), Gushtaba (spicy meatballs in yogurt), the Tandoori chicken (chicken marinated in herbs and baked in clay oven) and the palak patta chat (spinach leaves coated with flour and topped with tamarind chutney and blended yogurt).
“Meat dishes are more common in North India,” he continued.
There was a long pause, before he filled the awkward silence by enlightening me on one of the many customs of India, “You are to eat with your fingers but remember, only of your right hand.”
While Saffin settled the bill at the cashier, I caught sight of some seeds in a clear glass bowl on the counter, “Chew on some of these, these are cumin seeds...” Before he could finish his sentence, the cashier interrupted in poor English and after some attempt I found out that he was trying to say, “Good for digestion”.
We stopped along the jam-packed Kinari Bazaar and I got to savour countless irresistible snacks on every street corner. There was Rasgullas (cream cheese balls flavoured with rose water), Gulab Jamuns (flour, yoghurt and ground almonds) and Jalebi (pancakes in syrup). Despite the sensory explosion of tastes, the spiciness of the curried lamb still left a tingling sensation on my taste buds.
The day ended with an exotic belly dancing show at Dublin. The club has the largest collection of single malts in Delhi, and with its Irish theme decor fancies itself Delhi’s most exclusive club.
Next morning, I awoke to the aroma of Indian-style breakfast. As I approached the kitchen, I saw the cheese naan laid neatly on the table. I watched Saffin’s back as he prepared the rest of the dishes, taking no notice that I was behind him. Questions started surfacing at the back of my head. Where did he learn to cook? Whom did he prepare his first meal for?
After a late breakfast, we set off to Agra, 200 kilometers southeast of Delhi and four hours by train to reach. It is home to the finest examples of Mughal architecture in India, of which the Taj Mahal is simply the most reowned. Saffin had said that if anyone managed to get to the Taj first, the person will hear what might aptly be described as “the sound of infinity”, the vibration created by air moving through the huge ventilated dome. As soon as the first visitor walks in, jabbering away, it reverberates throughout the room, and the sacred moment is lost until closing time again.
We checked into Trident Hilton Agra by evening. During the wee hours, we left the hotel room hurriedly as if we were in cahoots for a crime. We had planned to reach the Taj before dawn. The Taj was built by Shah Jahan as an eternal symbol of his love for his wife whom he called Mumtaz Mahal. I looked into Saffin’s eyes under the soon disappearing moonlight and a sizzling feeling entered the very fabric of my being, like a fervent desire. It was evidently not the curried lamb nor the alluring belly dancers. Saffin gently leaned against me and I felt his warm breath on my cheeks. “Let’s fall in love,” he whispered. Time moved imperceptibly as the delicate touch of the sun immersed us in the heated feelings of love.
Consolation: Singapore Polytechnic 2006 Creative Writing Competition