Continental Breakfast

A Man Who Enjoys a Continental Breakfast - Key & Peele

"Here's your key, sir.  Elevators are to your left.  Breakfast is from 6 am to 10 am."

I glanced at the breakfast area.  Through the darkness I spotted a bagel slicer.  My mind darted back to a stay I had endured at a questionable hotel in Manhattan about a decade ago.  I recalled the tempestuous debate I had had with the hotel manager regarding some crumbs I had noticed inside the bagel slicer; the point of contention being that the manager believed they were innocent scrapings from cinnamon-raisin bagels and I believed they were remnants of ordure produced by the rodents I was sure to have seen scampering around the corner.  

I shuddered.

As I walked towards the elevator, I hallucinated rainbow colored mice carrying cinnamon-raisin bagels alongside me.  It was almost midnight.  I clearly needed sleep.  Leaving the rodents behind, I stepped into the elevator.

The oblique light of dawn kissed me into wakefulness.  Propping myself up between the severely tucked sheets, I looked around, squinting.  The room looked pretty neat.  A huge window, a large screen TV, a small frig, a microwave, a fancy upholstered slipper chair, and a pretty clean looking carpet.  I took a deep breath.  No musty smell.  Not bad, I thought to myself.  I rolled out of bed and walked up to the window.  The sun was rising over the horizon the DC metro area seemed to disappear into.   My gaze got fixated on a systematic cloverleaf highway interchange that was layered carefully over a labyrinth of disorderly local roads, and it suddenly gave me a sense of security and strengthened my faith in the positive nature of evolutionary advancement of civilization.  A great deal of good cheer returned to my disposition.  Bagel bearing vermin were long forgotten.

My stomach growled.  

As I took the elevator down, I caught a whiff of bacon.  Being a vegetarian, there was a slight dwindling in the optimism I had garnered earlier, but I didn't lose heart.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself.  I stepped out of the elevator and incorporated my hungry frame into the esurient assemblage of a couple dozen hotel guests.  The mob seamlessly transported me to the hot food section with three stainless steel chafing containers.  I ignored the first one that contained bacon.  The second one had breakfast potatoes.  You know, the cubed and roasted and seasoned kind.  Good, I thought to myself, this I can eat!  And just I had made up my mind, the sinless fella ahead of me in the line used the bacon tongs to serve himself the potatoes!

Great!  Potatoes were out now.  

I strengthened my resolve.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself, and approached the third chafing container.  Scrambled eggs!  Yay, I told myself, I can eat this!  I could almost feel the good cheer returning as I dug into the eggs with the ladle.  And just as I was about to serve the eggs on my plate, I saw a small piece of bacon stuck to the bottom of the ladle!  This time, all of the good cheer vanished.  I must have dropped the ladle hard on spoon rest, because my sinless friend suddenly turned around and stared at me.  I looked at him and shrugged.

Next was a wall mounted plastic cereal dispenser with Froot Loops, and a jug of cold milk labeled "skim".  Although by no means was cereal my breakfast de choix, I decided to suck it up and serve myself some, because, you know, complimentary breakfast is a good thing.  Mustering up some of that good cheer again, I took a bowl and turned the knob on the dispenser.  What followed was an ugly crushing sound.  Before I knew it, a jet of colorful fairy dust like powder shot into my bowl!

Eggs out.  Cereal out.

By this point, good cheer was beginning to seem like an academic abstraction.  The mob now ferried me over to the section with breads.  As I walked past the cream cheeses and butters and jams, I managed to muster up just a tiny bit of some lukewarm cheer.  Bread it is, I told myself, I can eat that.  With butter.  May be I'll even throw some ketchup on it.  Oh, and I can even season it with black pepper.  Or how about a jam sandwich?  Or may be I could do a nice crisp toast with cream cheese smeared on it.  Oh, and I could season this one with black pepper too!

It wasn't exactly good cheer, but it was something.  I straightened my spine and marched forth with the mob.  And just as I was feeling more determined, the mob deposited me right in front of that bagel slicer!  

As I felt my PTSD kick in, I rapidly looked away and focused my attention on the bread case next to it.  I scanned the assortment to make my choice.  White bread?  No, I can do better than that, I said to myself.  Multigrain bread?  Nah, that's basically white bread with some grains.  Rye bread?  What is rye bread anyway?  Oh, wait, what's that...?  

Lo and behold!  I could spy with my little eyes some innocent scrapings from non-existent cinnamon-raisin bagels!

Worth Five Rupees

Today was different.  Sundar's pockets jingled with exactly five one-Rupee coins - the minimum autorickshaw fare back in 1996.  He had spent all day at school checking his pockets to make sure they were still there.  He hadn't ridden his Atlas city bike to school today, thanks to a flat tire.  His dad had given him five Rupees when he had dropped him off at school that morning, with the intention that he would take an autorickshaw back home instead of walking.  However, as the day progressed, alternate plans had brewed in Sundar's head.  As the final bell rang, Sundar strengthened his resolve.  Today was the day.  He had had all day to work out the logistics.  No one would know!, he thought to himself.  

Without saying a single bye, Sundar left his friends behind and began walking in the direction of his home.  He passed the autorickshaw stand.  Rikshaw wale Kakas looked at him expectantly, but he wasn't going to take a riskshaw today.  No sir.  His focus was completely different today.  Making sure no one was watching him, he quickened his pace.  Within 5 minutes he reached the intersection, the venue for today's covert operation.  He paused and took a moment to contemplate the scene.  As always, the street sounds began to instantly fade out and time seemed to come to a standstill.  The lone tapri on the corner began to get larger and larger in his frame of vision, sort of like the "dolly zoom" effect used in psychological thriller movies.

Snapping out of it, he began moving quickly toward the tapri.  As always, the tapri looked discordantly serene.  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", the little chalkboard easel in front of it screamed.  Cheap.  Even in 1996.  Notwithstanding the fact that not once had Sundar seen a soul around the tapri, munching on the said kachori, he started walking faster.  The unpopularity of the kachori vendor raised absolutely no flags in Sundar's foodie brain.  Besides, he was also incredibly drawn by the mystique that surrounded the tapri.

Sundar wasn't what you would consider overweight by today's standards.  Mind you though, he wasn't a particularly lean kid by any standards either.  In fact, back in the 90s, kids with his kind of BMI were a rarity.  Heads usually turned, not in a kindly way.  Kids like Sundar were usually picked on and hazed by the skinner ones.  They were often chosen, rather callously, by physical education instructors in schools as exhibits of abhorrent body types.  Thankfully, Sundar was pretty comfortable in his, what many Indians called, "healthy" body.  He loved food.  Homemade meals, restaurant fare, or street-side pick me ups, it didn't matter.  He just loved food.  His parents took pride in that he wasn't a picky eater.  He took pride in that he never disappointed his friends' mothers when they offered him food when he visited them.

Every afternoon on his way back home from school, Sundar would always stop pedaling his bike when he approached intersection, and take a moment check his pockets to see if he had two rupees.  He never did.  Obviously.  He was 12.  He didn't carry money that his parents didn't give him.  And his parents didn't give him money he didn't need.  Today was an exception though.  He had five whole Rupees in his pocket today.  With that kind of money he could eat two kachoris!  He had it all planned.  He would buy one kachori first.  He would first make a hole in the top layer, then ask for chutney.  He would then pour that chutney into the hole and then sink his top teeth into the deliciously crisp and flaky kachori.  After the first kachori, he would then buy a second one.  This one would be sans chutney and "for the road".  What a plan!  He put his right hand into his right pants pocket and jingled the five one-rupee coins.  Feeling wealthy and twitching with nervous excitement, he walked right up to the counter and squeaked, "Kaka, ek kachori dya na…"

Sundar then peered into the tapri.  Something felt off at once.  Tapri wale Kaka looked less like a kachori vendor and more like an investment banker.  He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, blue silk tie, expensive looking trousers with a rather fancy leather belt, and shiny black dress shoes.  Faithful to the 90s Indian male business fashion, he wore gold rimmed glasses, his beard was clean shaven, and his mustache was carefully trimmed.  Sundar rapidly started becoming skeptical about his grand plan.  Unlike typical vendors, there wasn't a single kachori in display.  In fact, barring the chalkboard easel that said  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", there wasn't a single indication that the tapri was a kachori store.  All it contained was a singular table with a glass top and nothing on it, and an expensive looking chair on which Tapri wale Kaka sat.

Tapri wale Kaka slowly rose from his seat, and smiled at Sundar, revealing his perfectly white and even set of teeth.  In a baritone and a totally unexpected British accent, he asked:

"Would you fancy one or two kachoris, kind Sir?"

Hearing the word "kachori" in a British accent made Sundar instantly panic.  Instinctively, he turned around and bolted.  The five one-Rupee coins jingled uncontrollably in his pocket as he went hell for leather.  He ran faster than his legs could carry.  Not once did he turn around.  He didn't care for the traffic.  He charged through the intersection, causing all the Baja Chetaks, Hero Honda Splendors, autorickshaws, PMC buses, and Maruti 800s to honk simultaneously at him.  Sundar didn't stop.  He cursed his Atlas city bike for having a flat tire that day.  Had he biked to school, his dad would have never given him the five Rupees, and he would never have succumbed to the lust for the kachori.  Panting his way to the sidewalk, he decided to hold his Atlas city bike responsible for anything bad that might happen to him today.  Just as he thought he had abated danger and had begun slowing down, he heard the British baritone again behind him:

"Care for this awfully delicious chutney on the side, sir?  It's bloody exquisite, I must say…"

Panic returned like the devil.  Without turning and looking, Sundar simply started running and cutting through the wind like a bat out of hell.  He ran and ran until he felt the ground give way under him.  Then he felt himself fall into a never ending abyss.  He wanted to scream, but his lips wouldn't part.  He felt gagged.  He tried vocalizing with his mouth closed, but there was no sound.  It was as if his vocal cords had ceased to exist.  He began flailing his limbs helplessly.  Defying all laws of physics, he felt being drawn into the earth faster than terminal velocity.  For some reason, he could also hear a distant beeping that seemed to echo limitlessly in the bottomless pit.

The alarm clock jolted Prabhakar awake.  He sat up sweating and panting.  Wasting no time, Prabhakar threw back the covers and ran out through the front door of the apartment and down the stairs.  There was his teenage son Sundar's Atlas city bike, safely chained to a side rail and both tires nicely inflated!

The Proposal - Part II

"Sit", the rider said and motioned to him with an almost undetectable wave of the hand.  

Before he could fully process the unsought invitation and the brusque manner of the rider, she exclaimed, "Appa!"

He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook.  He froze.

"Sit", her dad reiterated.

"Appa!", she reiterated.

A moment of uncomfortable silence.  

A battered tempo passed them.  The clunking noise its wheels made as they rolled over the railroad tracks eased the silence for a bit.  Her dad looked at him through the face shield of the red and black helmet he was wearing.  Clearly, he was being expected to show some reaction.  Quick, say something!  He unfroze.  His brain prompted him to say Namaste! and Oh okay! at the same time.  He ended up blurting out: 

"Namaste! Okay?"

Bad start.  He refroze.

Luckily, the battered tempo honked obnoxiously at the exact same time and drowned out his fumble.

"I'll walk", she said and started walking.  His frozen brain took too long to process what just happened.  Before he knew it, she had disappeared leaving him alone with her dad.

"Sit", her dad repeated patiently.  He immediately felt an unforeseen sense of warmth.  Her dad wasn't smiling, yet he felt a sense of kindliness, in the face of which his botched "Namaste" seemed all the more imbecilic.

This time he simply followed the instruction and decided not to open his mouth.  The motorcycle started its journey uphill.  They passed the battered tempo.  The poor thing was whining its way uphill.  Seemed pretty symbolic.

Suddenly, her dad asked him a question.  Unfortunately, the battered tempo honked again, drowning out the question almost entirely.  All he heard was: "… bus … time … … … … village … auto?".

Awkward.  He knew it was a question because of the upward intonation on the word "auto", but what was the question?  Was it a wh- question or a how question?  Maybe he was being asked if the bus was on time?  But what did autos and villages have to do with that?  He began panicking.  He looked at her dad’s helmet.  It had red streaks on a black background.  Or were they black streaks on a red background?  If only he could get access to the helmet later, he could then take some measurements and … Shut up and focus!  He had to respond. Quickly.

"Yes, Appa", he said irrelevantly.

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He froze again.  Maybe he shouldn’t have said Appa.  Uncle was probably more appropriate.  But why did he say “yes”?  What was he agreeing to?  

This wasn’t going well.

They turned onto a smaller road.  The gradient got steeper and her dad switched the motorcycle to a lower gear.  He realized that this was the private access road that lead to their home.  He breathed a little easier when he spotted her standing on the front porch.  Her mother and grandfather were standing beside her.  His breathing quickened again as their motorcycle pulled up.  He got down.  Expecting them to look resentful and displeased to see him, he summoned his best Namaste and opened his mouth to convey it.  But before he could, she exclaimed, "Amma!"

"Eh?", his tongue failed him yet again.

"Ajja!", she exclaimed again.

He just realized that she wasn't having a field day with words either.  Somehow, it didn't help that both her mother and grandfather had unexpectedly warm smiles on their faces.  He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook either.  Time to say that Namaste!, he thought.

"Wash your feet!"

He was caught unawares by this order from her dad's direction.  He turned around and blurted out:

"Namaste?"

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He started to feel the situation fall apart.  Panic returned.  But then suddenly, her mom said her first words:

"Have you eaten anything?"

If you are an Indian, you know these aren't just words of cordiality.  You know the sincerity behind this question.  And the question had been asked with so much tenderness that he immediately began breathing easier.

"Let him wash his feet first...", her dad said.

"Was the bus on time?", her grandfather said his first words.

"Come, it's almost lunch time!  You must be tired...", her mom said.

"We have a little tap on the other side of this bush, you can wash your feet there...", her dad said.

"Did you walk here from the bus stand?", her grandfather asked.

"I'm not sure if you like balekayi, here we use balekayi for many items...", her mom continued.

"The tap is somewhat hidden, come let me show you...", her dad continued.

"I used to walk from the bus stand too when I was younger.  Nowadays it has become hard...", her grandfather continued.

"I hope you like our food, you may not be used to our taste..."

"Your feet will dry, don't worry.  Come, let's go in..."

"Ours is a small village, but it has become so easy these days with buses and autos!"

"Do you mind sitting on the floor for lunch, or do you want to sit at the table?"

"He's young and healthy, of course he'll sit on the floor!"

"Sitting on the floor is the best posture for eating..."

An overwhelming feeling of warmth engulfed him.  He glanced at her.  She was beaming with happiness and pride.  Things were going to be alright after all!

The Proposal - Part I

The tortuous route that bisected the mountain massif didn't exactly help his nerves.  He stared blankly out the rusty bus window at the lush green trees pass by.  The unmatched splendor of the Sahyadri ranges that disappeared into the horizon nested against an unperturbed blue sky did nothing to comfort him.  The beauty of the landscape felt jarring to him.  The late morning breeze that hit his face felt uncomfortable.  He felt queasy.  

She didn't say a word.  She held his arm tight and rested her head on his shoulder.  She understood.  She was nervous herself.  Thoughts raced in her head, as they always tended to.  How would the rest of the day go?  How would they react?  What would it all culminate in?  She tried to clear her head.  Bending down, she extracted a little Frooti carton from her backpack and waved it at him inquiringly.  He shook his head.

She recounted in her mind all the events that had transpired over the last two years.  Within that short span, their relationship had endured an elaborate arc traversing from their eyes first meeting, to the initial infatuation period, to the enlightenment of love, to long distance dating, to painful separation, to patching back up, and to finally deciding to commit to each other in marriage.  His parents had agreed for the most part, but they thought he was too young and not ready to get married as yet.  On the other hand, her parents had not agreed at all, but thought she getting older and was on the verge of entering the desi-girl-unmarriageable-age-bracket and had to be found a suitor within the community (i.e. not him).  They were both the exact same age, by the way.

Teetering down the meandering ghat section, the bus finally made its descent onto the low elevation plateau.  She felt a slight sense of comfort as the bus entered the small town she had grown up in.  For him though, this was the first time in the region.  Normally he would have been taking in the surroundings cerebrally by observing the streets and shops and asking questions.  Not today though.  He was too keyed up.  She thought he might feel better if she chatted with him about her city, so she began jabbering.  He pretended to listen.

The bus pulled into the bus stand and rolled to a stop.  Debarking with their two backpacks, they walked through the noisy bus stand and exited into the busy street.  She had stopped jabbering by now, and was lost in thought.  What would her dad say?  She knew her mom sympathized.  Deep down she knew her dad did too.  She understood that it wasn’t them.  It was societal pressure.  Relatives.  Neighbors.  But she wasn’t going to knuckle under all that.  She was a fighter.  She had always been.

As they maneuvered past a pack of haphazardly parked two-wheelers, he felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him.  He looked around.  Not a single familiar face.  Yet, he felt watched.  He felt they were both being watched.  He immediately understood the importance of being formally committed.  She had harped on this subject one too many times.  That was exactly what this whole plan was about.  His trip from the US.  This idea to go and meet her parents.  That was the proper thing to do.  Right.  Still and all, would he walk away with a yes?  Or would this be the end of it all?  Was this all worth it?  But then again, what other choice did they have?  He felt a single bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.  Positive thoughts!, he told himself.

A hasty auto-rikshaw dangerously careened around the corner as they both made their way toward her childhood home.  After being momentarily startled, she went back to her thoughts.  The circumstances as they stood at the time hadn't just come by.  She had fought for the situation to be the way it was.  And she was ready to keep fighting.  She was certainly glad that his parents had agreed so willingly.  Imagine if they hadn't!  With his family on board, it felt like half the battle had been won, like they had some conditional warrant in their back pockets.  And she was grateful for this.  Then she began thinking about her grandfather.  Him being the head of the household, a lot depended on his disposition.

After about 30 minutes of walking they reached a busy intersection with railroad tracks.  She told him they were now really close.  His collywobbles began intensifying.  Suddenly, he heard a motorcycle approach behind him...

The green thumb

"What do we do with all this?"

"I don't know.  Just don't make all my efforts go waste."

"Okay, so more thokku?  Or should I just blanche, peel, and make paste to freeze?  And what about this one?  Cut and freeze?  What I'll do is dice this one up and put it in 3 freezer bags, keep one here, keep one in the freezer downstairs, and the last one we can keep…"

"Chumma don't say big big dialogs.  Simply show off…"

"Wait… what?  No… I'm really asking…"

"Leave it, Lalit.  Already that one from last week I went bad.  I had to throw it…"

"Haan…"

"What haan…"

"I mean, yeah… sorry… I meant to cut that one…"

"Your sorry has no meaning… simply show off…"

"Hmm…"

"What hmm…"

"Okay, tell me what to do with all this?"

"You figure it out na?  Why am I responsible for everything in this house?"

"Okay, so cut and freeze?  And what about thokku?"

"Grrrr… I don't know… Just don't make all my efforts go waste."

"Tell na…"

"…"

I have a problem.  Sometimes I keep asking the same question and inciting conflict even when I know the conversation has reached a stalemate.  Especially in situations where I am in denial about not being of much help.  

In any case.  The point I'm trying to make here is that I heretofore haven't adequately appreciated the fact that Pavana has a green thumb.  I have largely failed to recognize her remarkable prowess as a home gardener until now.  I mean, I always appreciated her passion for growing vegetables, but being geoponically challenged, I never comprehended the laudability of Pavana's talent in this area until recently when I realized that every single visitor to our house lately not only admired the viridity of our indoor plants but were also awed when they saw the huge ash gourds (white pumpkins) she grew.  If there were a reality show like MasterChef for home gardeners, say MasterGardener or PlantingPundits or something (ABC/NBC are you listening?), Pavana would certainly be a strong contender.

With that said, 2021 for us has been a year of roma tomatoes, big boy tomatoes, grape tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, green beans, long beans, Chinese eggplants, bitter gourds, snap peas, ash gourds, delicata squashes, drumstick greens, red amaranth greens, green amaranth greens, lettuce, karpuravalli, mint, malabar spinach, green peppers, purple bell peppers, and I feel like I am forgetting some more crop.  And mind you, my contribution of effort toward this bounty is minimal to nada.  Our freezers are brimming with veggie rations ready for winter cooking, some diced, some whole.  I am actually surprised we didn't get a censorious letter from our HOA during the summer, because when someone asked us directions to our house, we literally told them to come to the one with a cladding of trellises of tomato and squash vines near the front door!