16.03.06

The other day we went to an Afghan restaurant.

It’s weird to realise that the safest way to experience some cultures is to eat their food in a foreign land.

So with a mind full of curiosity and a stomach full of nothing, we landed safely on an empty table.

The recreated ambience was something that the Afghan embassy and the Taliban, both would have been proud of. Persian carpets donned the walls. And so did the pictures of the beautifully barren Afghan hills.

Suddenly, we saw her. Her eyes commanded attention and her subsequent identity commanded respect.

It was a picture of the famous Afghan girl.

Then something happened

We realised we were in a restaurant and not a museum.

So we asked for the menu.

Cuisines are always more appetising when you can't pronounce their names.

But thanks to serial numbers before each dish and an English translation after them, we knew what we were going to eat.

The food was great.

But that’s not the point.

There was something wrong. Terribly wrong.

Was the man sitting across the table Osama?

Or did the Afghan girl just wink at me?

No such luck.

And that’s when it hit me with the same intensity as a woman who has just realised she forgot to do her manicure this week.

No, I didn’t get hysterical.

The thing was that this restaurant was playing…

I suggest you hold something before reading further.

Yeah, that’s better.

So the thing was that this restaurant was playing (hold tight, here we go) Indian music.

That was exactly my question.

And the answer I came up with was equally obvious.

Maybe they thought that no one in Prague would figure out the difference anyway. So a slice of Nusrat, a spoonful of Anu Malik, a dash of Jatin Lalit and a sprinkle of all that keeps the afternoon housewives engaged in India; and you have got the perfect recipe to con the unsuspecting ear of the foreign customer.

Who, in this case, happened to be an Indian.

So I ate my food, finished the beer, finished her beer, tipped the waiter in the hope that he would only gently kick my back if what I was going to do backfired.

To cut a short story shorter, I went up to the gentleman who was apparently the owner of this Afghan joint.

Me: Sir, I must say I really enjoyed your food….

Osama: (nodding, smiling)

Me: The ambience is perfect…

Osama: (Still nodding, still smiling)

Me: But (while trying to cover mine), I just have one question…

Osama: (as described above)

Me: What’s with the Indian music? I am Indian so I know.

Osama: (no more nodding, definitely not smiling)

He looked across the table to his colleague and murmured something in, I guess, Afghani.

The man looked at me long and hard.

Bin: That’s because Indian music is really popular in Afghanistan.


Before I could bend down to collect my jaw, another old gentleman walked in and was briefed of my nationality.

To quote from one of those diabetic greeting cards, a bright smile lit upon his wrinkled face. Each of his Afghan wrinkle being more pronounced than before.

Laden: You are an Indian?

Me: (smiling and nodding)

Laden: We love Indian music. It’s so popular in Afghanistan.

Me: (still nodding, still smiling)

Laden: Have you heard **** #### musafir?

Me: I know musafir. It means traveller. (I couldn’t get the first two words)

Laden: I mean **** #### musafir, the song by Mukesh.

But this time, I was hoping I could hide myself in one of those hills on the walls.

Laden: You don’t speak Indian?

Me: Of course I speak Hindi. (You never find a hill when you really need one)

Laden: You know Lata, Rafi, Kishore Kumar…?

I immediately said ‘Yes’ to stop further embarassment.

Laden: We are all Indians.

(He just meant to say that the Afghans really admired Indians.)

At that moment, Osama, Bin and Laden all got up to shake my hands.

It seemed like they were meeting someone from their country and I was meeting someone from mine.

The three sweet old gentlemen: You must come here again.

Me: Of course I will.

As I walked out onto the cold winter streets, I felt warm in my heart.

It’s weird when someone from Country A can make you proud of Country B, while all of you are living in Country C.

Jai Hind! Hail Afghanistan! Czech it out!

02.03.06

Today I tasted grapes.

As I dug my 32 fangs into their titillating transparent skins, the accompanying crunching sound challenged the wisdom of four of those fangs.

Grapes with seeds!

Yes, seeds.

Not just any small, miniscule, irrelevant, forgivable errors of nature.

But big enough to make me hunt for my favourite cutlery.

The nitpicking toothpick.

This was definitely not happening to me.

I remember that grapes weren’t supposed to have seeds.

In fact, grapes and bananas were bosom buddies for the same reason.

The books said so.

The teachers said so.

And so did the non-vegetarians.

Grapes were supposed to be the exact existential opposite of watermelons.

Seedless V/s Seedy

Small V/s Big

Green V/s …ok fine!

Grapes were effortless to enjoy.

Pop in. But nothing to pop out.

No need for knives, peelers, plates or a dustbin.

Grapes taught me to swallow without spitting.

To eat without worrying about what lies beneath.

Each time I would nurture the fear of the dark, I would repeat to myself:

Ghosts are like grape seeds.

They don’t exist.

And that fact would reassure me to go to the loo in the night.

Alone.

And now, it’s all gone.

The grape has been raped.

Or in other words, a case of sour grapes.

What else will I unlearn today?