On Friday, a friend had to wait for us at the gate before she could come to our house.   Yes, we live in a gated community, and that means there is a gate.  With gatekeepers who wouldn’t let her in, especially since she came through the “wrong” gate.

So, hop on the Vespa we did and went to rescue her.  It took her a couple of minutes to walk to her car and follow us.  During those 2, maybe 3 minutes, the ladies working at the construction site next to us started engaging us, with hand gestures and giggles and smiles. I waved back, smiled and giggled and jumped back on the Vespa to go to our comfy home.

In my mind, this is my own opinion only, construction workers in India are at the bottom of the totem pole.  I am no economist, no sociologist, no anthropologist, just an observer.  All my friends here agree: the working conditions of construction workers in India are deplorable.  Pitiful.  Criminal if it were the US.  Especially for women.

Everything here is done by hand.  EVERYTHING.  The digging, the carrying, the sifting, the lifting, the making, the everything.  I have not seen a bulldozer in a year.  You know the nice bricks and cinder blocks you find at Home Depot? They are made here, by hand, in little villages close to us. If a building is under 4 or 5 stories high, there are no cranes.  I refuse to take pictures of the situation, of these people.  I do have a few that were accidentally taken while “shooting from the hip” on the scooter, but I am not going to post them here.  The only one that I am allowing myself to post was taken by mistake a few days ago while I was crossing the street and answering a call at the same time.  Stupid phone, that will teach me to multitask!  It shows a man standing in a ditch, hand-dug over several days, using a miserable pickaxe and a shovel.  The dirt taken out is then put into what is best described as a large plastic saucepan about 2 feet in diameter, then often hauled onto a woman’s head.

Digging in Whitefield

Digging in Whitefield

They don’t use wheelbarrows here.  I have seen maybe one or two.  They have women instead.  About a week ago, I was standing on the side of the street next to my school waiting for Sathya to come and take me home.  They were fixing the sidewalk, which meant first breaking the half-broken pieces of concrete to replace them with non-broken ones. A young man hit the concrete with a sledgehammer. Once. Twice. I figured out he needs to hit it in the exact same spot to produce a fissure, otherwise it is wasted energy on his part. Then pieces broke off, from the size of a hand to the size of a head. He set them aside. Two women picked them up, put them into a saucer as described above, and hauled them 5 meters away, creating a big pile of concrete pieces that will stay there for a long time. As in months. They took a few minutes off their job to stare at me and laugh and wave. The usual story, the highlights of my trips here. That is a woman’s main jobs on construction site, to haul stuff from A to B, carrying it on her head, in the plastic plate, with a little towel as a buffer between scalp and plastic. The towel also helps balance it a bit better. Women also sieve sand. I do not know why. This, I have a picture of, found after much cropping of something else I was shooting.

Women sieving and carrying sand

Women sieving and carrying sand

But back to my neighborettes construction workers. These women, unlike all the others I see daily, I had an idea where they live. Yesterday, we went looking for them. I am not sure we found these exact women, but we found a slum about 500 meters from the gate. Here we go again, a slum… I though we were going to find a camp with blue tents, but we found huts made out of cinder blocks, with dirty kids and black puppies running. I swear, this is the first time we get so close to the India described in the documentaries I mentioned last time.  We had prepared a big bag of goodies, and gave it to a very grateful mother who was cooking in front of her home.

That little girl’s dirty face haunted me last night.  Since I couldn’t sleep, I ended up on Google Earth this morning around 5 am and checked every single corner of the outside of the compound. Today we went on a ride again but stayed very close to home, literally on the other side of the compound wall. But you have to go a few kilometers on the real road and then onto dirt roads to get back so close.  We got stuck in sand, E. almost killed us by driving over a rock, we saw cows running away (cows look funny when they run), and an orange kitten (Ah! Proof of the rock at 0:12 on this video and of the cat at 3:37, on top of the wall on the left). No slum there, just little homes.  We met two kids, Santosh and his buddy, about 9 and 7 years old.  Aside from rice and water, I now also distribute crayons. Don’t ask why, I just do. They each got a box of crayons, plus one for the little kid running towards us. Santosh asked me “Aunty, you have food” with the habitual hand to mouth gesture that each time kills you a little bit inside. I apologized for only having rice, and not something fun, like cookies. And you know what? With a big smile, he took my 1kg of rice, and thanked me.

And then he asked “When are you coming back Aunty?”

Posted on November 10, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 1 Comment

Panorama of Shantiniketan complex from top floor, Whitefield, Bangalore

Panorama of Shantiniketan complex from top floor, Whitefield, Bangalore

My India is not a documentary. My India is not two-dimensional. My India is not sound bites and powerful pictures. My India has no social or political or religious agenda. But let me be clear that My India is as real as what you see on TV. I get irritated when people downplay my experiences here as not being the real India. I once posted on Facebook a photo of a Papi, a teenager doing the dishes outside her home. Her home isn’t much to look at.  A friend commented “Ah, the real India”.  Papi is her name, though I doubt this is the proper spelling.  I brought her a copy of the print.  She was inside the house when I came by, so her father, I assume, called her outside.  After she realized I was the silly white woman who waves at everybody from the back of a red scooter, and once she recognized herself on the picture, she giggled like a silly school girl.  She now spots us from afar and waves before I even have time to see her!

So let me get on my soapbox.

My India is that of Information Technology engineers, of lawyers, of CEOs. My India is full of NRIs who have made a small fortune working hard in the US or the UK and are now back in India living a grand life, still working hard and hiring thousands of people. My India is that of medical doctors trained in the UK and who now train other doctors around the world. My India is, sometimes, that of five star hotels, with a staff that is unsurpassed anywhere in the world. You guys rock! My India has children who work at Amazon in Seattle and live in Bellevue.  My India can afford full SUNY tuition. My India has full-time maids and nannies and BMW parked in the garage with drivers. My India lives in the guesthouse/mansion of the state governor’s compound.

Those people are real. Just as my school kids who live in Rajendranagar. And they are Indian. They too are the real India, though not a reality that makes for good ratings on CNN.

My India is weird.  It shakes you and rocks you and whenever you think you have found your balance, it takes for another violent spin.  My India is anything but simple.

But I have yet to see a snake charmer. Maybe I should go watch a documentary.

Posted on November 4, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 7 Comments

I just came back from a month in Europe. And yes, someone died.

Honestly, I was ready to stay behind. Driving again, understanding food in the grocery stores, being able to comprehend every word said around me at any time was soothing. So was showering in water that didn’t smell of rust. Getting on the plane was painful. Leaving family and friends behind is not fun.  I walked to Gate B-23 in Frankfurt, and India sucked me right back in, from a distance. I dress Indian style when I travel to, from or within India.  Aunties smiled at me and gave me the quintessential Indian headshake. The lady at the business lounge who originally refused me access to the much appreciated third floor with free goodies greeted me warmly when I walked back downstairs. “You are living in India, hah?” she said while looking at my earrings and dupatta. Though she speaks what sounds to me like perfect German, she’s from Kerala and I brought her memories of home. My blonde hair wrongfully defines me as German, but my clothes confuse Lufthansa personnel. I like that. I enjoy the looks of complicity I get from some Indian passengers. I feel accepted, recognized as one of “them”, though for a second. I watched a French movie, a Hindi movie, and an American movie.  That sums up my immigration status.

Sathya was waiting for me with his signature smile. He talked to me about being in charge of the cats for a while, about what happened in Indian politics last month and we chatted and laughed all the way. A little over an hour of rediscovering my current home. Less than a month, and there is a brand new glass building in Marathahalli across the place that roasts chickens, a new commercial gallery has opened its doors, and another building sprung out of nowhere on Varthur Road. The streets are decorated for Diwali, though not many lights were on at 3 am. The pack of dogs that lives on our road has increased from 8 to 12, and they are not puppies.

First things first. Yesterday: a dosa. We have an unspoken friendship with one of the busboys at our local dosa restaurant. We have never uttered a word to each other. We have been gone for a while and he smiled when he saw us. His buddies were not so discreetly staring at us, checking us out. Once we finished our meal, he rushed to grab our plates with a huge smile. Those smiles are why I love India, why I am glad to be home. Why I started waving at people again today from the back of the car.

It’s raining cats and dogs, though the weather report states it’s drizzling. Kids, young and young at heart are lighting up firecrackers. It will last a few days. The kittens are not pleased with the situation and are grateful whenever rain starts again, so they get a respite.

Tomorrow I will go and buy Diwali decorations. We will use them for Christmas. I will try my skills at drawing a rangoli on our front step since I brought colored chalk sticks, and our maid will be enjoying her holiday with family. I will buy a new flower bowl to place outside since ours was found broken one morning. We suspect a wild cat knocked it off while drinking from it. I will get marigolds and set them in the bowl, and pretend I know what I am doing.

It’s been a year exactly, and I am finally starting to know what I am doing.

Posted on October 23, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 2 Comments

When I first started going to my school as an English teacher, I also volunteered to be the school photographer. So when they recently asked me to do the school portraits, I sprung to action, with my favorite assistant, hubby extraordinaire.

When we started early during the day, we were a two photographer team, but the light conditions changed and I needed E. to help me create more light onto the kids’ faces, with a reflector. The kids thought the whole situation was very funny, which turned out to be a not so good thing: try and shoot portraits of over 240 giggly fidgety kids!

Let’s talk about fidgety for a second. I had imagined teaching in a school for underprivileged kids would be like those commercials on television, where they show little Elena who lives in a slum, dressed in rags, all puppy-faced, walking in mud. You then send money, and poof! she’s all cleaned up, got a haircut and is sitting pretty in school. Ah! Not true! They do not sit still! Ever! Those kids do not know the meaning of staying in place. They are always playing with a pencil, or a piece of lint, or scratching their arm, hitting their neighbor, standing up, rolling on the floor, standing on the tables, jumping off the tables (I have pictures to prove it), elbowing their too-close classmate. It is not a tv commercial, it’s hard work! (Yet, if you are contributing financially to a reputable organization, please continue to do so. Foreign currency goes a long way).

By now, the kids know me, I have been there for a while. Only a few have met my husband up close. Personally. As in, a foot from his face. What is your name? E… How do you spell that? E-D-W…   And they take off running, laughing their little heads off! Who are you, why are you here? I am Akka’s husband, I am here for the school pictures. Oh. And they take off running.  (Akka means Elder Sister in Tamil and this is how kids refer to women in the school.)

When we show up with a 42 inch round white-silver reflector, that was the amusement of the day. Akka, what is this? Let me show you. And there we demonstrate reflecting available ambient light onto a face. Without fail, the response is AHHHHH. And they take off running.

Several hours of editing later, I have the portraits for most of the children in the school.

Acne and pimples, and skin abrasions, nose rings and earrings, and snot on your face

Bindis and glasses, little chin hairs, cavities and braces, you wrote on your face

Nail polish and make up, scabs on your ears, a smile like a star with braids in your hair

Keep your eyes open, and stop fidgeting, the pic’s out of focus

You really don’t care!

School drawing

Posted on October 15, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | Leave a comment

I have never liked the word expat. It sounds funny: ecs-pah-t. And it’s not even a real word, it’s short for expatriate, “out of your country”, in other words, emigrant.

But in fact, it means a lot more. It means “I am not a native of this country, I come from a developed country, therefore I have money, and now live in a third world country”. Yes, I purposely used a non-politically correct term.

In the early 90’s, when I was a student in Canada, I was an immigrant. It was made painfully clear to me at every occasion. I was often cheated by store owners. My left-leaning doctoral professors with self-professed high interest in social justice, would, during class, make what they believed to be innocent jokes about my origins. Was that relevant to the course? No, but it made other students laugh (students always laugh at professors’ jokes) and therefore made those teachers feel good. I was later accused of stealing money from Canadian students when I received a merit scholarship I hadn’t applied for, since it was, y’a know, based on merit. I was told I was stealing jobs from Canadians when I looked for a summer job, which was allowed under my visa provisions, and required for my thesis.

You get the point. Being an immigrant sucks.  My Colombian friend in Houston will tell you as much.  But she’s not an expat, she’s an immigrant.

In India, we are not immigrants, we are ecs-pah-ts. We drop money left and right. We live in nice houses, we have cooks and drivers and maids and nannies.

And, boy, do we ever have a sense of entitlement!!!!

In the last few days, it has been made public that several expat women have recently been harassed, and assaulted while driving their own cars in Bangalore. This is very sad. On the flip side, last week, the principal at “my” school was mugged while walking a block from the school. Her laptop was stolen, and her shoulder seriously injured. That, as you guess, was not in the paper. Nor did it get the attention of the Police Commissioner who yesterday sat with about 15 expat women, with television cameras rolling and the whole shebang. Yes Ma’am, this is how important expats are here.

This brings two points.  Some expat women clearly expect preferential treatment. I would have been perfectly ok if the meeting had been about women’s safety in the streets of Bangalore. But arranging a meeting to protect some women based on their citizenship is beyond contemptible. The 911 operators don’t speak an English you understand? Well, I have problems understanding certain English accents too. Should the operator be trained in every nuance of the English accents? And the fact that a few women told the Commissioner that Indian culture needs to change so (expat) women feel safer, reeks of modern colonialism.

Not all expats are created equal.  There are the expats who run their own businesses who are better than the people on a company assignment with all expenses paid. There are expats who own their cars, who are better than those who have a driver. There are expats who only use tuk-tuks and public buses who are better than anyone. There are those who live in Indiranagar or Koramangala who are better than those who live in Whitefield. There are those who live in houses who are better than those who live in gated communities. There are those who are married to an Indian who are better than those who are not. There are those who have a paying job who are better than those who volunteer. There are those who tolerate spicy foods who are better than those who don’t. There are those who eat street food who are better than those who eat in five-star restaurants.  There are those who travel the country by train who are better than those who travel by plane. There are the Caucasian who are better than Asians.  There are those who learn Hindi who are better than those who don’t.  There are native English speakers who are better than those who are not. There are the long timers who will (often) be very condescending to new comers. There are those who wear Indian clothes who are… this one I am not sure: you are either better because you’re assimilating, or you’re playing dress up and therefore a fake. The acceptable medium is an expensive 100% silk heavily hand embroidered kurta (tunic) with a draped shawl (but not worn dupatta style) over western pants. I don’t even know how Persons of Indian Origin fit into this list.

You know what? Go attach yourself to another object by an inclined plane, wrapped helically around an axis (*).

And at the bottom of the totem pole of foreigners, you’ll find students. When you go to the FRRO (immigration office), you’ll see white people sitting in the chairs in the morning. If there is a slight problem with your documents and you’re stuck there into later in the afternoon, you’ll see a change in the population. You’ll see a younger crowd, with darker skin and textbooks in dentistry, pharmacy and engineering on their lap. Thousands of students come to India from Africa and the Middle East. I have never seen them represented anytime in the expat forums or organizations.

Yesterday at the meeting, we could have used our clout to increase the safety of all in Bangalore. But what we got is the promise of a police hotline dedicated to expats.

But rest assured that the best expats in Bangalore are the two riding VespaVindaloo!

(*) Another Big Bang Theory reference.

Posted on September 14, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 9 Comments

I am so proud!  One of the photos E. took in Mumbai is used in a website, and with his permission, a rare event in India, where intellectual property rights are about as enforced as women’s rights.

We had gone on a guided tour of the city with Salman and Muzaffar from “Be The Locals”, a tourist agency recommended by the hotel.  This agency was founded and still operated in Dharavi, Mumbai’s (and maybe India’s) most famous slum.  The two young men proudly live there, and attend college.  Their education is funded in part by this job.  As mentioned before (previous post), it was really an entertaining experience.  We selected the “Off Beat” tour, and took tons of pictures.  In the dhobi ghat (the massive mainly manual industrial laundry area), E. made a fun portrait of Muzaffar, who also goes by the name of Ganja.  Go figure!  When he saw it on the camera screen, he asked to have a copy, which I sent him a few days later.

A couple of days ago, I was checking the guide’s agency’s website for a friend, and found E’s picture right there: http://www.bethelocaltoursandtravels.com/OurTeam.aspx

After a lot of editing, here’s my newest version:

Jump Ganja Jump!

Be The Locals also offers tours of the slums.  Many agencies in Mumbai do, especially after the success of “Slumdog Millionnaire”.  We had a long discussion with those guys about it.  Personally, I find it repulsive.  Not the slum, but the idea that I would pay a slum dweller to observe the squalor they live in, then either feel sorry for them, or be grateful for my life, or a combination of both.  My hubby disagrees.  I understand it could be very educational, an eye opener for some.  And if the fees are used for their tuition, all the power to them.  In the U.S., do we let people pay to visit a homeless shelter, a shooting house, a cancer ward?  There is a fine line between curiosity and voyeurism, and that’s my own limit.  From my readings (not experience), I understand the tours are designed to showcase the positive energies of Dharavi, but strategically avoid certain less rosy areas.

Next time we go to Mumbai, E. may go.  I probably won’t.

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 1 Comment

Unless you have lived under a rock for the last couple of weeks, you have heard about the “ice bucket challenge”. Last time I checked, the ALS society has raised over 70 million US dollars. Nice. Honestly, after the couple of videos posted on Facebook, I grew tired of the selfies.

A woman in Hyderabad has adapted this new form of fundraising to one of India’s main problems: poverty. She is asking that, instead of dumping ice water and ice cubes on our heads, especially since water is scarce and electricity (for the ice cubes) is also a problem, we challenge our inner circle to donate a bowl of rice to poor people. And because we are a very vain society, she says you should take a picture of yourself giving the bag to the poor person and post it on social media.

As you know, we have been distributing water bottles on our scooter rides. Today is the first day of Ganesh Chaturthi, a 10-day festival honoring Ganesh. Since E. had the day off, we went on a scooter ride checking for fun things to see, with rice! Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned it, so this morning when I raided the pantry, I only had enough for two 1-quart Ziploc bags of rice. Pretty pathetic, but it’s a start.

We ended up in the village of Pura. An old woman was walking her two cows home. She was wearing a dark red sari, and was barefoot. Her two cows were nice, dark black, clippity clopping on a dirt path. She smiled at us and waved. We passed her and I asked E. to stop. I took off my helmet, for I do not want be confused with a Martian, walked about 100 feet towards her, and handed her the bag. She presented both her hands and I placed it them. She smiled, a bit confused because she now needed a place to put it. She nestled it in her elbow and thanked me. Namaste style. No other word, a smile.

An older gentleman approached us. He was agitated, in the funny happy way. He was talking to us in, I don’t know, Kannada maybe, or Tamil? By some magic of human interaction, we understood he wanted to know where we are from. Whitefield. Oh, this is not the way, this road you’re going on is bad. Turn around, that road is good. A couple of kids were also there, probably using their English with foreigners for the first time. They concurred, we had to turn around. We gave all of them a bottle of water. We weren’t lost, we were just exploring, but E. turned the scooter around anyway, we weren’t about to disrespect him. And the old man started jogging in front of us to show us the way (video here on VespaVindaloo’s YouTube page), until we reached the “big” intersection. And then, he asked I take a picture of him.

I know people who give should not brag about it, it’s in bad taste. But if anyone in India is reading this, and wants a warm fuzzy feeling, as a well as a few tears, do it.

I challenge you to do it and not cry.

Posted on August 29, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 6 Comments

I have now been waiting for the electrician for more than 8 hours.  “Something whatever whatever, Madam”.  Nevermind.

Why the electrician again?

On Monday afternoon when the cook came, I decided to stop the dryer since the kitchen had become a sauna.  The exhaust of the dryer blows back the heat inside the house, more precisely inside the kitchen, which renders it pretty inhospitable.  So, as a courtesy to the lady, I switched it off.  And saw this:

tea

Not good.  This outlet was installed after we moved in, because the previous one didn’t have enough capacity for this type of appliance (don’t ask me any more details, I don’t know).  Therefore this is a brand new outlet, installed by professionals for this unique purpose.  But poof.  Why didn’t it trip instead of burning?  I don’t know.  Surprised? No.

After our cook left, I thought it would be a good idea to finish drying the towels.  I tried to unplug the cord.  And saw this:

tea-8

Even worse.

However, today, while waiting for the Award Winning Master Electrician that works in our complex (no no, I am not kidding, this guy has won awards.  What for?  I don’t know, but I have a few suggestions to make!), I learned to make chai, the famous Indian tea.  Our cook showed me again yesterday, since my first attempt at replicated her instructions about a month ago resulted in brown tasteless milky tea.  Yesterday, I took pictures, which she thought was hilarious, and this afternoon, I nailed it!

Put ¾ cup water in a saucepan and heat until you start seeing baby bubbles.

Add 1 ½ tsp black loose tea.

Start boiling.  Yes, boil.  Don’t do it the British way.  BOIL THE TEA!

Add 4 green cardamom pods that you smush in a mortar just enough to open the pods.  Don’t make a puree of it.

And 1 inch ginger that you also smush, but not together with the cardamom.

Boil until you get a nice dark brown color.

Add ¾ cup milk, and sugar to taste.  It’s better to add the sugar now than in your cup at the end.

Bring to a boil, then simmer for about 5 minutes.  You will have a skin on the milk.

Strain and slurp.  I really mean slurp, it taste much better this way!

It’s now time to go on a hunt for a fire extinguisher.

Posted on August 19, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | 4 Comments

Yesterday was India’s Independance Day, or equivalent of the Fourth of July for Americans, or Bastille Day for the French.  India is 68 years old.  We didn’t see any fireworks, nor military parades, but we saw quite a bit of patriotic fervor in Bangalore.

flag

This gentleman tried to sell us pins while we were stopped at a red light.  After he understood I wasn’t interested, he insisted we take a picture of him, without asking for spare change in return.  Indians love to have their picture taken!

flag-2

We spent the morning at the school where I volunteer.  Like most schools, they had an official hoisting of the flag, and some dancing and plays by students.  We saw an 8 year-old Gandhi who was bent in two laughing, and a 5 year-old General Something (sorry, I don’t remember the name), who, when probed as to who he was, shyly answered “Satish”, his own name!  E. was amazed at how many people they can cram in the assembly/meal room.  I counted at least 13 rows of 8 to 10 students, plus dozens of teachers, administrators and guests.  Women I usually see wearing “western” clothes had donned on their pretty sarees.  Next year I will get all decked out!  Most of the kids were wearing wrist bands in the flag’s colors, wearing pins, or waiving little flags.

The school has no playground, it is nestled in the middle of a street, in an old bakery.  It was sweet to see the neighbors peering from their balconies, or even trying to sneak into the assembly room.  If only it could be an incentive to getting those kiddos in any school.

When Sathya came to pick us up after the event, he was all excited about Modi’s speech that he had been listening to while waiting for us.  I think we came back too soon and interrupted it! (Reminder: Narendra Modi is the newly elected Prime Minister, a rather controversial figure, but an amazing orator).  The media has summed up his one-hour comments in 7 to 10 points.  Among the urgent need for more industries, and better sanitation (building a toilet in each school is a goal), the one that rang close to my heart, and which was the rallying cry of the school principal, is the answer to the question: “When will India be truly independent?”

When all women can safely walk alone.

flag-11

 

Posted on August 16, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | Leave a comment

It took 10 months and a trip back to Texas for us to consider that maybe it’s time to reintroduce meat into our diet. This also probably comes from the fact that although we have a cook who comes twice a week, her vegetarian repertoire is quickly running short.  It’s always yummy vegetable mush, with spices.

Let me start with why I am reluctant to eat meat here. First is a respect for their culture. Second is hygiene. Third is the way they process meat is different than in the US. Whenever we eat meat in a “normal” restaurant (i.e. not a five star hotel), we encounter tendons and little bones. Fourth and fifth: again, hygiene.

This is what a common butcher place looks like:

There are places that sell meat for expats and other rich people. They pride themselves on the fact that the meat is imported, hence, most probably frozen. To me, that’s a problem in itself. I do not like meat that has been frozen. I do not like “Omaha Steaks” back home. And freezing meat requires constant refrigeration, which requires quasi constant electricity, which in India requires working generators.   There is no way of telling if a product has been thawed and re-frozen, and that scares me. This country has enough bacteria in the water, no need to add unfrozen bacteria to the lot!

But I gave in.  And on Sunday, we went looking for meat.

We took the scooter to the first “good” meat shop. The young man there, without putting his phone down, asked us what we wanted. Lamb. He doesn’t’ understand. So, in my best lamb voice, I go “beehhheeehh“? They smile. Goat? No, mutton, baby mutton. The other man sitting in front of dead fish laying in ice cubes chimes in.  Lamb we have.  Minced lamb? No. And he proudly pulls out an unwrapped frozen leg of lamb out of a Styrofoam cooler, with his bare hands. Kheema pav lamb? No, sorry madam !

Of course we had to get lost on our way to the second “good” store. A nice little trip through the side streets south of Varthur road is always a pleasant ride, albeit uncomfortable because of the thousands of potholes.

We park in front of store number two, above the pet store, which has several generators in the front.  With a huge painting of Jesus above the cash register, they advertise right away that they are Christian. Since there are no religious dietary restrictions, they can sell any meat. E. got his pound of fresh minced lamb. I lusted after a bag of frozen chicken nuggets, and, all happy, took them out of the refrigerated case, ready to buy them. Then my heart sank. I could feel that the nuggets were soft. Limp. Thawed. Who knows how many times they had been frozen and thawed, and frozen and thawed?  So I put them back.  And to make matters a bit worse, yet funny, the cashier gave me my change back in candy. Three miserable candies in lieu of three rupees, as is customary when they run out of coins! I gave her an amused, yet dirty look, and she smiled, half embarrassed, half cocky!  I gave them to a little kid walking by with his parents, that made his day!

On Sunday night, we ate the famous kheema pav.  I should say “fusion” kheema pav, since I decided to add elbow macaroni to the plate!  And to quote my nieces, we cooked that lamb until it (and all potential bacterium) was dead!

Kheema pav

Bon appétit!

Posted on August 14, 2014 by Kitty Vindaloo | Leave a comment