My Korean Guru

My interactions with Korean taxi drivers are very minimal. The doormen at the hotel give the driver the destination. Most of them know where my office is and once we leave the hotel, the 40 minute drive is spent in near silence. And since I have resolutely refused to pick up any Korean, the only exchanges are the mutual Thank you-s and nice day-s said while alighting. This isn't the usual case however elsewhere. I really respect that profession where timings are so critical - be it a call taxi driver in Chennai or someone piloting A380s. Also, numerous drivers have made sure that I was at the station or airport on time more times than I can count now. I also feel bad for the tribe of drivers in general (Thank you Mr. Arvind Adiga!) what with all that waiting, negotiating through bad traffic and putting up with someone else's schedules. I have single handedly led to abnormal blood pressure conditions in many drivers across many lands. And hence, fuelled partly by guilt, even if I'm not in the mood for a conversation, which is when I get the most loquacious drivers, I tend to be polite and try to hold up my end of the conversation to the extent possible. But with my seriously limited Korean vovabulary (I still haven't picked up the word for "vegetarian", usually my first word in any language) I am saved even that trouble. Moreover, in Korea, as I'm always catching up on lost sleep, I'm not quite risen on the morning taxi ride and remain only clinically alive, sprawled out on the rear seat.

All that changed with my recent trip to Korea. On the first morning, a frail old man with his greying hair neatly parted and combed back, pulled up to the portico of the hotel in his beat up Hyundai. The doorman poked his head through the window and informed my destination. Which is when I heard a raspy, "Oph kors oph kors! I know." from within the cab. Instinctively I knew this could mean prtotracted conversations. Sure enough, as he was slipping into the traffic and I was slipping in to my "clinically alive" state, Mr. Lee, as I learned from the id card, looked into the mirror at me and asked, "Are you high crass gentreman?" As far as ice breakers go, this one worked like a power hammer on an ice cube. I quickly checked if someone else was riding in the cab. No, it was a question for me and a tricky one at that. Apparently what was quite obvious to me, wasn't quite so to Mr. Lee and I replied in the negative with what I thougt was a pleasant smile at that hour in the morning. Mind you, I had just gotten off a red eye flight.

I'm not sure if it was my smile or the answer that encouraged his second question, "You speekku Korea langvechi?" Relieved at a more straightforward question and the prospect that the gaping canyon that stood between us on the language front could quell further exchanges and actually let me go back to sleep, I again replied in the negative. As a subtle message, I even halved the previous smile, and adjusted myself to a more sleep-conducive position.

By this time, we were firmly stuck in the middle of the usual Seoul traffic snarl and barely moving. Good, more sleep! Right? Wrong.

"Okkkay! From hoteru to ophhice - 40 minute. I am Korea langvechi teacher, you student." I opened one eye, only half believing what I had just heard. Mr. Lee was looking right at me with a "You heard me kid" kind of look. Unsure of how to handle this situation, I propped myself up against the seat. I could have played asleep, but I was far too awake to pull that off.

A la Jerry Seinfeld, I was still quickly thumbing through my rolodex of excuses for something convincing to go back to sleep when I heard him go "'Ann yang ha se yo' in Korea langvechi. Engrishu meaning 'How are you?'" And he started repeating that a few times and urged me to do the same after him. After about 5 repeats, when I had lost all hopes of getting some shut eye, he stopped. Instead, he held out his right hand. Making chopping motions, he started counting with his fingers, making me repeat that phrase 10 times, extending a digit everytime. I tamely repeated, enrolling myself for Korean 101.

Apparently not inclined towards a gentle introduction, he followed that up with "Hwa jang shil aidi it su yo? Engrishu meaning 'Where is the rest room?'" and started making his chopping right hand movements. There I was, in a car, speeding down Highway 1, asking out aloud to no one in particular, the directions for a restroom in Korean. Ten times. Looking at my bloodshot eyes, people that heard me would have thought that I was having a particularly bad hangover and seeking a place to throw up.

'Take me to a place' (driver instructions), 'How much is this?' and 'Can you give me a discount?' rounded off the first session. I was clearly out of breath from all the vocal exertions. Just as I sunk back into the seat, he announced that it was time for a test. What?! Less than 15 minutes into the impromptu class and I was already up against the first pop quiz?! The only time a language teacher tormented me this way was when I was trying to learn Hindi as a kid in Chennai. And that was atleast a good 20 years back.

He was rigorous in his methods. I tried my best to answer his various questions and just as I was starting to mix up the phrases, we arrived at the office. As I was getting off, he asked me whether he could pick me up that evening - a usual request from drivers. Again, instead of mumbling myself out of the situation, I heard myself say "7 pm". I had bitten into the Korean language bait. The evening's lessons, held under the dim cabin light was decidedly more romantic with phrases for'You are pretty' and 'You are cute'. At which point, I, ever so subtly, asked him for the phrase for 'I'm married' (Keron het su mida), which triggered a surprised glance in my direction. By the end of day one, I was ready to have this conversation with anyone: "How are you? Pleased to meet you. You look pretty. Oh, and which way to the rest room?" Although I wonder what kind of an impression I would leave on that person.

Anyways, my progress was not bad at all given my Korean vocabulary was only two words strong before - kim chi and bibim bap - two atrocities that I routinely subjected my digestive system to. The routine continued over the next 4 days. The second morning, I had transferred my knowledge from day one onto a sheet of paper. Encouraged by this, he had 2 sheets of notes for me that evening with even more phrases. The third morning was spent on numbers and that evening on the Korean alphabet for which he had prepared extensive notes. He even became considerate enough to give me advance notice on the big test for the fourth morning. It was a massive revision of all the phrases. He then made me read out aloud the alpha-numeric license plate off every single vehicle that we crossed. I barely managed not throwing up all over the back seat from motion sickness. (For the record, I don't try to work in a moving vehicle even if I'm hard pressed for time.)

I wasn't quite sure what kind of a gurudakshina I could give him on the day that I was leaving. He had mentioned that he couldn't take me to the airport that evening. So I had one of my colleagues, who was taking an earlier flight, cancel the taxi ride that he had booked to the airport, and go with my guru instead. At $120 it wasn't all that bad a deal, I'm sure you'd agree. I then took the bus to the airport, practising my fledgling Korean on unsuspecting airport staff en route to the boarding gate.

One way to look at this is that Mr. Lee had used this as an opportunity to get more business. While that is a valid argument, I would anyways have stuck with the first morning's driver through the 4 days. It just happened to be him that morning. Also, he wasn't trying to rip me off or anything. He was just being enterprising. A man trying to make more money, employing entirely clean methods. And in that process, I have stood to benefit immensely. A great win-win, if you ask me. The next time I go there, I'm so buying him a gift and calling him up for level II Korean langvechi!

Religion and food often cross paths with my life. And they have a rather complicated cause and effect relationship that I have stood to benefit from as observed here. Over the many run ins, like the one that I'm about to chronicle now, I have been made to realize that there are no free lunches, or dinners for that matter, and that every morsel is earned either by dint of hard and honest work or at least a close enough impression.

Sunday mornings. That time of the week set aside by most of humanity as the chosen one for rejuvenation. The Sunday morning is the poultice for a battered soul and a bruised body that have borne the brunt of the week past. The getting up late and then the lounging in bed long enough to skip breakfast and slide straight to a lunch, though routine, are tasks that are performed reverentially every week. Tasks that ensure that Messrs. Soul and Body are prepared to take on the might of the next week that looms larger with every passing hour. There are very few priorities that can break this sacred routine. One among them is a pursuit of bhakti. And a second is the lure of great food. Not listed in any order.

As a graduate student, I lived in a household of 3 guy (myself included) whose enthusiasm towards cooking varied from I-can't to I-won't. Since the dawn of history, mankind has chosen, for reasons not clear to me, a 7 day work week. And precisely for that reason, dividing 7 cooking turns between 3 reluctant people continues to be a mathematician's nightmare. Thus it came to pass, since it was nobody's turn to cook, every Sunday was a gamble in terms of being able to get a square meal. The law of the jungle kicked in and I had to outrun the slowest gazelle for satiating man's most primal of instincts - hunger.

The food Gods must have smiled on me for one fine morning in 2002, I got invited by a very orthodox friend of mine (an Iyengar fundamentalist, to be specific) to take part in the parayanam (chanting) of Sri Vishnu Sahasranamam (Lord Vishnu's 1000 different names). The deal was this: Get up at the ungodly (no pun) hour of 7-ish on Sundays and get a ride to the venue where it was being held that day. This would invariably involve bumming a ride by cramming into a recent graduate's Camry or a Corolla and ride to the hub. Even if one didn't have the address, all that was required was to park behind the last Camry or Corolla and follow the trail of parked Toyotas and Hondas to the house - the only place teeming with human activity at that time of the day. The place would be bursting with TamBrams of all sizes and colors, many of them in veshtis and jibbas to affirm their identity. The routine was fixed: 55 minutes of chanting followed by a 10-minute discourse on the burden of a verse from VSN itself. But the main draw, as with any Hindu ritual, was the mahaprasad (blessed food) that was available afterwards. The menu would be simple, nothing fancy. But some households took it very seriously and would prepare a sumptuous spread. Either ways, I wasn't complaining.

A word here on my religious inclinations wouldn't be out of place. I must have been 7 or 8 years old when my mother thought that it was not a bad idea to get me enrolled in a shloka class. While I don't question the intention, the only problem was that the class met every Sunday morning at 7-ish. Needless to say, after a few weeks, I dropped out. I was intimidated not by the complex shlokas themselves but by the well dressed girls and boys, who had obviously showered, that would turn up with a spring in their step while I, in stark contrast, dragged my feet to Ayodhya mandapam in West Mambalam, barely awake and trying in vain to look as showered as possible. Ever since, I have been careful to avoid religious exercises that started too early in the mornings or ones that didn't culminate in a hearty meal.

Nothing over the years had made me change my attitude and thus when my friend offered the invitation in 2002 I was initially cautious. They say that there aren't free lunches. And as much as I hate it, I accept that paradigm. Getting my Sunday lunch meant that I had to get up very early. But the effort was adequately rewarded. It didn't take me too long to weigh the getting up early part against chowing down food and decide in favor of the latter. Mind you, I would have already foregone my Saturday morning's sleep on account of cricket (somehow that never seemed to be a tough task). Thus began my Sunday routine which remained unchanged for the rest of my time in the US.

People attended the parayanam sessions with multiple motives. Yes, bhakti, good karma and the resultant warm fuzziness and a sense of fulfilment were all there in plain sight. But also around, barely camouflaged, were the furtive looks of eligible bachelors, recently armed with a MS Degree and a job, scanning the crowd for prospective partners and looking to move on to the next stage. Equally keen were the parents/uncles and aunts of eligible bachelorettes, scouting the guys and checking items off a mental list that would qualify them as "eligible" material. Also in attendance were people that had a solution to every known problem afflicting mankind at large, ranging from US foreign policy through the US housing market to the inevitable malaises troubling India and what exactly they would do to address them. And they would loudly make their point to one and all within earshot. Some would bring along their retired parents visiting them, who would in turn take back tales of the religious aspirations of the Indian diaspora in a distant, clean land. Students, in general, participated for food and networking - seeking that little push, and that good word while forwarding their resume to companies. Against this backdrop, I was clearly a misfit and stood out like a sore thumb. My primary motivation to attend, as pronounced earlier, was food. I could not recite VSN by heart. I relied on the printed version and yet ad libbed through the bulk of the text. Being still in school (a good 3 years shy of breaking into the eligible bachelor circuit), I never registered on the radars of the various mamis and mamas around. And yet there I would be, er, religiously, every Sunday morning, nursing sore muscles and joints from the exertions on a cricket field the previous day and playing catch up with the recitation.

My role in the proceedings would take on significance only after the recitation was over. In essence, I was like the first change bowler who comes on after the shine of the new ball has been taken away. I would be fully risen once the smell of food wafted in from the kitchen in preparation for the nivedhanam. Once the go ahead was given by the chief, signalling the end of the religious aspects of the day, I would come into my own. I will skim across to the food area, opening the closed dishes and working up my appetite while surveying the goodies that awaited us. I would appoint myself as the prasadam Nazi, trying to bring a semblance of order to the ensuing chaos. People, who have seen me in action on earlier occasions wouldn't question my authority. I would choose buddies as volunteers to man the various dishes, and I would myself oversee the distribution of a couple of dishes or play the role of a cop, coordinating the sea of people lunging towards the dishes. After doing this long enough to quell any sense of guilt or till the main dishes reached critically low levels (whichever happened earlier), I would then casually pick up a plate and join the lines that I had just been manning to fulfill the overarching goal of participation.

Looking back, I'm not ashamed about setting gastronomical goals in a spiritual event or the level of my participation itself. That was who I was and, truth be told, I haven't changed all that much from those days. And honestly, I did do something before I partook of the meal. One thing that used to baffle me was how hard worked professionals by the week could get themselves to prepare good food enough for about 50 people on their hard earned weekend. And I had an opportunity to get the answer myself when we were asked to host the parayanam in our apartment. And that is material for a separate post sometime.