For the sake of a dinner

Jatilo mundii lujnchhitakeshah

kaashhaayaambarabahukritaveshhah

pashyannapi cana pashyati muudhah

udaranimittam bahukritaveshhah

False signs of piety, matted locks, shaven heads or plucked hairs

Or ochre robes and others in variegated holy colors

Are so affected, just to earn an earthly living

And fools so blinded, are oblivious of the truth revealing

-Bhajagovindam by Adi Shankara

Since early childhood I've had two persistent symptoms - hunger at meal times and sleepiness at bedtime. The doc says that they aren't necessarily bad. But what would the doctor know? He is a nice man, mind you. The difference is that he resides in South Chennai, spoiled for choice by the many restaurants and home cooked food and timely sleep while I, on the other hand, am often times forced to scramble for food in far away lands, eyes red-shot with lack of sleep. Without further delay, let's delve into the next chapter in my quest for vegetarian food in the land of the Hyundais, Samsung and meaty menus. (I'm afraid that this has become a recurring theme in this blog. After this and this. But then, if I don't have anything profound to offer on world affairs and feel like saying something nevertheless, I turn inwards and start digging.)

This time, I was staying at a much less nicer hotel in a new township outside of Seoul. This place charges a lower rent and is closer to both our office and customer sites. Twin advantages to my management and none for me. And adding salt to the wounds is that I had to hunt in unfamiliar terrain for food as opposed to the now-familiar and pricey Seoul area where I can walk, with my eyes closed, to Indian eateries.

Hope springs eternal. And springs forth rather wildly around dinner time after a dog's day at work. I took a walk around the block to see if there was a pizza or a pasta place where, together with the chef's cooperation, I could conjure up a vegetarian dish. Finding none, I took a taxi to the Indian restaurant in the next town, Suwon. Exactly 15 minutes later, I was at their doorstep, staring with wide eyes at the handwritten notice saying that their weekly holiday happens to fall, as luck would have it, on Mondays. There are 3 dimensions to the universality of Indian restaurants across earth: a stereotyped ambience (print of a North Indian lady in ghagra choli churning milk adorning the wall, the inevitable elephant bearing a generic King, a carpet, and some Hindi song playing in the background), bad service and smelly restrooms. Mondays-off adds the 4th dimension to it. Seriously, what's with Indian restaurants and Mondays-off? I've been stumped by this unwritten rule in 3 continents now. If you can keep that darned place running for 6 days a week, how difficult it is on the 7th? Huh? Since when did making money go sour? Enough said. Back to the story.

Knowing that there was a second Indian restaurant just around the corner, I marched there confidently, only to find them closed too. Brothers in arms. I still peered through the glass doors and could detect human presence in the kitchen by the far end, beyond an empty, dark dining hall. An empty restaurant but a functioning kitchen? Something was amiss. Knowing that food in some form should be available, I knocked on the glass door. No response. Of course! More knocks, no response. I was tapping away on the glass like Zakir Husain when finally an exasperated lady opened the door and offered a questioning look.

A wave of spicy aroma wafted through the open door and I walked right past her in auto-cruise and took the seat closest to the kitchen. She followed right behind. She was not Korean and spoke halting English with a Spanish accent. Perhaps from Philippines. Not that it really mattered to me. She made it very clear that the place was open exclusively for a group of Indians who were residing in a nearby guest house and that dinner was being prepared only for them. Apparently, this was a "mess" and they were on some meal plan. Oh, and that they were expected anytime now. I asked her if I could I have a quick bite and escape into the darkness? Nope. Could I take away a little food? Negative. Apparently, she donned the security cap too, besides her chef's.

A man's appetite, whipped up at the prospect of a square, sumptuous meal, when denied, can lead to delirium. Or histrionic abilities. I reached deep inside me and came out with the best pleading look that I could muster. I told her that I was cold and hungry and that my survival depended on partaking the ambrosia that she had cooked up for the night. I may or may not have been on one knee at that time. I must have touched her motherly instincts for the resolve in her steely eyes started to melt. Exactly an eighth of a matronly smile spread across her face. She agreed to let me have a quick bite from the 4-item dinner before the pack arrived and went back into the kitchen to put some final touches to the meal. I don't know her real name but let's just call her Santa Maria.

Life couldn't be any better. Yes, I was staying at a cheap place with bad service. Granted, I'd much rather be in Singapore rather than in Korea, or, at least, in Seoul than in Suwon. Of course, Monday nights are a nightmare for traveling vegetarians. But still, just as a seed takes root on a rock, just as a baby turtle finds its way to the waves, I could manage to melt Santa Maria into letting me wet my beak. You could picture me seated at the table with a napkin across my lap and a contented smile across my face, brought on by my good fortune and the dinner that lay ahead, with a spoon in one hand and a fork in the other. As I said, life couldn't be any better.

It was precisely at this moment that Fate decided that there was one more hazard missing from my signature golf course. Enter Ms. "Killer Eyes" Kim, a wiry Korean lady with a stern countenance who could pass for a principal in any school across the Korean peninsula. Something about her suggested that she took no nonesense. Instinctively I sensed trouble and clutched the spoon and fork tighter. My eyes followed her as she hung her coat and switched on the lights and as soon as I came across her field of vision, walked straight up to me.

The rattling inside the kitchen stopped as Santa Maria came out looking a bit uneasy. A brief Anglo-Korean exchange took place between the ladies and the principal had sniffed out a student prank even before it could be unleashed. I think Santa Maria, despite her best intentions, God bless her soul, had plead innocence and I was now the focus of Kim's gaze.

Scientists of repute, after much study, I'm sure, have classified animal response to fear into two categories: fight or flee. But I disagree. There is a third type of response: Fake. That's right. Fake it or act like a fool.

I knew I was an uninvited guest and that the only way out was to look every bit like something the cat had dragged in. This time around, I rolled up my sleeves, reached inside and came out with the most foolish look that I could muster. Or, as quite a few of you may agree, I simply put on my natural face.

Kim: You what guest house?

Me: What? Oh common miss! It's just a little food that I plan to eat. Not much. They won't even notice.

Kim: Name of guest house?

Me; Guest house? Lady, you're taking this too far, I tell you. Its a cold night and I'm a hungry man. Moreover, ma'am, I've struck a deal with Our Lady of Kindness for Hungry Wayfarers in the kitchen.

Kim: Rahul friend you? (By now a bit frustrated)

Me: Guest. Rahul? Who the hell is Rahul? If he stood next to you right now, I won't be able to tell him from the next guy. Unless we're discussing Rahul Dravid here.

Kim: Rahul friend?

Me: Rahul. Friend. Yes.

It became evident to me that Rahul must be the elected leader of the local desi gang who called the shots around that place. If this were the movie Kalidasa, this would be the exact scene where Kalidasa, (as portrayed by Sivaji Ganesan) the gullible simpleton till that point, would start spouting exquisite verses after being blessed by Goddess Kali herself. Yours truly, having latched on to the idea that Rahul was the admin password to my dinner, began framing full, confident sentences, outlining my long standing friendship with Mr. Faceless Rahul. In an attempt to buy some time and appease Ms. Kim, I was in the middle of explaining how, as kids, Rahul and I would never eat unless it was off the same plate when dinner was finally brought out.

Thankfully, Principal Kim relented, gesturing me to take a seat, probably coming to the conclusion that Rahul had the biggest idiot in all of mankind for a friend. Or perhaps hoping that Rahul, he of the big twirling mustache, red turban, double barrelled gun and a bullet strap running across his chest, shooting fake friends as he rode on his horse, would show up mid-meal and tear my facade to bits.

The meal was simple: channa, an extremely spicy sambar (the only vegetables that I could recognize in it were well built, sliced chillies), vegetable rice and some curd. I wasn't sure about the portions: whether it was a "limited meals" or "unlimited meals". But I decided to make a full meal out of it nevertheless and my plate looked like Mt. Rice was rising out of the Sea of Sambar.Hell, if I were to be thrown out, it would be on a full stomach. I was delicately working through the second course (Mt. Rice capped with channa) when Santa Maria came out with a soft chappathi, deposited it on my plate and winked at me. Gracias Senorita! (English: Can I have one more before Rahul arrives?) I dined with furtive glances towards the door, eyeing every single Indian male that walked through the door with suspicion. Ms. Kim hovered around the entrance, with one eye on me and the other peeled for Rahul. But no Rahul came. And my bluff was not called. I had a sumptuous (but quick) dinner and paid what was a subsidized rate meant for Rahul and co.

On the way out, I grabbed a slice of carrot that Santa Maria had brought out as an afterthought and stepped into the cold night. A nearly full stomach can do wonders to a man's mood. I walked around the block, musing about my swing in fortunes in the past hour, smiling to myself the smile of the satiated. Another role had been essayed. Another meal had been won against all odds and yet another battle won. Strange are the ways of life. And, as they say, I live to face another day.