“The Bike Ride alone was worth it — everything else over that is a bonus”. That was my line on Oct 29, 2020.
A day that had started uneventfully. It was around 5am and I hadn’t yet made peace with the fact that I couldn’t maintain my entire social calendar of activities of New York living half a world away. My sleep cycle too hadn’t yet reconciled with my move to India about 3 weeks ago. My mom had climbed the 2 floors to my room, quite unusually at that hour. She was sobbing that bhava was no more.
My first reaction was that she was over-reacting a tad bit. She had never been very close to him, I thought to myself. Nevertheless, I sprung into action. This was all exciting for me. After having been relegated to watching events unfold on a screen all through the pandemic, I was excited that this was a real phenomenon occurring right in front of me. We got ready and decided to leave to Prabha Aunty’s place as early as possible. On our way out, I suggested we make the slight detour to go to Veena Stores for a quick breakfast — we all tended to be quite hungry almost as soon as woke up and this seemed a good call considering we weren’t really going to get much to eat at a house where someone had died.
Veena stores had all the pre-requisities to being on any NRI’s Bangalore thindi circuit. Yet, it had never made ours, solely due to its location in West Bangalore. For us, it was the South Bangalore circuit — Vidyarthi Bhavan for dosa, Brahmin’s for idly & vada, Dwarka for khali dosa and my favorite masala puri joint thrown in to the mix. There had never been a need to venture outside Basavanagudi. Veena stores proved to be a strong contender. The idly was as soft and fluffy as Brahmin’s, melting in your mouth as soon as you tasted it. The vada though, was the bomb. It definitely had a leg up in crispiness and taste. The chutney had a strange novelty to it, with a thick mix of some unknown greens which came with its share of small twigs in it. Veena Stores had proved to be a great start to an eventful day.
Once we made it to Prabha Aunty’s place, I had yet to come to terms with the fact that we had come to a house that had witnessed death a few hours ago. “How are you, Aunty”, was probably the most inappropriate question, when asked with the tone I asked it in, quite casually. She gave me a look which said, “How do you think I am?”, as I gave her a sideways hug. I was terribly out of place with death. I had never lost anyone I had truly cared about to death. Yes, there had been the grandparents and the one aunt that had all died in different stages of my life. One grandmother while I was in middle school, an aunt during college, another grandparent in my first year at work and finally, my grandfather about 13 years ago. I hadn’t been very close to any of them. The relationship that I had was fairly transactional, probably stemming from my own parents’ lack of visible investment into those relationships. I had also missed a 100% of all births, deaths and everything in between for all extended family, not that they had been close enough for me to make the 13,000km trip from New York. There was a faint surprise from everyone that I was there in person, and then the standard questions of why and how long I was going to be in India followed.
Watching death from up close does bring a ton of reflection and perspective — some I was woefully unprepared for, as the effects would unfold in my mind. I reflected on how neighbors and well wishers had come over to take a last look and each spoke about how the now deceased man had spoken to them with kindness and respect. Nobody had spoken about what he had done professionally or financially. I was cynical enough to think it was probably because there wasn’t much to speak of, but also mature enough to know that the more likely scenario was that there was truth in what all those quotes online told you.
“It matters who is around you when you are on your death bed, not what you achieve”
I made sure to reflect on this out aloud with my parents, quietly admonishing them for their own values that weighed professional and financial success over relationships. This is what they had instilled in us as well, and here I was somewhere in that journey trying to take control of my own life and unlearn some of those lessons — to be more kind and compassionate, and less self-serving.
I reflected on how Srinidhi got a call from one of his parents and took the first flight home. I would get that call someday. I wondered how I would react, what I would do in his position. Would I be bawling in grief, or stoic in fatalism. I hoped that this call was maybe a decade away, but COVID had shot any deterministic thinking about human longevity. Many people in my stage of life were getting these calls from their loved ones, and some were even making them.
I reflected on how most people came there only to mingle and talk about themselves. Another subset of people came with the sole purpose of ensuring that all the rituals were performed to the exact specifications of how they envisioned it. It was starting to get repetitive with the same spectrum of responses from every visiting person — “How did it happen?”, “Did he suffer?”, “Was it COVID?”. We were the first to step out at around 11 to grab a bite, not really paying heed to the many others that were also in there, perhaps hungry. A thought crossed my mind while returning about how we could’ve brought them something too, but my Dad put a stop to that, with this peculiar arrogance that he exuded of knowing everything about everything.
The morning and afternoon started blending. I went with Pradeep a few times to try to arrange for a hearse. We later gave up on this task to more resourceful friends of Srinidhi’s who got the job done behind the scenes. Here we were bargaining for 4000 rupees, where I thought of how I would’ve just thrown the money and focused on more important things, if it were up to me. I noticed Prabha Aunty had the same sense of pride about her son’s friends as my mom did about her daughter’s properties across the globe. It was such a stark contrast but centered on the same premise of their children’s achievements.
We reached the crematorium at around 3pm for our pre-assigned slot. The place was just as filthy as I imagined it from my previous visits ages ago. They had figured out an online booking system to book a cremation slot, but the place was as much of a shambles as it was 20 years ago. A filthy, wet place where one’s last rites were to be conducted and an open furnace where everyone can see the body and flames. I remarked over how the person conducting the last rites, usually the son, was almost always in poor shape. I wondered how I would look, bare chested in this situation. I superficially thought to myself about how I should work out to ensure I wasn’t doing anyone’s last rites with a pot belly.
I was always one to lend my shoulder for carrying the body. Admittedly, perhaps more from my own penchant for drama, and maybe a tad bit of responsibility. I helped the body on to the flame, and saw the typical yelling and shrieking I had come to remember from past visits. Shilpa had looked like she would collapse all during the crematorium visit, but Srinidhi had kept a steadfast arm around her shoulder all through. I was jealous of the sight, knowing well that Swathi and I were not at a place where we could seek comfort from our shared love for somebody or something. I felt a sudden anguish at who my shoulder to cry on would be.
Srinidhi had remained as stoic as scriptures would have him be. He had always been the blue-eyed boy in the family. The oldest grandchild to my maternal grandparents, he was the very persona of an all-round good kid growing up. He played cricket, had lots of friends, rebelled in college but treated everyone with respect and had a great sense of humour. The only divergence from the path set for him was when he found a woman he wanted to marry on his own and she spoke a different language. His sister still continued on her journey of listening to her parents and the society they had grown up in, getting an arranged marriage and remaining in the throes of middle-class life, while he seemed to have paved a path for himself and his family. He seemed to be doing well, and his son was touted to be the next smart kid, whom everyone assumed would get into an IIT or some such in a couple of years. He had come alone from Pune, his wife and son not being able to make the last minute flight journey, probably due to financial constraints, I thought. Srinidhi had remained passive and agreeable to any and all rituals that were asked of him. He probably knew he had to remain the pillar of strength for his mother and sister, today and forever.
Once the rituals were complete, we finally made our way back home. It had been an emotionally and physically draining day. I had my calendar open on that Thursday, thankfully. I was supposed to go on a date later that evening. I took a very late nap, and dialed into my daily Awareness Exercise, where I was asked to lead the meditation. I wasn’t in the most stable state, dwelling on words like gratitude and unity a little longer than I usually do. In the discussion after, I let out to Jerry and Harley and a couple of straddlers about the day that I had gone through. They had, par for course, expounded my maturity and complimented me on handling it so well. I don’t know if I really was, but I was happy to have shared what I was feeling and let off some of the load I was carrying.
The date was with this girl — Pragya, whom I had been texting on and off for a week or so. She had texted a couple of times that evening asking if we could meet earlier, which I couldn’t and if we could switch places to a coffee shop instead. She seemed like she was flaking. I, myself, was in two minds about if this was the right day and frame of mind to meet someone for the first time. I asked her if she didn’t want to meet, half hoping she would pull back, because I knew I didn’t want to carry the burden of canceling. She didn’t. I threw in a clause of my own. Let’s meet at Koramangala, I said. It wasn’t worth the investment to go all the way to Indiranagar, with no alcohol on the cards. The initial plan was to meet at a place called Lono Tropical Lounge in Indiranagar. It was an outdoor place that served alcohol, seemed great for a fun first date, and with alcohol flowing, there was always the added excitement of uncertainty of where it could lead. The suggestion to make it a coffee date threw me off a little, like she was concerned with meeting or thought I was a creep of some sort. Maybe it was my tiredness showing, since my brain had been occupied almost non-stop for the past 15 hours.
I hadn’t gone out a lot, but often enough to understand that there was a loose pattern on these app-led first dates. First there was the match on the app, with something witty or intriguing that I would lead with. Then a little texting, some speaking and finally agreeing to meet, mostly led by the girl. With Pragya, she had a nice girl feel to her profile. All her photos were those of a typical North Indian girl who was pretty and tall. She had put a line about languages and personality, and I thought it’s a good opportunity to showcase some of my borrowed learning from a friend about how people have different personalities in different languages. She had responded, and we had texted back and forth. We switched to exchanging numbers sometime after, and I had asked if she was open to meeting. She was scheduled to fly out on Monday to be with her parents for Diwali. And had her prime-time slots of Friday and Saturday booked with friends (or other dates, I reckoned), so she said she was free on Thursday to maybe squeeze in this one.
Although she was texting like a juvenile dyslexic, I figured I had nothing to lose. I was content enough getting the attention of a pretty girl at the time. We had decided to meet at the Starbucks in Koramangala. I took out my Dominar 400, a bike I was renting for the week, and zoomed across empty streets in the cool autumn breeze that was so characteristic of my city. It was a beautiful ride. I had recently started this practice of renting a different motorcycle every week, and the thrill was fascinating. It made me feel 21 again, especially going out to meet women with the wind in my hair, zooming past empty streets with no traffic. The bike ride alone was worth it. Anything else on top of that would be a bonus, I told myself.
I had reached in 15 minutes, taking pride in beating the Google Maps estimated time. She had reached a couple of minutes after me. She left the car in front of Starbucks to come greet me with a confident extended hand, not a hug as I had hoped. She had a no-nonsense look to her; wearing a white shirt and blue jeans, a classic on most days, but I was a tad disappointed that it was not a more “date-y” outfit. That was more than compensated for by how she looked — way better than what I had expected. She was tall, with a defined body type and carried herself well and confidently. She had beautiful long hair which was left loose, which fell slightly onto her face. She asked if I knew where parking was, and I ventured a guess that she could try the basement, which would hold us in good stead later.
We ordered me a chai latte, her a coffee, and she insisted on paying. I always had a lot of admiration and respect for a woman who paid on the first date. It demonstrated her values and also a great deal of confidence, and I had always had a great experience with women in the past who had paid for the first date. It was during the pandemic, and we got handed paper cups even while we were going to sit inside. We made our way upstairs to the first floor sitting area. It seemed like it was partially shut, with stacked chairs lining the perimeters of the area. The lighting though bright, did not light all parts of the room, probably because some were off. There were maybe 2–3 other tables of 2s and 3s occupied, mostly by people I thought were about 10 years younger than I was. The sofas were all taken and we settled on a table for two with chairs opposite one another.
As we started talking, there was an instant connection. We were laughing and bonding over many shared topics. We spoke about work, about New York, about Bangalore and developed a nice camaraderie, where I was pulling her leg and she was allowing me to indulge in it, all in good taste. She took great pride in her work and shared that she had made someone cry once. I didn’t let up the opportunity to chide her jokingly time and again on this one. Time passed quickly and our hot beverages were first cold, then empty.
I felt it was prudent timing to ask if we could carry this conversation over to a bar, now that we were somewhat acquainted and were somewhat liking one another’s company. After all, that was what we had initially agreed on before she had thought I was a creep, met me at the coffee shop and shook hands with me, I joked. She agreed, which I wasn’t expecting. I was prepared for a no and wasn’t going to pursue it further, but I was happy that she agreed. We decided to walk over to one of the bars a stone’s throw away. We zeroed in on Social, since I had already been to Xoox and the other one we saw.
We made our way to the 4th floor Koramangala Social. We were greeted by a jungle of plants amidst tables, most of which were empty. At 11pm on a Thursday, there was maybe 2–3 tables occupied in the entire place. I chose a table at the corner to give us a little privacy, although it was well lit. She chose to sit beside and not not across me, which I liked. It made our body language more open, I had learnt, but that was not my first thought. We ordered an Old Monk and diet coke for me and a Gin and tonic for her. We asked, well, I did, to make it a double. I poured her drink and mixed it, and she awkwardly decided she wanted to do the same for mine. The thought did cross me if she thought I was trying to get her drunk, which I wasn’t, in my defense.
Conversation flowed beautifully with the great social lubrication that alcohol provides. Every now and then, a few strands of her long hair would fall over her face and she would use her hands to push her bangs away — I loved just watching her do it. As she kept speaking, I realized I was quite attracted to her, and I sensed she was too. And with the double Old Monk in me, I had the confidence in me to take this up a notch. I interrupted her mid-sentence, swooping in, leaning towards her and landed a peck on her lips. She was surprised, as I was, at me, but didn’t pull away. I hadn’t known where that had come from. I had never done something like that before, with anyone. And I suspect she hadn’t either. It was instinctive and I just went with what I had felt. And I was somewhat relieved that I hadn’t gotten slapped or walked out on.
Conversation flowed for a little while longer and the next time there was a pause, I kissed her more intently and she kissed me back this time. I felt myself living my 21-year-old self’s life vicariously through my current self. It was now close to 1am. She finally said she had to leave. We called for the bill, and I fumbled to pay for it with my Indian debit card, for which the OTP was still linked to my mom’s phone. She offered to take it, but I wouldn’t have it. I would feel like a total dolt having her pay for both places after such a nice time with her. I used my US card which I had kept for emergencies. This was one.
We made our way outside Social. I made a quick-thinking decision to take the stairs instead of the elevator, which would pay some rich dividends as we decided to use the dimly-lit desolate stairs to discover each other a little more intimately. We kissed, lightly at first, then more passionately with time with the combined effect of alcohol, adrenaline and whatever other emotion I was holding on to since the morning that suddenly felt a huge release.
We continued kissing when we reached the car at the Starbucks basement parking lot. She couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder at the security guard 30 feet away who was engrossed in his phone. She was not used to the brazenness of a Bangalore boy who had the confidence to pull off such PDA, and it turned her on. Watching a hottie like her turned on made me double down on what I was doing. She finally declared she had to head home. I made a faint attempt to ask if I could join. She declined politely, already well past her limit of what she considered kosher for a first date. I didn’t insist, knowing I had had a pretty long and eventful day already.
I walked over to the other side of the road to fetch my motorcycle. I strapped on my helmet, brought the 373-cc KTM engine to roaring life, and screeched past the empty Bangalore streets, knowing that the bike ride itself was worth it. Anything over that was a bonus.
