I thanked the unknown gentleman who had generously given his time and energy.
“No, no, you are a guest. It was my duty to help,” he said cheerfully, trying to make me feel less guilty.
I couldn't say anything, so I just folded my hands in gratitude.
Abhi was planning to leave for work in some time. He said he could take me to a place in the city where I’d be able to find car mechanics. Very soon, he dropped me at a large crossroads a few kilometres from the apartment. It was a business neighborhood with lots of shops.
I thanked Abhi profusely for the help and kindness he had shown me, and apologized for delaying him. But he too said the same thing the other gentleman had said — that I was a guest in Belagavi and he was happy to help.
Before leaving, he mentioned that shops in Belagavi rarely opened this early and I might have to wait till 10:00 or even 10:30 AM.
“But you might find a mechanic sooner if you are lucky,” he added encouragingly.
Even though the odds were stacked against finding a mechanic at 8:30 AM, I decided to try my luck. Better to try and fail than not try at all, I reasoned.
There were a few traffic cops standing close by at the junction. I walked up to them and asked if they knew of a car mechanic close by.
They knew two shops. The first shop was in a by-lane a few meters to the left and the second was further ahead on the main road on the opposite side of the junction. They also said that the shops may not be open this early. I thanked them and walked towards the by-lane, which was the nearer option.
This small lane was quite a contrast to the main road. Even though the main road had not yet reached peak traffic, it was awake and alive. This lane, barely so.
There were small shops on one side of the lane and small houses on the other. The shops were closed, and the residents — a few of whom were standing outside — were enjoying their early morning peace. I saw a woman and a man brushing their teeth. A few feet ahead, a group of four men were having their morning dose of bidis and tea. A few people loitered around. Two kids played cricket with a stick and a rubber ball.
I had a strong feeling that the mechanic’s garage would not be open, but I plodded ahead. However, I couldn’t find anything that resembled a garage.
It was time to ask for help. I approached a few men who were sipping their morning tea and sucking their morning cigarettes at a nearby stall.
“Is there a car mechanic anywhere around here?”
They said there weren’t any in this lane, but they pointed to the other side of the junction, just like one of the traffic cops had said. One of them added that mechanics and battery shops don’t usually open before 10:30.
I looked at my mobile. It was 8:45 AM. The great cycle of time was one hour and forty-five minutes away from that magic hour, and I was already tired from all the pushing earlier that morning. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t had my breakfast.
I figured it might be a good idea to put some food in my stomach. I walked back to the main road and asked an elderly man if he knew of any place close by where I could get idli and filter coffee. He told me to go straight ahead and turn left at a certain landmark.
I followed his directions and, just like he’d promised, there was indeed an idli restaurant in that lane.
The board read: “Tumkur Tatte Idli.”
The Gods have an interesting sense of humour. At least they got me to a place where I could enjoy the famous “Thatte Idlis” before leaving Belagavi.
The idli joint was packed with breakfasters (not a dictionary word, but it doesn’t sound too wrong). There were office goers, nurses who worked at a nearby hospital, a group of students, and elderly people.
The assorted variety of eaters also had an assorted style of eating. Those who were running late gulped unchewed bits of idli and wada while flushing them down the throat with coffee. The elderly men, sat with their heads buried in newspapers. They ate leisurely, chewing breakfast sprinkled with spices made from the daily grapevine. One table was occupied by students who were relaxed and cheerful. They cracked jokes and pulled each other’s legs as they ate. I figured they must have bunked their morning lecture. From personal experience, that’s the only reason for a bunch of college students to be cheerful in the morning.
I looked around. All the tables were taken, but that wasn’t a problem because it’s acceptable for unknown people to cohabit a single table at an Udupi restaurant. I walked up to a four-seater occupied by an elderly gentleman who reading a newspaper and parked myself on the opposite chair. He peered out of his newspaper for a second and decided that the news was more interesting than me.
“Order sir.“ A waiter looked at me with a pen and pad in his hands.
I knew I wanted a plate of idli and a filter coffee, but I had time on my hands and the best way to waste some of it was by studying the menu. I told him I needed some time to decide and picked up the menu with the same tenderness with which I'd have picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice.
I studied it carefully. First, I checked out all the sections, followed by the items and their prices, after which I did one more revision to ensure I hadn’t missed anything that might be asked in the question paper. If I had a pencil and notebook, I might also have made notes.
The waiter came back after some time with an expression that told me he would not leave without an order.
“Order sir!” He demanded.
Oh well…
“One plate idli.”
According to my mobile’s stopwatch, he returned with the food in four minutes and thirty-two seconds.
I was reminded of a song: There's something wrong with the world today... I don't know what it is...
“Thank you,” I said grudgingly.
Now was the perfect time to follow good chewing principles. I had heard that the correct way to eat was to chew each bite until there was nothing solid left in the mouth. The food had to blend with the saliva before letting it stream down the esophagus. I chewed and chewed and chewed, as slowly as possible, savouring every molecule of the idli, sambar, and chutni, waiting for the delicious solid idli to become delicious liquid idli.
I also checked all my emails, WhatsApp messages, Facebook messages, and so on, until there was nothing left to check. By this time, the plate was empty and there was nothing left to chew, either.
The waiter must be eying my plate like a hawk because he appeared as soon as the plate was empty. “Anything else, sir?”
“Filter coffee,” I said triumphantly. I wasn’t going down without a fight.
The coffee appeared in record time.
Having filter coffee cold is an unpardonable offense, so I couldn’t play the chewing trick this time. Also, the next table was occupied by nurses. Chewing filter coffee might have aroused their suspicion enough to give me an injection or something.
“Anything else, sir?“
“No!“
I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but the nurses were looking, so I played it safe.
The delicious Thatte Idlis and filter coffee had satisfied my belly, so I somewhat forgave him for his prompt service and even left a tip, although I did the latter grudgingly because I had a feeling that he was over-prompt on purpose — as if he wanted to foil my plans of spending more time there.
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