Sugar-Free in the Burning Sun. (Bangalore, concluded.)

The remaining couple of days in Bangalore passed in a pleasant, if uneventful fashion. Kulkarni had discovered that my computer has a datacard, which gives me internet access wherever I am (though of questionable connection). The WKF office on the bottom floor has a computer but no internet connection. So he had no problem waking me up at 6am the next morning, demanding to use my internet so he could check email.

The next day, we went to visit another factory where WKF had installed rainwater harvesting systems. These people were pretty pleased with the work and happy to show us around. I was happy to see this kind of situation, and equally as excited about the Café Coffee Day (an Indian coffee chain) coffee machine in one of the buildings, dispensing coffee for free. And I could get a small (we’re talking, like, 8 ounces) latte with NO SUGAR. I was in heaven, which amused them all greatly.

The ride back, though, was one of those nightmares—on the back of Kulkarni’s motorcycle on the highways and busy city roads, the sun pouring down unmercifully and traffic and exhaust and incessant honking. We made a series of stops before returning to his home.

Meal preparation with Vidya.

My trip was coming to an end, which was ok. I liked my time with an Indian family, but was also relieved I didn’t have to do it every day. Mostly because of the food. Living there would undoubtedly put serious weight on me. The food was good, but they really don’t take no for an answer when it comes to having more. And then finally you give in, because you have to, insisting on swalpa-swalpa (little-little) and they still pile it on.

After they’ve stuffed you with as much chapatti (flat bread from wheat flour) and veggies as you can eat, then they bring out piles of white rice with some kind of sambar—a liquidy soup that you pour on the rice. I ALWAYS refused the rice and so the family thought I didn’t like rice. I explained to them it’s because the rice is always served last, after I’ve eaten chapatti and veggies.

“If you served rice first,” I told them, “I would eat more rice.”

Pretending to be of use in the kitchen.

But the (South) Indian way is to eat a sweet first, then chapatti or roti (which is flat bread made with jowar, aka sorghum) with veggies, and then rice and sambar. (Actually, jowar roti is a very specific North Karnataka thing – people don’t eat jowar anywhere else in the country, the only use it as cow fodder.  The main distinction between roti and chapatti then becomes how it was made: chapattis are rolled out before being heated on a skillet or tandoor oven, while rotis are formed by a more complicated series of pounding/patting.  Here, people assign a higher grade of skill to preparing roti, and you wait longer for it than chapatti when you eat out at a place that can prepare both.  Nicer quality restaurants use the terms interchangeably, however…)

I tell you, these Indians can eat and eat. All of Kulkarni’s family is on the larger side (well, his youngest two daughters not so much). As a whole, Indian people are either super-skinny or larger. Being fat is a status thing, because it means you can afford to eat a lot and work less. Many women enter into marriage pretty thin and start putting the weight on. Husbands like this because it shows that they can support their wife so well that she gains weight.  Along the same lines, a good wife will feed her husband well and HE will put on weight, too.  If he doesn’t, his parents may criticize his wife for not being good enough.

Chachadi once told me when I told him that American culture generally appreciates thinner people that, “We (Indians) like this, too, but we don’t practice.”

Roof of a temple.

Our train left in the evening, and so when I was all packed I went with Niwiditha and her aunt who was visiting Bangalore on a photo safari of the neighborhood. I had intended to go to where I ran in the mornings to capture some of the crazy bright houses on film, but first Niwiditha steered me towards another area that was like a small village with a number of temples and things, which was fun to explore.

Amused by the white girl with a camera.

Inside a temple. I like the lotus blossum chandelier.

Entrance to another temple.

Amongst my other findings, we entered this special kind of temple that you actually walk in and around.  Its called a Navagraha and is considered fairly rare.  I took a video of my walk through this:

Then I insisted we go to see the bright homes.

I don't think you could live here and EVER not be happy.

Niwiditha outside a more stately home.

Most houses have some form of fierce-looking creature displayed somewhere as a means of warding off bad spirits. (In Uzbekistan we called that the Evil Eye.) Along the same kind of purpose as gargoyles...Though I think this one is kinda cute...

More homes. Color = good.

Colorful homes attract colorful characters.

The power went out that night as we were sitting down to a final meal before Kulkarni and I had to leave. In the middle of this, the women started running around and presented me with a sari by candlelight. Apparently, in Indian culture, when you have a guest you are essentially required to present them with something—a sari or at least a blouse-piece for women, and dotis or lungis for men. It’s considered good fortune—karma comes back to you if you treat your guest nicely.

The new sari.

So they gifted me a lovely deep red sari they’d bought that morning while Kulkarni and I were out. Kulkarni’s wife, who is a decent seamstress, had then found the blouse-piece from my sari I’d brought with me and used it as a template to stitch the blouse-piece to the new sari.

Sharadadevi at work. On my "daybed."

So nice. So then they speedily dressed me in it to take photos before I changed out of it (the photos were my mirror as to what the sari actually looked like, since we were in the dark) and we rushed to catch our train home…

Normally, when Western people come to Bangalore, they go to be in a more cosmopolitan place and enjoy things like good Western food (and even Japanese and Thai as well) and good shopping, etc. But, with my boss on the outskirts, I was only running around a bigger, dirtier Hubli. I didn’t see any sites or indulge in shopping or Western food or movies in English, etc.

Sunset over Amruthahalli, Bangalore suburb.

Suresh and Pramod—Kulkarni’s business partners—had appeared rather surprised at the news I was staying with Kulkarni’s family when I told them, and Kulkarni himself confessed towards the end of the trip that he had been nervous that I wouldn’t find his home comfortable enough. So I defied expectations on that end, which made me happy. It was a good trip, but I was ready to just be at home. Being a guest is exhausting.

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