Scenes from a Pakistani Restaurant

Sadly, everything you read here is true. Except for the name of the restaurant and the characters.

“Yeh Hindu hai. Yeh meat nahi kaat-ta”. (He is Hindu, he doesn’t cut meat) announced the Shere restaurant manager with pride to the team in the kitchen.
I had just started work one hour ago, on a typical grey, wet Saturday afternoon in Rusholme, the Pakistani section of Manchester, England.

Full of idealistic thoughts which included supporting myself and
taking no money from home, I set out looking for jobs as soon
as I stepped off the plane in the UK as a grad student at the
University of Manchester. And slammed straight into the middle
of England’s worst recession. After being turned down by
everyone including McDonalds (where I had included my current Masters, my two BITS degrees, my 38 days at Index Computing and both PS I and PS II experiences, convinced that I would be a top hire), I
knew this called for desperate measures. I headed for Rusholme Road, the street lined with Indian and Pakistani restaurants in the South Asian section of Manchester. I turned into the first restaurant I saw. The manager was there. I told him that I was looking for a job. He asked me for two bits of information. “I am from India.” “I can legally work in England.” From his stunned reaction, it appeared
unlikely that he had heard any job prospect at his restaurant say
either of those things. I was hired on the spot. At 2 quid per hour, I had joined the ranks of the gainfully employed.

“What do you want to do?” the greasy manager asked, his white
shoes about as shiny as his bald pate. “Waiter banega?” (Will you
be a waiter ?). I had been hanging out with the students from Manchester Business School, discussing highfalutin’ things like investment banking, consulting, and the changing face of Euro -driven politics. I winced. Could I face running into my classmates,
dressed in the black and white garb of a waiter ? My un-Gandhian middle-class views on the dignity of labor made it difficult to risk this prospect.

Hiding in the kitchen seemed the natural choice. But I had one
condition – “Meat nahi katoonga” (I wouldn’t cut the meat.) I cited
religious reasons. The truth was I didn’t know how. He took me to the crowded room in the back. I was introduced to Shahji – the naan maker, who had stopped studying in 4th grade in Pakistan and spoke no English.

Khan Sahib was the cook. Nigel was the Nigerian dishwasher. I was
appointed assistant errand boy to all three. The next three hours went by pretty uneventfully. That is if cutting 3 sacks of onions and 9 sacks of green peppers (simla mirch) can be considered uneventful. As someone who had never cooked, and spent the last five years in Pilani messes, I was unprepared for this ordeal. The hour I
spent frying the onions to a golden brown passed by more difficultly.

Every time one of his employees came into the kitchen, the manager
would follow, and parade me like a newly acquired pet. “Yeh Hindu hai. Yeh meat nahi kaat-ta”, he would smile and say. I was an instant hit.

“Lets go shopping”, the restaurant manager said. Ten minutes later, we were headed back to the restaurant, a 20 lb bag of flour on my head. It was more dignified to carry it in my arms or on my shoulder, but it was so much easier on my head. Screw my dignity.
I held it on my fast whitening head,and walked down the street, praying that no one would know me. The manager walked a few feet ahead. I felt numb.

At 6:00 pm the hustle of the restaurant increased in preparation for
the 6:30 pm opening. Two waiters were there, young and fresh, their first day on the job. They looked 17, their fear-filled private-schooled faces a reflection of the leafy, air-conditioned, pucca bungalows of suburban Karachi that they came from – where the
maid washed the laundry, the guard took the dog for a walk. The fear in their faces strangely gave me strength. I could get through this.
At 7:00 pm, the manager came looking for the two new waiters he’d hired. They were nowhere to be found. Unable to withstand the culture shock, they’d run away. I felt sorry for them. And stronger.
By 7:30 pm the dishes were coming back faster than Nigel could handle them. As the dishes piled, I was added as reinforcement. My job was to load the dishwasher with the dishes Nigel gave me, and to
unload a minute and a half later.

Simple.

Nigel had another responsibility. He had to empty the dishes
before they went into the dishwasher. And ensure that no meat coming back from the restaurant was wasted.

Whaaaaaat !!!

All the salad was recycled. Stained bits of onions were
washed and rearranged. And most importantly, all the meat and chicken left in the dishes was carefully extracted and put back into two bowls – one for meat, and another for chicken.

At least the gravy, thankfully was thrown away. My faith in the amazing institution of Indian restaurants, shaken to its core.

At Shere, the most astounding thing was the efficient meat
extraction process. It involved a woman, a fork, and lots of
screaming. Every half hour, the female owner of the restaurant (a
real b----- if I ever saw one) would come into the back of the
restaurant and scream at everyone for no reason. Then she would
grab a fork and head over to the trash can where all the food was
being dumped. She’d poke around. Every so often, she’d lift out a piece of meat, or paneer or chicken – sometimes half chewn, sometimes not – and wave it in Nigel’s face, screaming that he
was letting good food go to waste and threatened to dock his wages.
Nigel never said anything.

That first night, at 1 am, I tried to leave the restaurant after it had closed. The cook wouldn’t let me go without eating. He fed me a
good meal – good meat, good chicken, great nans. I felt like I was part of a team. Exhausted, numbed, and smelling of onions, I had the best sleep of my life.

I went back the second night – to a lot more onions, yelling,
screaming and chaos. The cook stormed out at 9:00 pm – after throwing a whole bunch of mixedup orders that had piled up on the
kitchen floor. Thankfully I did not have to clean any of it up. He
came back at 10:00 pm. At 1 am, I went to the manager, to ask for
my money. Two days, twenty four hours, forty eight quid ! I was
bone tired, but I was going to be rich.

He handed me a twenty pound note. “I’m keeping the rest of the
money or you won’t come back next week.” Tears welled up. I
pleaded but I was helpless. I walked out and went home. I could not shake the smell of onions for a week – even though I was taking showers twice a day.

The following week I got a job at the library. At GBP 5.65 per hour,
shelving books, with breaks in between. Thank heavens for British unions, I thought.

The story ends well. My local guardian, an angry Thakur from
Rajasthan was furious when he heard of my experience. He went calling the same day, and no less than Kenneth Clarke, then Home Secretary. After scaring the living daylights out of Kenneth Clarke’s assistant, he was put straight through to the man
himself.

Four months later, the restaurant was raided. Citing illegal immigrant workers and a series of serious health violations, the restaurant was shut down and the owners were fined GBP
8,000. Almost two hundred times what the restaurant owed me.

I celebrated. I recently went to Manchester to attend a friend's wedding. I drove around to Rusholme to see the restaurant. It was another drizzly Manchester morning. The whole area was deserted – things wouldn’t start to hum till later that afternoon. The restaurant was shut. The name on the board had changed. Vivid
memories flooded back, of walking down the road with the bag of flour on my head, of hundreds of onions, of the first twenty quid I had earned in England.

I put my hands in my pockets and walked back to the car. I stopped to look back one last time, and felt a calming sense of closure.

The Battle Of The Pilani Masters At Bunker Hill

The aroma of fresh warm idlis mingled with the smell of newly cut grass in Princeton, New Jersey and added an exotic excitement to the famed Bunker Hill golf course. Over two hundred years ago, the battleground of the same name had witnessed a bloody battle that the British won. But it was a historic battle. For at Bunker Hill, the American soldiers discovered their own prowess, courage and almost beat back the regulars. Bunker Hill became a rallying cry of the patriots throughout the war. Today, on a warm, grey day, the tone was set for the third year of the acclaimed Pilani Masters Golf Tournament.

Battle scarred legends from years past quietly gathered around the coffee and tea bins in preparation for another battle to come. Armed with weapons of graphite, nerves of steel and a single-mindedness of purpose, they made their way to the hot vadas and chilled beers that awaited. The Bagarias, Gokhrus, Mynenis, Nalgundwars, Padmanabhans and Paladugus stood shoulder to shoulder, weapons by their side, their broad chests and huge biceps foretelling a grim tale of the bloodshed to come.
The last fleck of sambar wiped away, the last gulp of Corona light and Gatorade swallowed and it was time. Bob the Ranger raised his conch and beckoned the giants to battle. A grizzled three-time warrior, KC, the oldest and most active BITSian, put his ammo to the tee, took careful aim and let loose with a might roar into the winds.

It was another outstanding day. The cloudy haze and intermittent showers ensured that the closest to pin didn’t come close. A 25.5 feet effort by the runner-up was narrowly pipped by Rahul Banerjee with a 24-footer. The greens held their ground.
With adrenaline pumping after tough negotiations with the vendor for extra chutney, Sandeep Arora and Rahoul Mehra shared honors for the best score on the front 9. Renchy Thomas, taking tips from Sandeep who rode in the same chariot, routed the enemy on the back 9, sharing honors with Rahul Banerjee.

Satish Paul came with weapons of mass destruction but dud scuds they were ! With a score of 176, he won the trophy for having fought the longest, the divots at Princeton bleeding from the massacre that he wreaked on the tall blades (of grass) that stood in his way.

In the end we raised $1,000 thanks to three great NJ companies. Radiant Systems (thanks to CEO - Venu Myneni), Wissen (thanks to CEO - Satish Paul), and DreamCricket’s PavilionShop.com contributed to the BITS cause by sponsoring the arms race at Princeton.

In the villages of India, the saying went “Jitney haath, utni lathi”. Venk brought Chetan, Kailash brought Ashish and Ravi brought Rahoul. Young, handsome, fearless warriors, they stood by their fathers like Arjun’s Abhimanyu, to chide, ride, goad and support each other to victory. And victorious they were. Ravi won. Venk Sharma came 3rd. Ashish came 2nd. Blood they say is thicker than water…that stood in their way.

Ah water ! Across the swollen rivers and on the sandy dunes, the battle raged for hours. The rivers rose to overwhelm the riders, the waves crashing into the bridges. But the steeds rode fast and steady, the wheels of the chariots clattering like the rolling thunder in the hills.

Ravi Mehra came for a third time to meet his challengers. Two time champion, a witness of heavy fighting on the 5th, 17th and 18th holes year after year, this time was no different. The passage of time has not lowered his sights, but the victories are becoming narrower and the runners-up are getting younger. With an outstanding 83, he staved off a challenge from Ashish Sharma, a Pilani son (of Kailash Sharma) who came in second with a best-ever 85. Ashish’s two memorable birdies on the front nine were replaced by the two lost balls on the back 9. Ashish, the early leader, fell a notch and Ravi rode back victorious.

War is about teamwork. The Mehra-Sharma battalion (Ravi, Rahoul, Venk & Chetan) with an average of 96 were way ahead of the Sharma-Myneni (KC, Ashish, Anupendra and Venu) battalion that came second with an average of 106.

In the end there were no casualties, just battle scarred, happy survivors with gleaming gold and crystal trophies for everyone, all winners for having come to stand their ground.

As the participants swung out of the lot, their low slung red Ferraris, Maseratis and Jaguars jostling with the Hondas, Toyotas and Fords to get out of the car park, the raft of trophies in the back windows added some more glitter to a sparkling parking lot and an already memorable day.

And suddenly it was over. As the sun set on the Battle for Bunker Hill, the only reminder of those famed warriors was the gentle whiff of Cuban cigars, the lingering aroma of the afternoon samosas and alu tikkis, and a half empty bottle of Gatorade, swaying in the wind.

But they’ll be back next year. In even larger numbers. For though the Battle is over, the War of the Masters will last a lifetime.