Interlude: The Arul Incident or "He is no ordinary white man."

I apologize for interrupting the narrative, but like all great American authors (Steinbeck, Melville, Silverstein, etc...) I shall take the liberty of improving my story by diverting from it.

Plus this is just straight up weird.

So we were at Darling (you'll hear more about this in Aint No Party... pt. 2) (ok, so I guess I should fill you in a bit... Darling is a restaurant on the roof of the Darling Residency Hotel, Vellore's finest, that is widely known as the best and, in many senses of the word, Vellore's only "restaurant")... well before I get started I should really introduce the we. We = Matt, Fran, Liz, Sebastian, Sabina, Pat, Coryn, Cara, Katie, Monica, Theresa, Nina, Andy, the 2 Scandinavian girls (ouch, I feel really bad for not remembering their names,) the identical twins, the two Glaswegians, the two British nursing students who I just met, and 4 random German girls who I'd never seen before. All in all, with a few notable exceptions... the white kids.

So anyway, we were at Darling just finishing ordering our food, when our waiter... the renowned polyglot Subramani... tells me that I have a phone call at the bar. This is strange for at least two reasons. 1.) Mr Subramani doesn't know my name, thus the caller must have described me... therefore he must know me very well... and 2.) everyone who knew I was going to be at Darling is with me at Darling.... which is to say someone knew where I was without me having to tell them.

I answer the phone and, of course, it is Mr Arul. Mr. Arul is the purveyor of the college (of christian medical college fame) canteen (aka cafeteria.) Mr Arul doesn't do "work" of any identifiable sort, instead he just sweats, grows facial hair, and has inappropriately long conversations with you while you are trying to eat. And I mean really long. He will stand there and continue talking about nothing in particular (his favorite topics include: his health, his work ethic, the size of the person he is talking to, their enjoyment of the food he has sold them, and miscellaneous incorrect statements about whichever country sounds like the country you're actually from) until all divert their eyes from his face and begin eating whilst staring at their food. Btw, He still thinks I'm Australian. Now most people would not engage Mr. Arul in these conversations as this will only prolong them as well as the group suffering. However I take a perverse pleasure in happily and loudly greeting Mr. Arul, asking him about his health and why he works too much, on a daily basis. I also complain to him that his food is not spicy enough... I really should do that last one. You see, the spiciness of the food at the canteen is a topic of great concern to Mr. Arul and the other canteen staff, notably because the Commonwealthians cannot currently tolerate any of the food at canteen besides vegetable noodles (ramen with chopped veg) and fried rice (white rice with chopped veg). However each day I ask him for the spiciest thing on the menu and each day he tries to outdo himself. Although he is approaching the threshold of my tolerance, just so that we can have a daily topic of pointless conversation, I egg him on...

Mr Arul has come to expect me at his cafeteria every night, as I can get more food than I can eat for about $0.75 (this is why I haven't done any cooking.) Plus the white kids live on campus, right next door to the cafeteria so it's a good chance to meet up and hang out with some non-Indians for an hour or so a day... not to say that I don't like hanging out with Indians... just that right now 12 hours a day is a bit much... I'm still working up to 16.

When I didn't show up Wednesday, he figured I was at the only other restaurant in town and called to check up on me. Why me in particular, I can never be sure... perhaps because I look like the sort who might sweat, grow facial hair, and run a restaurant sometime in my future... a protege if you will. Before asking to talk to me however he spoke to Subramani and, after replacing my order with a dish of his choosing, told him "he is no ordinary white man. make him the spiciest chicken cherulchadarlaricashamum (i don't remember the exact spelling) you have ever made. he can handle it." This is an exact quote from Mr. Arul. Needless to say the chicken was spicy, but not really more than my daily tofu stir-fry (I'm looking at you Mr. Yuan.) It wasn't even up to the chickeny-heat standards of Pollo Rico or Fat Chix.

Follow me on a sentimental digression.

Mr. Arul is quintessentially Indian. Overbearing, socially awkward, nosey, self-important, etc... but at the same time he genuinely cares that I, someone he only met 2 weeks ago, has a nice time out. Even if I'm not going to his restaurant. The people here are all hewn from that same vein in some degree or another... they will go out of their way to make sure that you are comfortable, even when it means a threadbare old man standing up and demanding you take his seat on a bus, because to them it is obvious that you are a guest... in their home, their country, their discount meat emporium, etc... and in all guests they see god. Well not all of them surely, some just see an oddly dressed sap with dollar bills sticking out of his orafi. But I'd like to think that those are the minority... and like all bad minorities I'm going to assume none live in my neighborhood. And if I find any, I'll scour at them appropriately until the cease their charlatan ways and start behaving more like Mr. Arul... with less facial hair of course.