The Meter Please

After lunch yesterday I decided to leave the dust and crowds of Commercial Street and retreat to the apartment. Satisfied from my doughnut and sauce experiment, I ducked out of the restaurant and bee-lined it for a group of idle rickshaws.

Every rickshaw in Bangalore has a meter but finding a driver willing to use his can be a challenge. Most drivers ask where I want to go, give me a good look up and down, and quote me a price for the trip that is at least five times what the metered rate would be.

I have developed a suite of techniques for identifying honest drivers and if needed, persuading the cheats to turn the meter on. Yesterday I was sure I spotted the right man for the job from a half a block away.

This driver had a traffic cop lounging in his back seat for a moment’s respite from the sun. I strolled over, asked if he was working and he immediately shot back, “where do you want to go?” It didn’t come out quite like that but bear with me.

I responded, “Richmond Town—the Johnson Market.” Without batting an eyelash, he responded, “100 rupees.” I was almost surprised by his response but I have been in India just long enough to know better.

The two and half kilometer trip over to Commercial Street from my place had cost me 24 rupees, or just over 50 cents. I laughed, peered past the driver and made eye contact with the cop. Speaking to the driver but looking at the cop, I said, “we both know it costs 25 rupees to get over there; use the meter and you have my fare.”

All I got was a shrug from the cop and an accented reply of “100 rupees from the driver.” It’s common knowledge here that the vast majority of cops are corrupt but I will give this guy the benefit of the doubt and just call him lazy. Anyway, shaking my head, I walked off, flagged down another driver and began the process anew.

My new driver was a straight shooter, a meter guy, and 15 minutes later, after we pulled up to the apartment, I gave him his 25 rupees and handed him another 20 more.

Two of the Doughnut-Looking Things

This morning I caught a motor rickshaw (called autos here) across town to Commercial Street, the home of Bangalore’s textile industry, to pick up a custom-made linen shirt and get some lunch.

After grabbing the shirt, my first garment with a Nehru collar, I wound my way through choked streets and alleys, taking time to people watch and search out the dozens of well-preserved Raj-era buildings that are a feature of the neighborhood.

My walk was relatively uneventful until I decided to stop for lunch. I have a bad habit of walking until I’m so hungry I’m completely out of energy to search for a decent place. Today was no exception. Starving, drained and dehydrated I ducked into the first restaurant I saw with a sizeable crowd.

The place was a smallish but typical Indian lunch spot with a window to the kitchen in the back, a few counters where you can stand and eat in the center, and a booth up front where you pay and place your order.

I’m still new to this system and inevitably fouled it up. I walked straight to the back, tried to order and was quickly redirected to the front. Although the guy taking orders spoke English, communication between us was poor at best.

I pointed to a stack of doughnut-looking things in the kitchen and said, "I will have two." He mumbled the name of whatever I had just ordered, asked for 20 rupees and slipped me a coupon that apparently detailed my order, even though it looked exactly like all the other coupons that had been passed out to the patrons who had ordered quite different things before me.

Back at the kitchen, I slid my coupon towards the server and -- much to my amazement -- he stacked two doughnut-looking things on a stainless-steel tray, filled up two cups with interesting looking sauces and slid it in my direction.

I began to say, “but how did you know…,” realized I was holding up the line and went on my way.