Getting to Bangalore: Part II

Picture: A view from the rooftop terrace at our new guesthouse in Bangalore.

Our new boss Awsan told us he wanted to take us out for a nice dinner to celebrate our arrival in Bangalore. He picked us up at eight from our guesthouse. Another young man was with him, who introduced himself as Faisal, Awsan’s long-time roommate who was originally from Saudi Arabia and had just finished his studies in Chemical Engineering.

“Where would you like to go?” Awsan asked as he put his car into gear. “Oh, anywhere is good. Something local. We don’t mind,” I replied.

“The Hard Rock Café,” Awsan said definitively. Jenna and I smiled at each other. I thought about protesting, but Awsan seemed set on taking his two new American friends to a quintessential American place. “Sure,” I replied.

Five minutes later, we reached our destination. The Hard Rock sat on a side street in a bustling part of the city near the downtown high-rises and corporate offices. It looked and sounded like any other Hard Rock I had been in—from St. Louis to Orlando. Loud 70s rock, guitars encased in glass displays hanging from the walls, record covers and concert posters plastered everywhere you looked, and the smell of sizzling beef. A smell I had forgotten since arriving in India more than a month ago. I hated to admit it—amidst the hyper-Americanized memorabilia and blaring music—but I felt a little closer to home.

Awsan wasted no time ordering drinks. “You like beer?” he asked. We nodded. “You must understand,” he continued after the waiter left with our orders, “Ramadan just ended. I fasted for nearly two months. No beer, no alcohol, no nothing. I like to be able to have a drink every once and a while.”

The drinks came and after that Faisal told the waiter we wanted the Jumbo Combo—a gluttonous appetizer with all the hallmarks of American fast food stacked on to one plate: onion rings, French fries, egg rolls, barbecue chicken wings, fried chicken tenders and potato skins. The thought struck me that having accustomed ourselves to an Indian diet, we might induce cardiac arrest with this one meal.

The Jumbo Combo came with a thud as the waiter laid it down. Awsan ordered another round of drinks and we began to talk about the school.

“You cannot believe how hard it is to get real native English speakers to teach these courses. It is a miracle you are here. I am….” He paused, looking for the right words. “I am so happy you are here. Cheers!” He lifted his beer and Jenna, Faisal and I all did the same. “Welcome to Bangalore!”

“It’s great to be here!” Jenna said.

“The students will want to meet you before classes begin,” Awsan continued looking more serious. “When I tell them that they will have real Americans as their teachers, they will not believe me. They will think I am scamming them, so we will set up a day before classes start so you can meet the students.” From there, this young Yemeni who looked to be no older than 25, explained in detail the structure of the classes and his efforts to obtain the required textbooks and register a proper number of students.

“It has taken some time, some efforts. But I think we can say that there will be no more than 12 students in each of your classes. One group of students will be taking a six-month course. More intensive. More expensive. The other group will be only four months.”

With the Jumbo Combo remarkably finished, Faisal looked into our eyes. “Main course?” he asked expectantly. Jenna and I started to shake our heads ‘no’. We were already stuffed. Awsan jumped in: “Oh please, please, please. Kyle. Jenna. You are American. This is a feast. It is my treat! Have a main course!” We suddenly felt like we had a reputation of a nation to defend, so we naturally ordered hamburgers. And Awsan ordered another round of beers, though Faisal reminded him he had to drive us back to our guesthouse. As we dug into our burgers, the conversation switched to more personal topics. Awsan talked about his family in Yemen, all of whom lived in the capital city Sa’naa. “I have four brothers and three sisters. I am the only one not living in Yemen.”

Faisal echoed his roommate’s sentiment. “I have five—FIVE—sisters!” he put up his open hand with the five fingers splayed out dramatically. “And two brothers. My dad calls me probably three, four times a week. Just to say ‘hi’. I think he misses me. I was just there for two months. I feel like when I am there, I am in the ‘80s. Everything is so old,” he laughed. I asked the two native Middle Easterners what their families thought of them living so far away in India.

“They are okay with it,” Awsan said. “They understand I am trying to make it on my own. Of course, I am getting married this December,” he said so casually that I almost missed it.

“Oh! Congratulations! Who is she?” I asked.

“I have never met her. Our parents arranged it. But we talk on the phone a lot. She is very kind. I am excited. I go back to Yemen for the marriage and then she will come back here with me,” Awsan said with a broad grin.

“I like to make people feel happy,” he continued with a philosophical glint in his eye. “I feel there is too much negativity in the world. You watch the news, you know? It’s all negative. TV shows: negative. Music: negative. I want to do something positive with my life. That is part of the reason I started this English program: to help people learn English and get ahead.”

The dinner had taken an unexpectedly reflective turn, but Awsan guided it through with a deftness that belied his inner confidence. We felt at ease with him. We did not mind opening up to him and talking about important issues and current events. We argued playfully and challenged each other on our opinions.

By ten o’clock, the dinner was coming to a close. But it felt as if there—at the Hard Rock Bangalore—with two Americans and two Arabs sitting over the refuse of half-eaten hamburgers and old potato skins, the world’s problems could come to a proper resolution.

We got up to leave. Awsan put his arm around my shoulder as we walked out. “I am glad you are here. You two are like family now. We’re family. In this together.”