Picture: A street-level view of UB City, the office tower in which Jenna and I will be teaching English for the next six months. At lunchtime on our third day in Bangalore, Jenna and I found ourselves on an open terrace overlooking the city’s lush Cubbon Park. The pinkish dome of the Karnataka state legislature could be seen rising magisterially above the trees. A light breeze fanned our faces as we dug into our meals: a tangy tabbouli salad with white grapes, onions and dill for me; a grilled Panini with fresh mozzarella, pesto, cucumber and tomatoes for Jenna.
It was a setting seemingly more appropriate for New York, Paris or London. Such is the ambition of India’s so-called Silicon Valley”: to mimic the sublime comfort of the world’s other great cities to the point that you forget you are in India.
We were eating lunch at UB City, a seventeen-story office building in the heart of Bangalore’s business district. It towers over Cubbon Park—the so-called “lungs” of Bangalore—and its offices give good views of the sprawling metropolis as it reaches out towards the Western Ghats, a mountain range which can be seen distantly on the horizon.
It is not the reality of wealth that makes UB City thrive, it is the aspiration for it. Ersatz murals of Venice line the complex’s main lobby, coupled with huge circular portraits of long-forgotten Medieval European aristocrats. The monolithic prints have a purposefully degraded quality, as to give the bustling office workers a sense of urbane history as they walk distractedly to the elevators, Blackberries and iPhones to their ears.
The lower two levels of UB City are taken up by a sparsely populated but eminently luxurious mall, filled with only the highest of high-end brands: Louis Vuitton, Canali, Ferragamo, Etro, Jimmy Choo, Armani, Omega, Tag Heuer. The employees at these stores are notably restrained, choosing to stand languorously at the stores’ glass entrances, disdaining for a few seconds to glance at passerby before yawning or checking a text message.
The third level is a breezy mezzanine, with open patios and wide boulevards leading to the car garage. It was here where Jenna and I were having lunch at a moderately priced French bakery. Next door, a Subway advertised hot Italian combos—with mutton pepperoni. A five-star hotel stood guard over the food court, its rooms looking out onto the patio with good views of Cubbon Park and beyond. Rooms there began at Rs. 6,000 a night. (About $135, which is a lot in Indian terms.)
Awsan sat across from us chomping on a French Dip sandwich. “You like the place?” he asked, the side of his mouth stuffed with roast beef.
Jenna and I nodded in shocked agreement. For it was here, at this monolithic tower, this homage to Westernized wealth and ambition, that we would be teaching English.
Our classroom was one rented space on the 15th floor, in a corner of a brightly lit floor that housed at least another dozen clients in a rat maze of cubicles and softly carpeted hallways. Just off the elevators, a spacious, neo-modern lounge greeted workers as they strode into their offices everyday. Our first visit afforded us the chance to gawk at the two HD flat-screen TVs against a colored wall at the back of the lounge. Indian periodicals and copies of daily newspapers filled a three-tiered tray near a glass wall off to the side. Soft leather swivel chairs filled the lounge and gave the space a coffee shop vibe—a supremely upper class coffee shop vibe.
“Use the chairs. Watch TV. Use the Internet—it’s free Wi-Fi. Read the papers. This is where you can take breaks between classes. The students will be able to use this area, too,” Awsan explained. “Do you want chai? Coffee? Cappuccino? Soda?” he asked.
“Coffee’s fine,” we mumbled, staring the silent images of CNN India on the TV screens.
Awsan gave our order to a man in a blue smock, who then quickly turned on his heels and dashed around the corner.
We sat at one of the tables in the lounge and Awsan laid out the plan for us. He had been personally registering students for a few weeks. We had enough to start two classes—a Basic English class in the mornings and an Advanced class in the afternoons. Jenna and I would be teaching the same students together in the same room. After agreeing to this, Awsan got up and went around the corner. We sipped our coffee, which had come in pristine white cups and saucers.
Awsan came back toting a cardboard box. “Here are the teacher manuals for the textbooks you will be using. You can plan pretty much how you like. I’m no teacher. I will just run the business side of things. I trust you guys,” he said.
As we talked, Jenna and I came to realize that Exceed English Center—the school we were working at—was the venture of one sole man: Awsan. He explained how he had seen a need in Bangalore for students of the many different nationalities who come here to study (primarily for fields in the technology industry). He had cobbled together some funding, put together a brochure and had begun recruiting students through his connections in the Middle East.
Frankly, it was—is—an audacious plan. The nervous energy we had seen Awsan display over the past few days was just that: nerves. Much of his personal fortune is tied up in Exceed. The constant ringing of his cell phone that day revealed the depth of the frenzy surrounding the school’s scheduled opening of October 18. Potential students calling to ask about the courses. Registered students calling to ask more questions about the course. Customers calling to enquire about Aswan’s other business—a car and scooter rental.
On the 15th floor of UB City, Jenna and I were coming to realize the truly rarified nature of our enterprise. Exceed English Center is us and Awsan at the moment. "People asked me, why take the chances?" Awsan told us. "You do not have teachers. You do not have students. Why risk it? Well, God has a plan. Inshallah (God willing), things will work out. I mean, look: I found you guys! Somebody is looking out for us!"
Jenna and I nodded silently. The views out UB City's windows were looking at bit higher than before.
No comments:
Post a Comment