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to squash the sodden and ragged bag of fruit back in its locker. ' Best
mangoes.'
I smiled at him, and attempted conversation. He owned some
sort of electronics factory in Bangalore, and was returning from
doing business in Bombay. Did he think India could one day compete
with the Japanese in electronics? I wondered. He nodded his head
confidently in the South Indian manner, from side to side rather
than up and down. In my ignorance, I thought he was saying no.
Having tried to start a conversation, or so I'd assumed, he was now
doing his best to avoid one. My questions deteriorated to the level
of asking him if he liked living in Bangalore, most receiving the
same smug and circumspect rocking of the head. Since then I've
come to believe the gesture doesn't mean either no or yes, but, in a
quintessentially Indian way, both and/or neither.
Bangalore, from my porthole, lay spread out like a vast flat garden.
On a plateau high above sea level, it was essentially that in 1974.
Now it's more like an Indian Silicon Valley. Tall rain trees waved
their ragged arms in a mild breeze. As I stepped out, I noticed the air
had markedly cooled and dried compared to Bombay's Turkish bath.
We walked over to what resembled the airport in Casablanca : a low
building, a control tower, some basic radar equipment. The luggage
was wheeled from the aeroplane on a huge cart to an area beyond
two high chain-link gates. On the other side waited an orderly,
well-dressed crowd. Everyone was meeting someone. Flower
garlands were placed over heads; children reverently touched the
feet of elders; small pujas were performed: hand-sized trays of
burning camphor waved around as friends and relatives clapped
and chanted, praising the gods for a safe arrival. With us it's a hug,
then hand over the bottle of duty-free. Indians do things with grace
and style. They've had more practice at it.
Far from being harassed by competing taxi drivers, I noticed only
one taxi waiting outside the airport, alongside a manicured lawn
containing riotous pink hibiscus beds. And someone was already
commandeering it. A little distance off were several of the covered
three-wheel motorcycles known as autorickshaws. I consider them
a distinct improvement on the old rickshaw; who feels good about
having some emaciated octogenarian in a loincloth and turban
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