Bangalore: Becoming a Local

19th Dec - 31st Dec 2014

So how does one make new friends as a tourist in India? I'm no stranger to travelling around different countries for long periods of time, and have made a bunch of lifelong friends because of it. But this time feels a little different. I'm not a 21-year-old backpacking through tourist hotspots, crashing in hostels full of young, like-minded youths who are just as eager to make new friends. I'm not with a bunch of my girls in Miami or Vegas where we meet new people hourly. It's not like Madrid where I already had a bit of a base upon arrival, which expanded further thanks to the classes and courses I’d enrolled in. This time it's just the bro-ski and me, and despite the fact that we look like twins people always assume you are a couple who just want to be left alone.

Obviously not this many
white people nearby
 when I try the app

 And that is where the wonderful world of social media came in handy. With a plethora of apps that allow you to meet people within a 3 mile radius, either for dating purposes or friendship, it was not long till I had arranged a few meet ups at a happening club or bar. 

My app of choice (a thousand thanks to my friend who suggested it to me for this very purpose) is Instamessage. Not only does it show everyone according to distance - luckily India loves a bit of Instagram and is pretty tech savvy - but you can look at all their pictures to judge whether they might be the kind of people you'd want to hang out with. Pictures of cocktails, shots and general mischief are always a good sign. Doesn't hurt to seek out an aesthetically pleasing face either. Simper. Within a few minutes of signing up my phone is pinging away with messages. I've been deleting most of them, all the "hey baby looking good" and the unashamed beg-friends that I had to block "want to make friends please reply... Why no reply?... Hello again how u? Reply plz"
 
It isn't long till we are invited to UB City, a huge, modern 'mall' that housed a few of the happening clubs and bars that night. Reminiscent of Mumbai, it seems the nightlife in the big cities are either situated in the malls or hotels. The music is great, the atmosphere buzzing, the people we meet are so friendly and go out of their way to make us feel welcome. So of course the subsequent week consists of Long Island iced teas on roof top bars, late night trips to the off-licence and a rowdy night at a classy establishment that offered unlimited drink at a fixed price (the poor punters were expecting a civilised dinner, only to be interrupted by loud, inebriated rascals in their early 20s, falling over themselves after a marathon drink session). It was this latter night that Chirag and I felt that perhaps it's time we meet friends closer to our age.

One of my regular haunts: Hoppipolla, where we'd sip on
Long Island Ice Teas on the roof terrace and get eaten alive by mosquitos

I did notice that the majority of the youth we encountered in Bangalore are a little younger than us compared to back home, which isn’t a surprise as by our age most would be expected to be married rather than galavanting in pubs and clubs as we are. Now don’t think I’m generalising or making assumptions just because it’s India… this idea was pretty much confirmed by most of the people we met. Family is extremely important out here and I suppose, unlike home, most people in their late-twenties are expected to be established and settled down. Then again, just logging into Facebook my newsfeed is bombarded with weddings and babies by friends also in their late-twenties, so it’s not all that different really.

It just meant we would end up hanging with people five or six years younger, but honestly everyone out here assumes that we are in our early-twenties so no harm done. Yep, 23, I’ll take that. Good genes as we look younger than some of these 22-year-olds! Of course our age did show a little after the 5am drinking sessions, hanging terribly the next morning and not seeing daylight as we tried to recover from a killer headache. Bangalore…? More like Hangalore! But the important thing is that, despite the very late start the next day, at least I was a trooper and could outdrink the best of them. And while we're on the subject of the most inebriated city in India, the girls we came across really struggled to handle their drink. There was vomit in the ladies toilet as early as 4pm at one bar, and another time the only other female friend at our table had to be carried home before the party had even started. Though there is something about seeing girls stumbling about drunk and disorderly that makes me feel quite at home. I thought the Brits were known for that... but the Bangloreans take the biscuit!

Mixing drinks in the kettle

  We've started to feel quite at home here, especially when we are receiving daily phone calls and messages from the growing number of new friends to plan the evening's debauchery, or when we're directing ourselves effortlessly around the streets of central Bangalore, knowing exactly where to go for a good Dosa or a parcel of paan. So it makes sense not only to stay on longer, but to find somewhere cheaper, a little less like a hotel and a bit more like an apartment.
It just so happens that the road that we move to, Brunton Road, houses most of the friends we've already made! So as you can imagine our little studio suite has become the go to place for late night drinks and conversation. The poor kettle has seen more rum and vodka than it has tea (it's the largest container in the room, perfect for mixing drinks).
I'm beginning to feel like I've truly sampled the life of a young, single lass in this city. All that is left to discover to complete my experience of being a local is the daily grind and the dating world. Now I can't exactly get a job in the next couple weeks - though watch this space, I wouldn't put it past me to come back to work and live here for a bit - so let's go ahead and try the dating scene. 
   This may come as a surprise to those who know me. I've never dated an Indian guy, my preference has always been of the Mediterranean/Latin/Mixed/White persuasion. Sure, the majority of people tend to be attracted to their own, and I'm finally beginning to understand this since being out here - the familiarity, the same customs and history, language and expectations - but the British Indian men I've come across have never appealed to me. I don't share their way of life and I don't find them particularly attractive. But it is a whole different ball game in India, where there are men from all over this vast, rich, cultured country, who are well travelled, stylish, forward-thinking, and have moved on with the times. Unlike your stereotypical "British-Indian" whose only idea of their heritage and customs are from a couple of generations ago before their family migrated to Britain, which leaves them with little opportunity to evolve and a backwards mentality. Whom have no real sense of community, yet stick to their own and frown upon those that appear to have assimilated and somewhat rejected their heritage. Perhaps they should recognise that it's not a bad thing to surround yourself with people of all cultures and choose to date outside of your race; I am proud of being a Londoner and I am equally proud of my Indian heritage. I'm generalising here, mind. I know there are many like me who have carved out their own identity rather than falling victim to diaspora, my own family are living proof... but I digress.


Some wall art in another trendy roof-top bar
Pretty much sums up the city

I've always believed that life is all about surprising yourself and getting outside of your comfort zone. I've consistently made sure to stick to this rule, be it relocating to Spain with just two weeks notice, or booking these six months worth of travels the very day my work contract came to an end rather than sticking around to find another job and following the "safe" option. And now, I'd have never predicted that I would be sitting in a bar in India with a guy I'd just met, conversing over a cocktail in a city I'd only known for two weeks. Or that the same night, long after the date guy went home, at about 3am I'd be watching Aladdin with two friends as we merrily recited the entire film and arm in arm sang all the songs at the top of our lungs, passing round rum and the odd spliff in their dimly lit lounge. You can just about hear the sound of our heart strings tugging simultaneously as Jasmine announces "I choose him! I choose you, Aladdin"

So, date night details: I’d had a few drinks the day before at a gorgeous brewery cum restaurant bar called Arbor just a few minutes walk away from the apartment. It was reminiscent of my West London local back home The Aeronaught, which had impressed us all when it had newly opened, but this one was grander, served just as good food and had a rooftop terrace opposed to a fancy beer garden.

Arbor Micro-Brewery. I even went ahead and tried the beer platter
consisting of six half-pints of different flavours from sweet to bitter.
And I hate beer!

My date for the evening lives an hour and a half away taking into account Bangalore traffic, but a mere half hour when the roads were clear. Still I insist that the location had to be right near me, so Arbor suited perfectly. Perhaps I can blame the excessive cocktails (I've had five cosmos to his two or three beers and I am still less inebriated than he) or the flowing compliments from his side, but I find myself having a good time. He’s a fair-skinned, young lad from Rajasthan who towers over me at about 6 foot 3. At the time we seemed to have a lot to discuss and I thought perhaps I’m finding him attractive. Although the highlight of the evening comes in the form of a tipsy girl who apologetically interrupts our conversation to tell me that she and her friends had been admiring my outfit from when I first walked in – a black and pink maxi skirt with a strapless black top – and that I have the most amazing shoulders she’s ever seen. Shoulders?! Definitely the most unusual compliment I’d ever received, but I blush, thank her and make sure to take down her number to hang out later, as it’s so difficult to find fun, females friends on social media and I am in desperate need of some new girlfriends. I so miss my wine soaked dinners with my ladies back home, so a bit of girly company would have been most welcome. After I take down her number she slurs: “Keep wearing those beautiful strapless tops, don’t worry that you are in India! Not enough girls dress like that.” Before I can ask whether that meant that my outfit was too revealing or inappropriate she saunters off. Though I have seen many girls in tiny, skimpy outfits (the type I daren’t bring in my suitcase as it would be a waste of space for India) so I’m not too worried. Nothing that can’t be fixed with the quick drape of the omnipresent black shawl I keep in my handbag at all times.
   In our intoxicated state we make another date for the next day to meet at the apartment and organise a plan from there. Though after he leaves the real fun begins; that would be the drunk and stoned sing-along version of Aladdin. The next day comes and he arrives empty handed at 11pm after a long journey through traffic. Of course Bangalore being a city of early doors means it is impossible to get a drink anywhere and too late to pop to the booze shop for a bottle. So in my stone-cold sober state I realise that actually I’m not attracted to him whatsoever. Firstly I had to lead the conversation, secondly I don’t even like tall guys – anything over six-foot is unnecessary, and thirdly he has weird Megan Fox thumbs and doesn’t wear aftershave. I send him home without even a handshake goodbye, which he isn’t best pleased about, but if there’s one thing I simply cannot do it’s feign attraction. I had almost given up on my brief Indian dating adventure after that and was ready to make peace with the fact that perhaps I will never be attracted to an Indian man in this lifetime…

 The following day, which would make it the afternoon before New Years Eve, we make our way back to the fancy salon where Chirag insists on getting his haircut, despite it costing the same as back home. Fair play, they do a great job and we were friendly with the staff and owners. Originally we were going to spend New Years in Mumbai and I had pre-picked a few excellent places for us to party into 2015, but a few of our plans fell through so we delayed our flight to Mumbai to as late as possible on New Years Day – to cater for the hangover obviously. With D-day just round the corner, naturally, I’m itching to find a new plan that doesn’t involve shelling out for extortionate club prices in crowded, sweaty places. More than anything I just wanted a good crowd to drink, dance and party with.

Visage: the awesome salon that Chirag
got his weekly haircuts. I'd say it easily rivals
some of those back home.

The salon is buzzing when we arrive, and there are a few new faces behind the counter. As we take a seat to wait for Chirag’s preferred hairstylist; a chatty, Sri Lankan lad who we both spoke with at length when we first arrived, one of the new faces behind the counter immediately introduces himself and declares his unbridled passion for Arsenal, even before we admit that we are North Londoners and that I myself support Arsenal. While Chirag’s eyes glaze over at the mention of football, I continue to indulge this guy as he speaks animatedly about the Premier League and staying up late for Match of the Day. Having spent a year and a half writing continuity for ESPN, I’m not out of my comfort zone. I think of my boys back home… they’d be loving this. Apparently they even have pubs that are restricted for certain clubs like back home – an Arsenal fans-only pub round the corner, a Chelsea-scum one next door, Man U can probably be found on the parallel road.

While Chirag gets his hair cut we continue to chat. This guy (let’s call him Mr. Arsenal) has an infectious energy about him, and it’s just so refreshing to talk to a man who is confident and self-assured rather than meek and easily intimidated. For once I’m not the one that has to lead conversation and after picking up on a few hints I get the feeling he’s flirting with me.

He promptly invites us to join him for lunch, which at first we just assume is a friendly gesture that we’re supposed to politely refuse. Before we know it, we’re sitting in the back office with the salon owners, which consists of his mother who I’d spoke to during our first visit and another lovely Sindhi lady and her husband, sharing homemade Punjabi food and the vat of non-spicy (to cater to my weak palette, bless him) palak paneer that Mr. Arsenal had just ordered. We’re so touched by yet another display of the generous hospitality of total strangers, as we sit around the table familiarising ourselves with stories of travels, anecdotes about the state of the TfL and the lengths the Sindhi couple had to go to find a good dosa during their visit to London (no wonder, seeing as they were staying in Hyde Park… you’d have to travel out to zone 3 at least!).

Before we leave we are cordially invited to spend New Years Eve with them all at a member’s club nearby; drinks, food and entry complimentary as we’d be sitting at the club president’s table. After the rowdy, drunken kids we’d had to encounter the past couple weeks and the young, boisterous crowd at the clubs, this felt like the perfect, civilised way to celebrate the new year with great, older company. We exchange numbers and discover that he too lives down our road, so a quick drink after dinner

is a must. 

Bloody brilliant. A juicebox/carton of rum

  That evening we bundle into a rickshaw to the nearest booze stall looking to buy vodka, gin and whiskey as per our individual tastes. On the way Mr. Arsenal points out little landmarks throughout the journey in his fast-talking, confident manner: ‘there’s where to get the best omelette in town, regardless of the dingy surroundings and dirty décor’, ‘That’s the best place for jewellery’, ‘There’s the dirty side road where I used to play as a child, and developed my strong immune system’… something along those lines. By the end of the evening I find that I’m beginning to warm to him and actually, dare I admit, he’s rather charming. Before he leaves, he vows that tomorrow he’ll be stealing a New Years kiss from me at the stroke of midnight. Hmm… I’m not yet convinced, but I admire his conviction all the same.

I have a huge smile on my face the next day as we count down to midnight, each one of us merry from all the liquor and the night’s festivities. When it starts to drizzle lightly at the stroke of midnight, the New Year cheers are extended on account of the rain. I had imagined I’d be dancing to EDM in a dark club, bumping into boozed-up youths and barely noticing that we’d entered 2015 unless the DJ went out of his way to start a ten second countdown. Instead, dressed in an elegant, full-length, electric blue dress especially for the classy affair, Mr. Arsenal and his brother drive us up to the large member’s club where we are greeted by his parents and the couple we had lunch with the day before, all just as hospitable, friendly and kind as when we’d first met them. We are given goody bags packed with Black Label whiskey and various little bottles of alcohol, and make our way through the open-air space right to the front by the stage, past all the guests sitting on allocated tables and the frenzied waiters carrying drinks and delicious nibbles. It’s like the traditional ‘dinner and dance’ functions we used to attend with all the family as children, long forgotten now and replaced by house parties or last-minute clubs. On stage there are a variety of well-known singers and performers, as the aunties and uncles all dance to popular Indian tunes, which as we know I can’t dance to unless I have at least a quart of vodka in me. This sort of celebration is not my cup of tea at all, but there’s something about being in India and the great company that I can’t help but enjoy myself and admit that this will be one of the most memorable evenings of the trip. Seeing as the dance floor is a no-go zone we spend most of our time chatting away by the toilets or drinking shots at the bar. Though once the dance floor begins to clear out, at around 1pm, to my utter delight the DJ starts to play EDM tunes. I drag Mr. Arsenal to the front and that’s it… I’m in my element now, lost to the music.

After getting stuck in traffic for almost an hour, we drive back to my apartment (Chirag and I had booked separate rooms for the last few days to avoid the dreaded holiday cabin fever) and continue the celebration. I shan’t divulge any further details, but safe to say that it’s not beyond me to find an Indian man attractive after all.

 <Insert wide-eyed shocked and red face smiley>