The Bangalore-London pub crawl- Part 1

The first question in this back to the future pub crawl is; why Bangalore and London? It is important to ask this question before everyone actually ends up on all fours, which is why I bring it up now. So while I indulge myself, do grab a pint and stay with me.

It’s simple really; they are probably the most outward looking cities in their respective parts of the world. Both Bangloreans and Londoners have cottoned onto a vital secret- that flexibility breeds success at a stupendous scale (It’s the adaptation, stupid). They are also probably the most tolerant towns in their parts of the world, despite periodic hiccups courtesy BNP voting Dagenham types and English hating Kannada activists. And whether one likes it or not, the Essex working class and Kannadiga son/daughter of the soil have a lot to be pissed off about. These are places that epitomise 21st century multiculturalism, Sufi cities that sniff, taste, blend, imbibe and absorb. They thrive on their contradictions. When Evelyn Glennie plays at the violin-shaped Chowdiah Memorial in Bangalore, she gets standing ovations. As does Trilok Gurtu at the Royal Festival Hall.

A whopping 62 % of the Bangalore population comprises migrants from other parts of India and the world. And a staggering 300 languages are spoken in London. They are also at the vanguard of their countries' economic success. Which means there's probably something to be said for all this flexibility. So, they unarguably have a lot in common (that is, except for the time of day when their boozers close their doors and the, er, small matter of traffic).

The second question is, what is a bar and what is a pub? A pub in Bangalore is a bar in London. And a pub in London, a mere bar in Bangalore.

Let me explain.

The general understanding about a pub in Bangalore is that it is a place that serves, above all, draught beer. That is, beer that comes out of a tap. That’s simple, then. Optional extras include cocktails, ear-splitting rock, stock and techno-trance, fancy names that look West with undisguised longing (e.g. Black Cadillac), geeky yuppie types, a resident arty set, great-looking women, and on the rare horrific occasion, brats playing dodgem. Contenders for the title of the first pub in Bangalore according to Yahoo Answers and past company include the Scottish Pub on St. Mark’s Road, the defunct Ramada just off MG Road, Pecos on Rest House Road, the Brigade Pub (latterly Hi-Spirits) on Brigade’s, the Pub (latterly NASA) on Church Street, and the defunct Four Aces in the even more defunct Blue Moon Complex. This brings us to the second question. Which was the first ever Bangalore pub? And which was the first ever London boozer? Suggestions for this one, which I’ll do in a later post, are welcome.

The Bangalore bar, on the other hand, serves stale UB Export and rotgut spiked Charger out of bottles, and rather delicious Indian Chinese food. Think Tomato Fry, Chilli Quail, and Pork Fried Rice. It teems with unexpectedly friendly people and genuinely interesting characters (like a private eye who offered to keep an eye on my girlfriend while I was away, gratis, on the strength of 3 shared Kingfishers). The waiters are addressed as 'Guru' or 'Boss', highly appropriate terms considering that they are so completely in charge of one's physical, mental and spiritual wellbeing. The bars can, on request, do mildly loudish film music. However, their clientele is almost entirely local (as in, from the neighbourhood) and almost strictly male. Except on New Year, when Mr. Manjunath brings along the missus and the brood and it becomes a place transformed. They have names like Naga Bar and Restaurant, or Gongura Gardens.

As one lands in Heathrow, all thirsty and nowhere to go, your friendly Sikh cabbie offers to drop you off at Glassy Junction. And that’s where everything goes pear shaped. Glassy Junction, a Victorian local in Southall that the Punjus took over in the 70s, is a pub, and the only one in the UK that accepts Indian rupees. It’s been carefully done up to look like a derelict Indian Railway Station, complete with hanging platform signs and leaking loos. It serves draught (Lal Toofan, Kingfisher… take your pick), but to confuse the heck out of you, is full of desi private eye types. The locals rule. And hardly a woman in sight. They also do mildly loudish film music. But calling the bartender 'Guru', given his likely religious leanings, may not be a great idea.

Such problems do not end here. Even classic English pubs, like the enormously fascinating Queens’s Larder off Queen Square, steeped in the bizarre history of mad Kings named George, is full of Bloomsbury office-slaves having quiet conversations, rather than yelling incomprehensible rubbish at each other over loud white noise. And these pubs do both draught and bottle. Not to mention vile- coloured alcopops. For more on the Queen's Larder, where love, loyalty, food, wine and madness meet in a magical car crash where everyone survives, watch the Madness of King George and click on this link. The recent revamp has rid it of most of it’s character, and so I wouldn't exactly recommend it unequivocally. It's still worth the one visit.

But the bars beckon. Onto Old Street, where the Shoreditch bar revolution began. Cantaloupe, the mother of all Old Street bars, does draught, bottle, cocktails, and ear splitting rock, stock etc. Also youngish yuppie types, a fascinatingly nutty and arty Hoxton set, and great looking women. Just like a Bangalore pub. And rather nice fusion food. Just like Indian Chinese in a Bangalore bar. Aaaarghhhh… I give up.

Then there’s the lager/beer dichotomy. Beer in the isles is beer, as in ale, Guinness etc. Not lager. Lager is lager. Not beer. But beer in Bangalore means lager. Geddit?

And beer gardens in Britain means dodgy trestle tables at the backside of a pub. But beer gardens in Bangalore (as in Gongura Gardens or Gong’s, as certain less-than-couth University students would have it) are real gardens dotted with bright red and white beach umbrellas.

Not that all this matters. Clink.

To wind up on a suitably postmodern note, a recent Guardian survey showed that the most ubiquitous pub name in England is ' The Red Lion'.

The only ' Red Lion' I’ve been to, in the Black Country, turned out to be another Punjabi watering hole, full of portly, be-turbanned, gold-earringed, clean shaven Sikhs ( a British specialty) shooting the breeze. They were watching India play Pakistan on a big screen. So much for a typical English pub.

It’s the adaptation, innit?

The Lancet , Iraq and the American War

Hu Tranh, whose daughter used to be one of my patients, is Vietnamese. 3 years ago, in the midst of our second conversation, I made a passing reference to 'the Vietnam War'. Hu, who was a white haired, crinkly eyed, sage and sanguine 63 at the time, smiled, held up his hand gently, and said, "Ah, doctor, but you mean the American War."

Indeed I did. And, unnervingly for the first time, I realized the obvious. That for 84 million Vietnamese, the war that killed 2-4 million of their countrymen as opposed to a mere 58,226 Americans (don't miss the 2, 2 and 6, it took good American sweat, blood and tears to keep that count going), is the American War. As it is for the Afghans, Iraqis, the Grenadans, the Panamanians et al. Not the 'War in Afghanistan' or the 'War in Iraq'. They look at the nationality of those who invade and name the wars that are visited upon them accordingly- the American Wars.

Which is why what this group of doctors have to say in the Lancet is vitally important. The Lancet is the Holy Grail of medical publishing, the most respected medical journal in the world. It is one of the few independent medical journals left in the field, and holds no affiliation to a medical or scientific organisation, which is precisely one of the reasons why it is held in such universal esteem. When Thomas Wakley founded The Lancet in 1823, he announced "A lancet can be an arched window to let in the light or it can be a sharp surgical instrument to cut out the dross and I intend to use it in both senses". That philosophy remains at the heart of the journal today, under the editorship of Richard Horton.

The methodology used in this study is as scientifically robust as it can get- a national, representatively sampled, cross-sectional household survey with an adequately powered sample. Each survey team consisted of two male and two female medical doctors, experienced in surveys and community medicine and who were fluent in Arabic and English. What they found is this; that as a consequence of the coalition invasion of March 18, 2003, about 655, 000 Iraqis have died above the number that would be expected in a non-conflict situation, which is equivalent to about 2·5% of the population in the study area. About 601, 000 of these excess deaths were due to violent causes. The study estimate of the post-invasion crude mortality rate represents a doubling of the baseline mortality rate, which, by the Sphere standards, constitutes a humanitarian emergency.

Richard Horton's editorial comment on the findings of this study, can be found at Guardian Blogs. Newspaper coverage of the article can be found here.

Update: Some unnerving stats- This number is more than double the combined numbers killed in Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Dresden; and 16 times the number of people killed in the Blitz. Another Holocaust, then, this one.

Men, women and pink champagne

The Lady says that men are rather limited when it comes to talking about personal stuff. Now, this is obviously stating the obvious; but she elaborates on lines that I think are rather interesting.

Her take goes like this; women talk (and blog) about their sex lives, men don't; women talk about their boyfriends being wankers, men allude to mating problems in clouds of clumsy existential whimsy; women have real conversations with their best mates, men hum, haw, consider confiding, and then decide it's not bleeding worth it, let's just have a drink and talk football (or cricket). This means that when they are going through an exit event, like a separation, death or divorce, a woman has a well-oiled support system that's just waiting to be turned on. The man, on the other hand, has this best mate who just can't wait to tell him about what Federer did to Roddick last Saturday. Especially since Federer's been doing the same thing to Roddick every Saturday for the past few years. And that's why women live much longer, at least in the so-called developed world.

As you may have guessed, I've been tagged. By the redoubtable Sac aka the Laughing Buddha Biker. Hence, all this clumsy existential whimsy.

I vaguely knew of tags as some kind of blogger memic-compulsive behaviour, which will never happen to you, and if it did, you intend to adroitly sidestep. But sidestepping is well nigh impossible when you have grown to genuinely like the people you have virtual conversations with, so here goes.

I am patient, and I think it sort of defines me, all things considered.

I like my space. I like yours, too. This means that I am hopelessly un-curious about other people's personal lives.

I have been clinically depressed. Since I didn't have the time for therapy, I just took an antidepressant and got on with my life. This turned out to be extremely effective and efficient. I understand it's not that simple for many people who become depressed, but that just makes it an even more urgent topic. Depression will account for the second largest cause of morbidity and global economic burden by 2010. The more all of us talk about it, the better. And the quicker it's dealt with, the quicker you can move on with your life. Besides, 3 out of 10 people will become clinically depressed at some point of time in their lives. So, it's all happening. And it might be happening around you. So do keep an eye out. And cultivate plenty of confiding relationships. This is a bit like having low grade therapy. It's proven to be effective.

I caught an unpleasant infectious disease from a patient a long time ago. I'd love to say that I fought it, but I didn't. I sorta let it wash over me, while I watched television, got fussed over, and puked my guts out. It took the medics 6 months to figure out what was wrong, while feeding me steroids that granted it unlimited access to hitherto virgin parts of my body. By this time, even I'd begun to think I had HIV or cancer or both(everyone else appeared to have been thinking the same thing for some time). This freaked me out and I had a panic attack. Panic attacks aren't much fun, especially when you're hooked on to heart monitors in a CCU. At which point a woman I'd met at a party decided to scan me somewhere I wasn't supposed to be scanned. And promptly found out what was going on. This shows that you should always speak to women at parties. And strip whenever they tell you to. And that when it comes to life and death situations, women always know better. Never mind that the consultant treating me was a woman. Jokes apart, the stigma these sort of things evoke can often come from the unlikeliest quarters. It wasn't pleasant.

I once took a swing at a cop. Inside a Police Station. This, obviously, wasn't a great career move. Fortunately, it didn't connect. The cop was crooked, and had just stolen my motorcycle. That night ended with a bunch of now dignified medics being chased down an Indian street by an armed mob of parking attendants. We were on bikes, so we got away. And no, I wasn't charged because the Circle Inspector was very nice. I was 18, so I guess it was okay.

I paint, after a fashion. I think it's pretty mediocre, but a doctor who paints commands a certain Exotic Quotient, and so some people let me exhibit every year. Suckers. Actually, I am pathetically grateful for this. This year it's next week. And all I've done is base coats.

Which brings us to the pink champagne. I was at the Dorchester the other day, courtesy the gang, filling that glaring gap in my cv which said 'haven't had high tea at the Dorchester'. All the girls were having pink champagne. I hesitated; they rolled their eyes, which left me with no option but to go for it. And hey, it was nice. So there you go, I just looove pink champagne at teatime, dahling! Especially on a hot summer day....... So much for male stereotypes.

I don't have too many people to tag, I'm afraid; N doesn't have a blog, Nikita's busy, Hanni's quit, Vij doesn't like tags, Sreekumar's on a bloggatical. Which leaves Anu and Lg. Do the tag if you have the time and the inclination; otherwise, absolutely no problem. It's definitely a free country.

P.S. Everything I've said here is true. Especially the bits that I made up. Other versions of these stories are known to exist, but mine has the virtue of making me look a lot cooler.