THE BLUE TULIP

Seema Ramnarayan

The Blue Tulip was almost about to close for the afternoon when they walked in. They looked ravenous, they way bachelors with little or no cooking abilities almost always looked. Bangalore was full of these - full of youth and perhaps thats why she loved it. Full of the youth she didnt even remember ever having possessed herself; the youth that was robbed away from her so stealthily that even the pang of having been robbed/victimized didnt cross her mind.

"So, what can I do for you sirs?", she asked them without a smile. To this day, she enjoyed the bewildered expression on the kids faces when they heard an accent they couldnt quite place. The accent that was so incongruous with everything else in that room. On second thoughts, everything about the room was rather incongruous, like someone couldn't quite decide what the place was supposed to be for. She heard one of the kids expound his theory on how the place had probably been a really nice restaurant  ("Check out the rosewood bar and the Chivas Regal stickers" he said as if to prove his point) which had run into bad times. The same young man who later asked her for salad with his meal. I dont think they ever eat salad in this part of the world she informed him in a tone that seemed to imply that she knew exactly what one should eat in any land, however strange or new.

She didnt get talking to them immediately. She never did that. She let them hypothesise on who she was and where she was from first. Let them exasperate themselves trying to trace that accent. Let them argue on where a woman who wears tweed skirts and flat shoes and speaks impeccable Kannada could be from. I have ordered new menu cards she said apologetically referring to the tattered menu cards with prices canceled out several times and rewritten in three different colours.

Once the threesome had finished their soups and were ready for conversation, she popped it to them. "So where you people from?" she asked them. She always started the whole thing very casually. She loved the whole build-up that preceded the revelation more than anything else. She liked shrouding the entire tale in a warm coat of mystery and secrecy. Always reminded her of those John Le Carre novels Venky used to give her when she was in college. Once they were done with telling her about their education and their jobs (she was not a conversation hog. She always listened to what they had to say too.), she let it slip quietly but deliberately like a coquettes handkerchief. "Im a doctor" she said. "An intensive chest care specialist". Like any other expert raconteur, she never failed to elicit the right amount of surprise and curiosity. The kids would take a nice long time over the meal today. "This restaurant belongs to my family and I take care of it since theres no one else to do it." She knew what would follow. She knew these kids like the back of her hand now. Thoughts and questions would flood their mind. "Why didn't she practise? Was she married? Where is her family? Has she always been here?". She could answer them any which way she wanted. In any order. Each time she told the tale, it was like weaving an intricate pattern. One could start from anywhere but make sure the final pattern  always looked just right.

In less than a few minutes, she had them spellbound. Tales of days in Scottish highlands and high-society London. When she had served in the army and nursed brave soldiers who all fell in love with her. She told them about the stiff upper lipped Englishmen she had snubbed and the poor Kannada farmers she loved. They were entranced, fascinated by this gypsy woman who held a treasure trove of adventure, history and romance in her eyes. She represented all the things they had thought they wanted to be before they had been swept off by the Great Indian Software Engineering Dream.

It was fascinating to imagine her, a young Indian woman doctor, battling for acceptance and survival in a faraway land all alone. She seemed at once, a victim of unusual circumstances and heroic at the same time. Soon their faces were responding puppet-like to the strings she formed with her tale.

Eventually, the youngsters realised the passage of time; the brat who always runs only when you want him to stand still and on other days can stay put at a point infinitely, decided to do the marathon today. As they took her leave, their eyes were filled with reverence and awe for this woman who had seen and done so much in a world which often seemingly left you with little or no choice. As she was closing down for the day and heading homewards, she had a satisfied grin on her face and a fickle twinkle in her eye as she thought to herself, "Tomorrow, I will be an ex-war correspondent for Time Magazine."