Put that bloody meter on!!!!!

There are some mundane chores, which, no matter which corner of the world you’re in, always come back to haunt you... and if you try to run away, they’ll kick you in the ass.

Washing clothes in one such example. Here we have to wash everything by hand, though I don’t really mind, I find it therapeautical. The hardest part, however, is to forecast when it’s not going to rain, so we’ll actually be able to dry those clothes after we wash them. :)

Then there’s other chores. Such as duplicating keys.

In India the process is a bit messy... but only because I’m white.

I needed to duplicate six keys. So yesterday, after work, I told myself:

OK Vio. You are going to take responsibility and duplicate those keys!!!!

So I asked my colleagues where to go and they assured me it was a simple process. All I had to do was to go to KR Market and I would find the keycutters cutting keys in the street.

Sounded easy.

So I left, feeling happy I was taking responsibility and I was finally going to get the keys duplicated.

Off I went to KR Market. After a senseless, albeit common, argument with the rickshaw driver when he tried to overcharge me, I finally found KR Market.

Imagine. A Maltese market with a difference. A place where no white people ever set foot in, except for one crazy Maltese (click *hyperlink* here to know what MALTA means) who decided she wanted to get some keys done.

I believe in asking for directions. I now, however, firmly insist to such believers to convert to map-reading.

I asked some people where I could find a keycutter. After several stares and some complicated sign language (on their part and on mine respectively) I finally understood I had to go straight, find traffic lights, and then go left.

OK, let’s go.

There were no traffic lights.

So I found a young woman who forwarded my request to her elder brother, who then forwarded my request to a policeman.

Good, I thought. He should be reliable.

Right?

Wrong.

He told me to walk back and go right.

I will not burden you any longer with the details of the time I spent going around in circles.

Two morals in this story.

1. Indian bureaucracy is everywhere.

and

2. Never ask for directions in India.

Anyway.

I finally managed to strike gold in the form of a policeman who actually knew what I was saying... and led me to the right street... with three (!!!) keycutters.

I paused at the beginning of the street, took a deep breath, and took my first step.

The battle had begun.

Bring it on, I whispered.

I’m currently reading an amazing book called Eat, Pray, Love by Liz Gilbert. The author insists that each city has a word related to it. Rome is SEX. New York is SUCCESS. Naples is FOOD.

I decided Bangalore is BARGAINING.

Definitely bargaining.

So I approached the first keycutter. My colleagues assured me a duplicate key would set me back 15 Rupees.

I presented my opponent with the key.

How much? I demanded.

300 Rupees madam, good quality!!!

(mum, do not read this part please :) )

It’s funny how English does not have colourful swearwords like Maltese, so I decided to resort to my mothertongue to express my feelings.

(you can continue reading now :) )

I managed to bring the price down to 200 Rupees, wasn’t satisfied and moved on to the next two keycutters.

After endless and useless back-and-forth bargaining, I left with nothing. No one wanted to lower the price and I refuse to settle for a price which insults my intelligence. (I dare you to comment or cough now.)

Anyway. So I ran out of the market, chased by a woman who was screaming ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ at the top of her lungs and smiling at the same time (it is possible, apparently). I stopped to catch my breath when her voice sounded distant.

(When I looked back I saw three men restraining her.)

Phew

No keys

What a completely pointless waste of time.

I called out a rickshaw to go home. The driver overcharged me, but honestly, I did not have the motivation nor the energy to even complain.

I finally got home, and cursed my white skin for the first time in my life.

But as my landlord said after I told him what happened, at least you have more to write for the blog!!

Bangalore... The city of bargainers.

Put that bloody meter on!!!!!