In his bid to further Sino-Indian ties, though probably only coincidentally, the cook had packed a home lunch of Tangra Chinese on the day the Chinese president came carrying a pint-sized $20-billion gift that managed to disappoint his hosts. "It's like wanting a car on your birthday," my son put it in perspective for me, "but getting a scooter instead." On that day, though, I'd have given anything for that scooter.
Having left for work with my Chinese tiffin, I soon joined a stream of cussing commuters gridlocked into a traffic jam that seemed to stretch all the way from New Delhi to Beijing. No matter which route the driver attempted, we found ourselves at the tailend of a blockage. Cars idled in impatient queues while scooterists and motorcyclists scratched their way past. Mobile calls to friends and acquaintances regarding traffic conditions elicited little relief. All roads leading into the city were shut down so that Jinping and his entourage could zip down surrealy empty roads.
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I finished my flask of coffee. I nibbled at the chocolates I was supposed to carry for colleagues to office. I re-read the newspapers. I asked the driver what his wife had packed him for lunch and was gratified to be offered a bite of litti-chokha - which the Chinese president wouldn't have liked much. Still, the traffic remained stuck. Finally, with nothing else to do, I ate my Chinese chilli chicken stuck in the car, while elsewhere in the capital Jinping was being hosted to an Indian lunch with no sign of either pok-choy or chow mien that completed my humble repast.
Eventually, the traffic uncoiled, and life returned sluggishly to normal, though the commute back was a repeat of what had transpired in the morning without the benefit of noodles or fried rice for salve. My wife tended to frayed nerves with a cup of Chinese jasmine tea. But the day wasn't done yet, for we'd accepted an invitation to our friends' anniversary dinner that was being hosted, thankfully, in the neighbourhood. Still, it was late by the time the headcount tallied with the guest list.
The topic of discussion was, naturally, the Chinese visit. Were they being inscrutable about the intrusion on the border? Egos had taken a beating because the Chinese media had reported that India was poor and, worse, "dirty". "How can they call us filthy," spluttered Sarla, "when they're the ones who eat snakes and stuff," though it was unclear how the two reconciled in anyone's view. Personal narratives followed about monkey guts and tiger penises being served at Chinese feasts. "I don't think," said Devika, "that I can ever eat Chinese again." Famous last words, of course, as dinner had been ordered from a neighbourhood Chinese takeaway.