Being sick – being stuck, stranded in the upper bunk of this mediocre hostel has made it damn impossible to explore Jaipur. The only glimpse of the famous “Pink City” I’ve been getting is the heaps of garbage and sand strewn across the side of the road… oh, and that restaurant…
Yesterday, I’d only been able to stomach some plain pasta at the nearest restaurant. (The same restaurant as the day before). As I was eating my plain pasta, the restaurant owner came up and introduced himself to me, even sitting down on my table right opposite me and chatting away to me. He seemed like an extremely happy individual. That made one of us. This unusually happy man was named Saqib. And before I knew what the hell I was agreeing to, I’d accepted a ride on the back of Saqib’s bike to the residence of a fortune teller who would change my life – or so Saqib promised me.
I don’t know why I agreed to go with Saqib… maybe just because it was free. But I was still a sick horse and hitching a ride on the back of Saqib’s bike really didn’t help me feel any better…
The fortune teller told me many fascinating things like: ‘You’ve always wanted a house of your own.’ REALLY? And ‘you will get married within the next few years…’ HEH. Anyway, Saqib wanted me to discuss my destiny with him over a pint back at his restaurant. I promised him I’d come back later and got the hell back to my hostel where I could return to my bed of sickly sweat and dream of my incoming marriage. ‘You’ve always wanted a house of your own.’ Oh come on…
Since I bailed on Saqib yesterday, I felt I would have to avoid his restaurant from now on. So this morning I wandered down a different road and found a restaurant so dingy with dust and darkness I was sure it must be closed. But a waitress appeared and I ordered an omelette with roti. But the waitress offered me another type of bread instead. Something called Parantha. (Pronounced: “Parata”) So I got a salty, buttery omelette with a plate of this “PARANTHA.” What the hell was this parantha? It turned out to be a delectable cross between a naan and a pancake. A glorious discovery.
After the tasty parantha but the god-awful burnt coffee, I quit the shabby restaurant and crossed the road to a proper coffee shop where I got a tiramisu latte. The tiramisu latte really gave me something to live for.
Convincing myself I was completely over my sickness, I rushed to Dominos Pizza for dinner – desperate for some comfort food that WASN’T spicy. I ordered a pasta and olive pizza – temporarily outraged that it didn’t come in large (I settled for medium). But as soon as I’d taken the first bite I realised there is no escaping the spice in India…
I quickly learned that I was not over my sickness at all. Back at the hostel reception, a guy began sharing his relationship problems with me. It was a long time before I even realised that he worked for the hostel. He kept complaining about his fiancé. He hit her and now she’s told his mother and the wedding may be cancelled. He’s from Punjab and wants to emigrate to Canada. Lot’s of Punjabi’s emigrate to Canada he told me. He may well emigrate to Canada, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting married… at least not within the next few years like me!
