most entrances to indian homes greet you with a 'welcome' mat, or maybe a pair of plaster hands in the namaste pose, or even a sticker proclaiming 'guest is god'. the maharashtrian's front door, however, will greet you with the terse suggestion: 'slippers here'. (note the economy of word—lesser mortals would have wordily said: 'kindly remove your slippers here').
other such injunctions include: 'ring the bell, and wait' or, if a pune friend is to be believed, 'salespeople and hawkers will be handed over to the police.' once you've run that gauntlet, and been allowed entry—but only after a good, long two-minute inspection from the peep-hole— chances are that you'll be left to find a place to sit, while the family disappears inside to wear shirts and pull on trousers over their banyans and striped boxer shorts (a.k.a. 'kulkarni bermudas').that done, it is not unusual for them to announce, "we just had tea." and that is that. don't take it personally.we are like that only. if you had visions of chai and pakodas, you're in the wrong part of india.the rest of india may waste time and money on hospitality.we have better things to do. the maharashtrian shopkeeper extends this rather dim view of visitors to his customers too. just because circumstances have placed him in a position to have to soil his hands with the degrading task of selling things, that doesn't mean you take undue advantage of him, enter his shop, and rub it in, by actually asking for merchandise and service, dammit. but they've got their strategy worked out. while some may greet you with a, "we don't stock it,", others will helpfully point you towards that more enterprising shopkeeper, who he dismissively calls 'non-maharashtrian', where you can take your custom. and if you still foolishly insist on being told the price of something in his shop, he'll put you in your place by saying, "it's expensive." while the other crass and shameless pursuers of business open up yards of cloth and waterfalls of saris for you to choose from, the maharashtrian shopkeeper will indicate a tightly packed stack and ask you to make your choice quickly. no "aaiye behenji, kya piyengi?" obsequiousness from him. if it was legal and didn't cost money, he'd hire someone to stand there with a big stick so that you don't annoy him by entering in the first place. many shops carry a stern warning on a little blackboard right at the threshold: 'no pointless (phaltu) enquiries'. this includes asking for directions or for change for a hundred rupees, asking what time it is, asking for water to drink or for the price of anything in the shop. good shopkeepers we may not be, but we've had women doctors and writers and thinkers for over two centuries now. we're big on education and reform. we'll change trains, take buses and walk to lectures on the most esoteric of topics. we'll come out in full strength, ages ranging from 9 to 90, to fill the classical music halls to capacity, delighting musicians from all over the country with our discerning ear. and we will not turn up in tussar silks and diamonds —more likely it'll be sensible synthetics and flat-heeled sandals, even those plain-jane corduroy black slip-on shoes that are so practical when it comes to running for that last bus after the programme and if it rains. we are known to keep our heads dry by simply wearing a plastic bag on it. sartorial fussiness is for the prissy rest of india. we disdain ostentation and excess of any kind. so bollywood leaves most of us cold. having a film star for a neighbour is more than likely to really annoy us, "because he and his friends use the lift too much, till all odd hours of the night". we might hang around a cricketer's home to catch a glimpse or have our kids photographed with him, but film stars...naaah. or shyaa! as we like to say. hindi not being our strong point, we might say peevishly to the rickshaw driver who slows down to gawk at a passing film star, "arre, amchya paas sachin aahe, tarr iss bandar ko kyon baghneka?" (hey, we have sachin, why do you want to look at this monkey?) while marathi is our mother tongue, sarcasm is our second language. we learn it at our granny's knee. other kids are complimented with a "what a sweet child you are," when they behave. the maharashtrian child is rewarded with "so today you've given your stupidity a rest?" we're caustic even when we're being helpful. the first marathi words that outsiders quickly learn from bus conductors are, "arre, maraychay kaay?" (hey want to die?) it's just the warm marathi way of telling you to move towards the front of the bus and not risk your life on the crowded footboard. 'abrupt' is obviously our middle name. no elaborate, formal, polite conversations for us. displaying affection, paying and accepting compliments, making small talk, we just can't do it. greet one of us with a hug, and we're likely to go stiff and subtly ward you off with a rigid palmsoutward pre-emptive move. if you step back and say, "you're looking lovely," we'll look away and mumble, or make some silly joke and change the subject fast. don't expect a simple 'thank you', and furthermore, don't ever expect to be complimented in return.we wouldn't know how. now go read something else. it's our lunch time. (this is part of a series which takes a light-hearted look at the idiosyncrasies of various communities)
