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| by Amita Murray |
The lobby is a faded olive green with chilled terracotta
coloured linoleum on the floor. Stacks of shoes – including my DMs – line the
shelves on the walls and lie scattered about. Some pairs look like they’re
about to make off in different directions where they’ve been knocked or kicked
around. I’m the last one into the main hall because as usual I’m fumbling with
my laces. I really don’t know why Velcro is seen as an unacceptable footwear
fastening choice for adults.
I catch up with the others, overtaking families and spindly
elderly women, careful not to step on the hems of the flower-bright saris.
Entering the main hall, I’m hit by a heavy, almost-familiar scent of Indian
food. Not the sharp, onion-heavy cooking of the North, but a softer, rounder
smell. Steam from huge vats wafts across the doorway. A long queue awaits
patiently, very British-like, as food is served on bendy paper plates by men
and women standing in a military line behind tables.
We’re here to find Mr Samaddar. Apparently he’s here…
somewhere. I don’t even know what he looks like, but I find myself searching
nevertheless. Maybe he’ll have something specifically Samaddar-y about him
that’ll single him out from all the other South Indian elderly menfolk here,
dressed in their thick woolly jumpers and chinos and sport socks.
It’s us who really
stick out here, in our sombre academic tones of blue and black and grey, with
our rucksacks and awkward bodies. My feet, benumbed from walking about stone
cold stone churches all morning, begin to tingle back to life because this
place has the miracle of underfloor heating. I reflect that churches could
learn a thing or two about design from mandirs. We make a space on the floor
and sit down, creaking our legs crossed, and await the appearance of Mr
Samaddar.
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