LOVE SOAKED

CHAPTER 1 - The stomach ache

ASHER

The autorickshaw sounded like a croacking frog, weaving through a series of honking horns, overflowing buses, and pedestrians who seemed to possess an uncanny ability to dodge death by a hair's breadth. I gripped the metal frame, knuckles white, wishing I'd taken a damn Uber. If only my mom hadn't convinced me to live like a local and experience the city I was born in.

"First time in India, sir?" the driver, a scrawny young dude with a mischievous glint in his eyes, yelled looking over his shoulder at me, like he didn't give a damn if he hit the car infront of us.

Pushing the fear away, "Yeah," I yelled back, my voice hoarse from the recycled Delhi air I'd been inhaling for the past eight hours. "First and possibly last."

He flashed a grin, "Bangalore is different, sir. You'll see."

Easy for him to say. He probably navigated this urban jungle blindfolded, fueled by chai and disregard for personal safety. Me? I felt like a bull in a china shop, a six-foot-tall, dusky-skinned American who stuck out like a sore thumb despite being, technically, Indian.

Technically.

My parents, bless their vanilla hearts, had scooped me up from an orphanage in bangalore when I was two, a wide-eyed scrap with a mop of unruly black hair. They'd raised me in the suburbs of Seattle, a world away from the chaos I was currently drowning in. Sure, I'd taken a stab at reconnecting with my roots a few years back – a one-week trip filled with awkward silences, unfamiliar food that ravaged my stomach, and a nagging sense of displacement.  India was fascinating, frustrating, and utterly foreign. Yet, I wanted to find my place in this chaos.

Which is exactly why I was here. Asher Brown, CEO of CVerse, had come to Bangalore to conquer the Indian tech market. Not exactly a noble quest, but hey, a man's gotta make a living, and to earn the right to take over the company ,Except right now, all I was conquering was a churning in my gut that threatened to turn my insides into a mosh pit. I need to get to my hotel or my office soon.

Suddenly, the auto screeched to a halt, inches from a dented Maruti Suzuki that looked like it had bumped into a rogue elephant. A commotion erupted on the street. A tall man, not as tall as me, in a lungi, his eyebrows knit together in fury, was yelling at a skinny guy on a Hero Splendor motorcycle whose hair colour was the same as the maruthi Suzuki he had bumped into.

"Oye, andha hai kya?Tere baap ka road lagta hai tumhe!?" (Are you blind? Does this seem like your dads road?!)  the bearded man in lungi roared in Hindi, his voice thick with a Bengali accent.

The youth, barely out of his teens, shot back in Kannada, his voice laced with frustration. "Uncle bengaluru idu, nange hindi nai aati. Honk nahi karsakta tum?nin akkan, ellinda bartare janru!?" (Uncle this is bangalore, i dont know hindi. Couldnt you honk? God knows from where these people end up here.)

Despite the tense situation, a snort escaped my lips. It wasn't the insults – though they were colorful – but the sheer absurdity of it all. The way the men switched effortlessly between languages, the outrage over a minor fender bender, the traffic continuing to weave around them with practiced indifference. It was pure Bangalore. Luckily my parents back home insisted that I learn as many languages as possible, hence navigating in and around bangalore wouldn't be an issue, controlling my laughter? That would sure be one.

The driver, catching my amusement, grinned. "Always a show, sir. Welcome to India, also to Bengaluru."

I chuckled, a knot loosening in my chest. Maybe Bangalore wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to navigate this crazy, vibrant, and fascinating city.