string and timekeeping

a word on stephen gately

2009-10-17T19:09:00.002+05:30

This is a hastily written post, so probably not a particularly cogent one – bear with me (yes, all good posts start with a disclaimer about lack of quality).

Stephen Gately of Boyzone died last week while on holiday in Spain with his boyfriend and another man in the vicinity. The post-mortem laid the matter to rest, and his funeral was held.

I was going to write about how it came as a shock that a person fairly well connected with my childhood – probably my first man-crush; I was ten years old – and one with some memories attached to it (more than Michael Jackson – ironic given A Different Beat had a cover of MJ’s ‘Ben’) had passed away.

But then, when reading about his funeral now, I came across a mention of Jan Moir’s comment on his death. My interest piqued (due to the amount of criticism it had invited), I sought it out.

Read it.

It reminded me of an episode of Queer as Folk (UK; Season 1. Episode.. um, four-ish), where the series takes a sudden turn after the general levity of the first few episodes, by having one of the amiable supporting guys go home with someone towards the end of the episode – he snorts cocaine, convulses, and dies.

It was brutal due to its lack of foreshadowing. On the show, at his funeral, his mother blames his homosexuality for his death, asking whether her son would have ever been in that situation if he had been straight.

That is pretty much what she implies – that his ‘homosexual lifestyle’ was to blame for his death, and that 33 year old men don’t just keel over and die. Not 33 year old straight men, at any rate. But that’s reading too much into her piece.

Yes, he died with two other men in the apartment – it probably means they were having/had/going to have a threesome.

So what?

This week, by the way, Britney Spears’ new single ‘3’ debuted at the top of the Billboard Top 100 singles chart. No, it’s not an abstract song. Fergie’s ‘London Bridge’ from a while ago was also about group sex.

Again, so what?

The problem is the hypocrisy with which being ‘edgy’ by singing about such things is accepted without much fuss, while the gay lifestyle is still considered to be a right royal Roman orgy on a daily basis. While the cases of Britney and Fergie aren’t extrapolated to the straight population as a whole, suddenly Gately’s cause of death is the sword of Damocles hanging over every gay person, a ticking time-bomb of a lifestyle that’s going to explode unless defused?

Ok, my views are slightly liberal, so I’m not going to be outraged (or even ponder over) lifestyles that include drink, drugs, dames/dicks and decadent debauchery on a daily basis (I may have gotten carried away with the alliteration there). But if the lifestyle is going to be ascribed solely to the gay lifestyle – the gay celebrity lifestyle and not the straight ones in this case – I have a problem.

‘…I am sure he would want to set an example to any impressionable young men who may want to emulate what they might see as his glamorous routine.’

Does that imply that gay men are more impressionable than say, straight people who’re bombarded with the gangsta-rap lifestyle, with the Alpha-geriatric male virility of Hugh Hefner, and the general aspiration to an egregious opulence (Lalit Modi/IPL?) that is shoved down our throats by mainstream media?

And this is even without mentioning what she says about gay marriages (well, civil partnerships) – that it shatters the myth of happily-ever-afters in such unions. When did break-ups and divorces and general heartbreak become the exclusive fiefdom of straight people?

Not having my ear to the ground about such things (hell, came across this due to a mention on the BBC website), I’m not sure whether other deaths have had similar opinions published.

What immediately came to mind upon reading this was the recent death of David Carradine – the setting was (sleazy) Bangkok, died by auto-erotic asphyxiation, or so it is rumoured; the official report, of course, being something else – his family believes him to have been murdered. Michael Hutchence of INXS died over a decade ago, suicide being the stated cause, but the same auto-erotic rumour still hangs over that death too.

Their deaths were tragic. Any death is.

But they (purportedly) died of how they lived, not because of what they were.

Stephen Gately, and his death, deserves to be accorded the same amount of respect.

brevity

2009-10-16T14:08:00.002+05:30

you..

me..

we.

oui?

though a little subsequent googling reveals a 'you me oui'. ah well.

conspiracies

2009-10-10T00:27:00.003+05:30

So Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. I'm not even going to bother with a link to a news item, since it's been all over the place.

Am I the only one thinking that the Republicans rigged it?

Think about it.

Obama. Superstar. Celebrity President, appears on Letterman, Oprah etc. and has (or had) the world eating out of his hand, even if the public in the United States were getting a little wary of him as medical reforms rolled through (and still does) Congress.

But he was still cool. The problem with cool being that it can go out of fashion any moment. How, though?

Clearly they couldn't fight him on his own terms, since he seems an articulate man with sensible opinions.

Therefore, rather than trying to pull him down, place him on a pedastal so high that even his most staunch supporters will now be filled with a sense of incredulity.

This is true - facebook status messages are testament to it: almost every status message talks of Obama and how he's completely undeserving of it. One claims that even while he's the staunchest supporter, it's completely asinine.

Once you go high enough, you run out of air to breathe.

A masterstroke.

gwaaar!

2009-09-04T21:03:00.003+05:30

Once again, being easily amused...

While internet trolling, I came across the following name:

'Diana Soares'

What about it, you may ask (like she did).

Say the entire name out loud without pausing in between.

How cool is that?! (apart from perhaps schoolyard heckling vis-a-vis choice of profession/obsolescence)

have you heard?

2009-08-30T01:33:00.004+05:30

Oasis are over.

It could be said that it was a wonder that it lasted this long, given the history of murderous behaviour between Liam and Noel Gallagher. Their fights have been well-documented, and Noel and/or Liam have threatened to/have quit before – which lends this (to me at least) an air of disingenuousness/hot-headedness. And many are hoping that is the case.

Oasis were my first favourite band.

The year was 1997, and I thought they were the biggest band on the planet.

In a sense, that was probably the height of their popularity, or at any rate the point at which the curve started to drop. They’re released one of the most successful debuts in UK Chart history, and followed that up with (What’s the Story) Morning Glory, a sophomore album that cemented their legend. 1997 saw the release of their third album Be Here Now, which became the fastest ever first week seller – a record, if I recall correctly, that still stands (and probably will for a while yet, seeing the decline in album sales etc.).

And then came the fall, and all that went with it.

But I didn’t care. Well, I felt really bad that my loyalty (hey, I was 12 then, mind you) was with a band who were such… dicks. They were and still are absolutely arrogant uncouth bastards who badmouth pretty much everyone. It didn’t matter when they made music I cared for. I felt bad for the very decent seeming Damon Albarn, though out of some misplaced loyalty I didn’t start listening to Blur years later.

By the way, I didn’t think Standing on the Shoulder of Giants was all that bad. It was during this period of time though that I experienced the first Oasis crisis – Noel threatening to release a solo album, and Liam adamant that if that happened, Oasis was over. It didn’t happen; crisis averted.

My predominant thought at that point was that they, to me, had so much more to offer, in light of releasing the Beatles-go-to-India tinged ‘difficult’ album that tries (not a difficult prospect, seeing as they were playing with a couple of colours at most till that point, and seemed like they preferred to eat sand than draw) to expand the musical palette. Hardly experimental (coming out at a time when Kid A blew everything else out of the water), but at least they seemed like they were trying.

But three albums later, I’d stopped caring. I didn’t even give Dig Out Your Soul a proper listen, so utterly bereft of character it seemed on the first go, extending the rot carried over from Heathen Chemistry and Don’t Believe the Truth. Were they even trying anymore?

It could also be said that Oasis haven’t been Oasis for almost a decade, that regardless of the song-writers in the band, the ‘classic’ line-up brought with them a scraggly glow that was clinically cauterized after their exit. After Bonehead and Guigsy left, I never could tell the replacements apart. Behind standard-issue sunglasses and inscrutable pouts, the swagger in their music had been replaced with self-important boorishness.

Even looking at them (but I’m just reading too much into it here), the pictures in the article of them then and now… the joy is gone. Liam, incidentally, could be a ringer for Tom Cruise these days (see: the BBC article link; first picture).

Reading about it today, it made me feel sad, when thinking back about how much they meant to me – I had all their albums (till that point) on tape, and scoured Napster, iMesh and Audiogalaxy for B-Sides, covers and anything they’d done. On a dial-up connection.

It’s with some sadness and no relief that I admit to myself that I won’t miss the fact that they’re done. All things end anyway, and I hope it stays this way, lest they get back together and become this generation’s Rolling Stones.

But sigh, they’ll probably be back in a few years.

I refuse to title this post or make any references to 'Live Forever'.

winds of my actions

2009-08-29T11:44:00.004+05:30

It's not often that I go drinking in Chennai, and even less within those occasions to hit bars other than Zara's,* so with some delight I can say that I've been to two new places in the last week.

The first was 10 Downing Street, which is a decent place with food cheaper than Zara's, and a better floor plan - it's the ground floor of a house, so has segments, and feels spacious. Frankly, the wittiest thing about the place is the tags on the doors to the toilets - Maggie for women and Major for men. Truly, the '80s are alive.

The other, and by far more entertaining, was the Xzuberance Bar at the Raj Park Hotel (on TTK Road). Even as we descended I remarked that basement bars have a tinge of shadiness** to them, seeing as they don't have windows and can be a little more stuffy than I'm comfortable with.

The bar has no shoe policy at night and very reasonably priced cocktails (Rs. 160 per, compared to Rs. 300-400ish at Zara's), but oddly enough beer/bottle is priced the same (I am not familiar with the taxes pertaining to alcohol that probably causes it), which was heartening to know that the next time at Zara's drinking beer, I could rest easy and know that it's not too much of a rip-off by Chennai bar standards. Hell, even Chennai Cultural Centre (opposite Satyam Cinemas), place of the 10% levy if 'not a member', charges roughly 120 per bottle. That is, of course, if you haven't ordered a pitcher that's piss-flat.

Anyway, the Xzuberance Bar is also home to the Karmi Kaze, which is one c short of being a wind that's not only divine, but also retributive in the next life - presumably implied post-hangover. Yes, its constitution is pretty much the same as its cousin, except for an affinity for castor sugar, something shared by a fair number of cocktails on the menu. To be fair, was probably a fourth of the drinks on it, but it just seems an ingredient that stands out.

Shadiness of bar menu aside, little placards on the tables advertised Vodka Red Bulls - which at a place like this we hoped would be priced fairly reasonably. But when asked, the reply is 'Um. Red Bull is X rupees. Vodka is Y rupees. You can order the two and mix them. The ads are just there for the tables. We don't actually serve it.' So it went.

The place really lays it thick with free food, rendering the short eats menu useless. Even before the ordering started, preliminaries consisted of some five different eats laid out on the table, enough to suffice as dinner for two, and later on in the night they started breaking out the chicken too (sent back apologetically by two vegetarians.. for the night, in any case).

Oh, and it had Sun TV on, which was playing '80s music - glittery (like, actually glittering) costumes, bushy mustaches and sets that hinted at a future capacity for economic prosperity/profligacy.

Whee.

* Well, also did go to Zara's, which has introduced a bunch of shameless new 'fusion' drinks, which regardless of how they taste (mine had a bunch of constituents I didn't recognize, but sounded cool and Japanese), come with battery-operated glowing faux ice-cubes. In three different colours. The blue looks like Prometheus emerging from the depths of the Arctic, while the green looks like liquid Kryptonite. They're quite harmful to indecisive drinkers unsure of what to order. Ooh, ooh. Light in drink.

** We were aware though that the two of us were probably contributing to the shadiness of the place - one bald guy and another in black tee shirt and torn jeans. While we can and did comment upon the shadiness, other people seeking something similar possibly saw and took us into consideration when computing the shadiness of the establishment.

Two posts in three days. Scary.

it was supposed to be so eaisy

2009-08-27T01:13:00.001+05:30

kittens claw wrists.

choose your battles wisely.

throw puppies.

nothing in particular

2009-08-03T00:04:00.003+05:30

The new ten rupee coin is ghastly.

It looks like a Euro, but it's not. The face is almost completely devoid of detail (a fault of all the new coins, designed by a guy from NID whose name I forget, but has been disparaged greatly by people who shan't be mentioned here lest she face consequences), and it has notches on one side that looks like a humpback whale's fin - which would be great to use as a paddle by someone six inches tall.

Also, until enough of these are put into circulation, seemingly they're going to be useless, seeing as nobody wants to seem to part with it (much like gmail account invites back in the day).

The pharmacy down the road has one of these, and refuses to use it. Instead, they've set up a viewing zoo, with people from college making a pilgrimage to view the coin, which can be produced by the help only after obtaining permission from the proprietor.

Another boy ordered something from ebay, and the seller shipped the goods along with a ten rupee coin as a freebie/discount. Said coin is now protected fiercely by feral buyer.

well..

2009-07-09T20:16:00.002+05:30

Me: Let's go to Zara sometime? For the four odd years I've been going there, the one thing I absolutely hate is their closed-shoe policy, and I've always had to wear my father's shoes since I didn't have any myself. First I used to wear his black formal ones, which looked terrible with what I was wearing, and then I was wearing his white sneakers, which were almost as bad.

But now... now he's bought a new pair that is dark and light grey, and has a large silver swoosh and says 'Pre' in purple at the back, and it looks stunning. We have to go out!

She: So... basically you have new shoes and want to wear them out.

You're such a chick.

bother

2009-06-24T01:15:00.001+05:30

Walking back at ‘round midnight (with due respect to Dexter Gordon), I realize that I never really did pay attention to the route I took when walking back from my pub of choice since before hitting legal age till date and home.

I don’t have much of a constitution, and whatever that I have is over and above my bladder capacity at any rate. As I stand up and walk out, I think to myself whether I should take a leak. Nah, I think to myself. I’ll last. The seed of a bad idea.

We stand outside, making chit-chat. Hugs ensue. I walk a woman back home – it is late, after all, and it’s not too much off my path. But it is off my path. I contemplate asking her whether I can stop at her place. But I don’t. Germination ensues.

I’ve walked this path a lot. I mean, not to exaggerate, but perhaps close to a hundred times. All at similar times of the night, though with varying levels of sobriety. It’s a wonder I’ve never been stopped by the cops, or been mugged, or had any incident at all.

This time though, like other times, as I’m walking back, I don’t really feel the distance. However, having walked someone else back, I had taken a deviation. Now I’m on the road, trying to figure out which way to go, even as it dawns that I have the capacity of a thimble, if one with a delayed release mechanism.

So, now, I’m walking by, wondering which way to go, in the knowledge that I’m in roughly the right direction, to emerge somewhere eventually, with a rapidly filling bladder. The question is, do I let myself go now, or endure.

Public urination.

Now, are there set conventions? I wondered, even as I tried to motor towards home base.

Do not urinate in public is the overarching one – flouted constantly.

When it’s twelve at night, what are the conventions?

For one thing, I thought that taking deep breaths of the night air would be a pointer – if I can smell the pee, it’d be safe to go there. Boldly go where many have gone before. But no luck, and no pee.

Pee where nobody is around the immediate vicinity would be one. It’s just not on to take a leak on someone sleeping on the pavement, or in his/her personal space.

But any people at all? Now, people squatting around at a distance where they can perceive what is happening is probably a no-no, but those who’re walking by can just keep walking – live and let live.

Pee on walls. That is to say, don’t pee on shuttered storefronts and the like. Probably more likely to get rapped by security guards in any case. The same goes for apartment buildings. Plus, they’re brightly lit.

Dark zones are required. State property seems to be a magnet – any transformer, fuse box or construction normally reeks of piss.

But is there an exception to the watchmen rule? I was desperate, and still some way off. I had my sneakers on, and broke into a run, but still couldn’t make it.

I stopped, pinching my parts to stop the urge. Looking around for a suitable spot that wasn’t well-lit or a storefront, I saw a house wall. But the problem was, I knew the people living there, and knew they had a watchman.

Too bad.

As I was relieving myself, the diligent watchman wakes up and runs up to me, thankfully mindful of my needs – waiting till I finish – and then starts yelling at me.

What can I say? I’m clearly in the wrong, and without excuse. And I can’t get a word in too, between his abuses and fist-shaking. Finally when he’s done, I look him in the eye and tell him who lives at the residence, and his parents’ and wife’s name to boot. Comprehension dawns, but the disgust remains.

However clearly I’ve gained the upper hand, and I rouse myself to haughtily tell him to merely inform his employers, and to get in touch with me in the morning, if they’re so concerned.

I unhook the phone before I go to bed. It might be a long day tomorrow.

i went there on business

2009-06-14T11:28:00.002+05:30

… and our previous product, the Sympathetic Overtaking Handlebar was a big success, so after that, we were looking to diversify into new territories, had a bit of cash in our pockets and… one thing led to another, and here we are.

(smiles)

You mentioned this Sympathetic…

Yes, SOH was introduced in Norway a few years ago and was a big hit in the modification market. Made for scooters mostly, it calibrates the handlebar to a level that causes the shoulders to droop considerably, while still remaining ergonomic, and this makes the rider seem depressed and sympathetic. Tests showed that when a driving who’d been side-swiped, for example, by a scooter, was less prone to rage when he or she saw the rider in such a position, rather than a more erect and confrontational position…

It was quite a success. We were commended by the Ministry of Transport for reducing road-rage by a not inconsiderable margin.

Well, moving on, some critics have said that your company’s service is akin to the Toyota Prius, in that it’s a symbol of being environmentally sound, while…

I know what you mean, seeing as we worked closely with the automotive industry for some years. Volkswagen for example makes diesel-engines that purport to give better mileage than the hybrid cars. It seems it’s important for people to not only be ‘green’, but also seen being ‘green’, which is a reason for the relative failure of hybrid options on production vehicles as opposed to a car that is only hybrid – the Prius effect, you could call it.

But I stress here that our service isn’t so. For one thing, what expansion we seek to achieve in other countries outside of Scandinavia, we’re looking to do with local resources only, and set up a decentralized network, wherein minimum input is required from one branch to the other.

And it’s nice to think of ourselves as a big tree, even if a little ironic.

Lastly, I’d like to mention that other critics, and I think this is a more serious criticism, say you’re simply making a profit out of destruction.

To be honest, I’d have to agree to an extent. It’s something that kept me up a lot when conceptualizing this project, but ultimately I’ve come to terms with it.

Basically, if we weren’t doing this, the world would be a little further down the slope, yeah? It’s making the best of a bad situation, seeing as they aren’t going to stop, and the best we can do is offset. We understand their concerns too, which is why we function for the most part as a non-profit anonymous-donation based, but recently bands have also been discreetly contacting us about the most efficient way to go about the task itself, and not merely looking at offset, which is frankly a welcome change in outlook. And we allow them to be very hands-on in execution, which gives them the satisfaction of the job done as well as the comfort that they’re not hurting this planet.

Bands have a fair degree of awareness and would do the offset themselves, but they’re lacking in the wherewithal, and the PR fallout would be... But they know that it’s something that must be done. Bands… responsible bands who recognize this have been vehement in their support of us.

That’s why we’re looking at expanding, because bands in Britain, Texas, Shillong, wherever, they’re reaching out and evincing interest in this project, which I think is laudable. They recognize that it’s compatible with their… proclivities.

On that hopeful note, I’d like to thank you for sparing your time, and wish your new business endeavour – Carbon Neutral Church Burning, all the success it deserves.

Thank you. Always a pleasure talking to you.

throwaway

2009-06-01T00:39:00.001+05:30

writers write.
authors haggle
for the copyright.

waters of nazareth

2009-05-29T19:59:00.000+05:30

It was a hot day; a sweaty one too. And I was standing. Not that I wanted to, but had to.

As I stood, I thought about movement. I was thinking about how I had three modes of washing my underwear – the only thing I wash myself these days. When I’m feeling special, I scrub them, with a brush no less. Most days, and it is the default option, is rinsing them pretty thoroughly with water, and squeezing well. Some rare days of total lethargy however, it’s a direct dip in water when out of the detergent, and dried.

Today was certainly not a day to be wearing undies washed with method #3, but alas, I was. What was already an inquest-of-sorts gained further traction due to this enforced inertia.

To exacerbate things further, I feel so very jumpy right now – jumpy hopping up on the table and head-banging or busting a move while very very physically fluid music plays on maximum volume. Oh, and I can’t dance, and consequently harbour many inhibitions, but that won’t stop me either. Jumpy.

But, as stated, the overriding thought was of the underwear washed with said method…

… because what happens on normal days, carefully selected for the lack of physical activity planned on that day, is that the humidity of this fair city sweats into my undies, causing it to turn slightly pasty in composition. Sweat does the same to it.

But on a day so humid that standing in one place for a minute and then moving causes abundant sweat in all crevices and abetted by pelvic gyrations, what results isn’t just pasty loins, but…

*drumroll*

Frothy Crotch!

Once I convince people that my testicles haven’t exploded, it might even be funnelled into being a superpower.

still easy to amuse

2009-05-26T00:43:00.000+05:30

'I'm a better juggler than you are.'

'Balls.'

it's no fun till someone dies

2009-05-14T01:10:00.000+05:30

Do you believe in curses?

When I heard that R (long-legged, blue-blooded, stiff-upper-lipped boy who also roams these parts) had cursed an auto-driver, I have to say that I subconsciously inserted an ‘at’ in there, and wondered what abuse the man had been subjected to.

No, turns out that R had indeed cursed the man. To die, no less, by… um, I think sometime now. Crash into a wall and die, I believe.

The exact words weren’t so much an invocation of the demon brothers; rather, a mothy wave of the hand (attributed) and a ‘Oh, I curse you to…’, much in the manner of ordering for antipasto with an upturned nose.

Of course, the curse wasn’t exactly concrete, seeing as it was very accommodating to the needs and schedules of the curse gods, being as it was a curse to smite the auto-driver (by way of death) ASAP.

As soon as possible, if that’s not too much bother, you know, seeing as you’re omnipotent and all, Curse God, by the weekend would be nice, and not too painless as well (impaled on a fence would be acceptable). Send in acknowledgement by registered post to undersigned, with maybe a chipped tooth or two as proof of specific performance.

I shouldn’t stereotype the kind of people who would, could and should be capable of administering curses (I myself have one looming over my head since mid-2007), but as was pointed out, R is hardly the sort of earthy, one-with-nature skull-necklace wearer who’d go around cursing people. He’s a little too… um, shadowy for that, whether or not the fingers twitch and twiddle with curses on his mind.

What’s shadowy? I’m not really sure how it’s being defined here, other than as one who purports to keep his nose (or at least his fingernails) clean, even will constantly poking at subject-matter with a pole.

In any case, here’s a solitary prayer for an auto-driver with an overzealous metre, one that refuses to be reined in by conventional distance discourse and iridium-platinum alloys lying in Sevres.

grouchy

2009-05-04T20:32:00.001+05:30

I’ve written a few posts about a cousin in the US who’s getting married to a Californian. Elder brother probably felt the pressure, and popped the question to his then-girlfriend, who said yes and so is now fiancé.

Like the good TamBrahm boy that he is (whether he/we like it or not), he promptly told his parents, who told their parents (my grandparents) and my parents, and from thereon in proliferated like a badly fonted (is that a word?) chain mail. Apt, given the number of people they’ve been sent to (I’ve received independent intimations from father, mother and grandmother).

For starters, my mother sent a congratulatory note to him, also CCed to a couple of other people – which I’d think could be a slight invasion of privacy for the cousin, having his emails to his aunt being promptly forwarded to other people in the family. But it’s probably par for the course in my family, and nothing unexpected.

My grandmother is currently in the US, helping (overseeing? Controlling?) with the wedding preparations for the sister of this one. She hasn’t met his fiancé yet, but heard from him, and is at her son’s (my uncle) place, and they’ve met her before – I would think that they’d provide a description of what she was like, and most definitely would have provided pictures of her.

She sends an email to dozen-odd family members, informing them of the news, saying blah blah blah, he proposed, she said yes, they’re both very happy.

Now, I should admit here that I’m being mean.

With that out of the way…

She provides one line of description. To be honest, I don’t know what I would’ve said.

‘Great news! X is now engaged. His fiancé is…’

Fiancé is… pretty? Is a woman? (hey, how dare you insinuate that anyone in this family be gay?!) She’s white? She’s tall? She’s blonde? She’s… qualified as whatever she’s qualified as, with schooling at wherever?

One line of description in the email, after mentioning that she’s his classmate at the University:

‘She is a Jew.’

Oh, how I love my family.

easily amused

2009-04-30T14:14:00.002+05:30

> To paraphrase a professor,

FGM* isn't restricted to a particular section of women in Africa. FGM cuts across religious, social and ethnic boundaries.

No pun intended, it goes without saying.

*What is FGM, you ask? Why, it's Female Genital Mutilation! Also goes without saying, it would seem.

kitty at my foot, i wanna touch it

2009-04-15T15:16:00.001+05:30

While the blog lists the post from the 18th of February, I heard of this initiative by the Pink Chaddi Campaign only a couple of days back.

Basically, they’ve gone Web 2.0 on our collective asses (arses?), and are soliciting videos from people doing ‘something we love, something we think is definitely a part of Indian culture (and let no one dare disagree) – therefore allowing anything to fly. Further strength is added when stating ‘… shared culture. Not the fake, monolith, imaginary culture….. it is messy, complicated, wonderful. Each of us define Indian culture differently. No one is wrong, no one is more right.’

‘Hey, it’s my culture, and being Indian, it would be Indian culture.’

Just imagine the possibilities of deadpanning…

Take 1:

‘I live near a railway station, and often loiter around the area. People always seem to have change in their pockets, and when extracting their tickets or whatever from there, invariably drop change on the floor. Some notice, most don’t. I pick up the change on the floor and look towards the person, but I’ve never returned the change, unless they happen to finally notice and then ask.

But, I can’t spend it, or I just never have. I stare at the money, the not-quite-ill-gotten yet not honest gains, and feel guilty about it. I have a roll upon roll of lost change, a shrine to the cracks of the economy through which loose change slips through and vanishes.

This is Indian Culture!’

Take 2:

‘I have a goldfish bowl just enough to fit my head, and I dunk my head in it, which causes all the water to flush out, leaving the goldfish slapping themselves against my cheeks as they expire.

This is Indian culture!’

Take 3:

‘I work at a hospital morgue, and during autopsies, after everything is done and nobody’s looking, I gut the cadaver, remove the small and large intestines and squeeze out all the undigested food that was in the body when the person died.

This is Indian culture!’

Take 4:

‘I throw puppies from my balcony, just to see if they bounce.

They never do.

This is Indian Culture!’

Take 5:

‘I lick condom rims.

This is Indian Culture!’

… and so on, not even to mention things that could be out of Tom Green flick.

projection. projectile?

2009-04-12T17:10:00.002+05:30

> A, B and BullShitter in an auto. A and B discussing books, and turns to Big Brother.

BS: Big Brother? Where’s that from?

A: Er… 1984?

BS: 1984? That’s a book? Who’s it by?

A: Er… George Orwell?

BS: Oh, George Orwell is one of my favourite writers. I’ve read all his books. My favourite is Animal Farm. But I haven’t heard of this one… is it famous?

> I've just acquired a new toothbrush.

It’s not that I didn’t have one before, but now I have two.

I’ve decided that the best way to go about brushing my teeth twice a day is by having two separate brushes - one for the morning, and one for the night, rather than have the same brush wear out twice as fast, from being used twice a day.

However, seeing as how the night brush would be for a shorter time frame (something like 7-8 hrs of sleep) and also involve no ingestion of food, the night brush is a cheaper model than what the morning brush, which while on the face of it may seem like cutting corners, a rationalization for having two brushes instead of one.

But, should the night brush be the better one? While it’s for the night and the teeth will be brushed again in the morning, it is the night brush in fact which would be scrubbing at the oral waste accumulated over the course of the day, with the morning brush serving as ancillary to it, rather than the other way around…

Hm.

I have two different types of toothpaste too.

an evening with mouse on mars

2009-04-05T02:32:00.006+05:30

Mouse on Mars to me is like the first Iron Maiden concert to the metal-heads of the city. Having such a band come to an accessible city was a first for me (sorry, Rolling Stones, but I got into you after going for the concert). Maybe one and a half, after Opeth. But still.

Unfortunately, while I was bouncing about in college after the news broke, surrounding reactions were muted, to put it mildly, when I breathlessly went ‘OMGOMGOMG MOUSE ON MARS ARE PLAYING. HERE!!’ – almost universally met with a ‘Eh? Huh? Who?’, or some variation thereof, which also dimmed my excitement a bit. Still, even with the show being scheduled right before my paper submissions, there was no way I was going to miss this show…

… which was exactly what I almost did when the person I was supposed to go with cancelled because of a prior engagement at a pizza place, after having waited for a bit to see if the dinner would end, eating into precious transport time. Standing on the pavement (with Lou Reed piped into my ears) and looking up and through the transparent glass, seeing him at the table with an animated American sharing Obama stories with them, I just had a horrible feeling about how the night was going to progress.

Further, Mysore Road was blocked because of some huge Hindu festival that had lots of people on the road even at midnight, causing a further diversion. This though was mitigated by a friendly Tamil-speaking auto driver who also had an honest metre installed.

Having missed the opening act (who were supposedly quite good), I went up the steps of Max Mueller Bhavan (a tinge of marijuana smoke in the air) to try and locate a couple of other people who I was supposed to meet at the venue, groping my way through the darkness of the hall (and unfortunately and unintentionally kind of brushing the bum of the same guy twice) which was waiting for the main act to take the stage.

Soon, the house lights came on. A remarkable (not surprising) number of Germans around – the only vaguely familiar faces I could make out were the drummer and guitarist of Lounge Piranha(s). I did briefly dally with going up to the drummer and introducing myself (I’d once called him cute in a rapist sort of way in some post; he emailed), but. It did make me wonder what they were up to, though. I miss watching them at Maya; live music ban be damned.

I found a friend/something I hadn’t seen for some time, and while chatting her up the other two people I was to locate also arrived, just in time for the band to take the stage. It may have been something in the air (and I could smell it), but I was slightly regretting that I was neither inebriated nor otherwise under the influence for the performance – which when told to the f/s, was met with ‘I am soooooo stoned.’ Knickers with yellow beer cans littered about.

And then the band came on.

They kicked off with a song (not sure of the title) which set the tone and the rhythm. Their drummer is a god. I was feeling all awkward and inadequate with a stuttering sway with hands in pockets, even as others danced around me. But, well, I was getting into it (sadly though, the other two weren’t quite getting into this kind of music, which dulled it slightly).

As I'm wont to do though, it was more fun watching the other people there. Lots and lots of Germans singing along, heavily (overheard - A: We're going out to smoke. B: Ok. A: And I don't mean cigs) drugged/slushed, frenetically swaying along. Up front, there were also a bunch of similarly clad women (strappy top, billowy coloured bottom, trinket-embroidered bag) swaying like hypnotic lemmings teetering on the edge, eyes closed in spiritual fervour, SLR camera in one hand with both paws held up. Most excellent noise, augmented by scrolling messages on the background that noone seemed to pay much attention to, and absolutely epilepsy-inducing lighting.

The sound was ear-shreddingly loud. I don’t mean intensity – the speakers were just so damn loud (up, up and way beyond 11) that pretty much every person was clutching their exposed ear halfway through the first song.

Once they started tearing through ‘Actionist Respoke’ (the vocals on that one always tickle me), and this is a song and a half in, mind you, the three of us were already feeling a little worn out, and retreated to the back – where the packed swayers give way to more spatially secure loose-limbed gyrations – before retreating downstairs at the end of the song.

The majority of the concert was spent on the steps leading up to the entrance, tickling a really cute brown dog (with completely soft skin). And we could still here the music clearly, if shorn of a little nuance. We headed back up in time for a ‘you’re a great audience’, but ducked out again after a few minutes to address practical considerations like beating the wave of auto-seeking people.

Even though I spent a substantial portion of the concert out of the hall, I can still fairly confidenly state that it was a really good concert - such was the volume. Yes, I admit that I'm probably not at all hardcore and this is what such a gig is about and all that. Please.

The band kicked absolute holistic ass, but it was a little peculiar that the ideal spot to experience the sound was probably on the landing halfway between the ground and first floor.

And, alas, they didn't play Subsequence.

foblets

2009-04-02T00:18:00.005+05:30

> I hardly ever poke around the blogger dashboard, but right now something caught my eye - the 'Monetise' button.

Sure, it ultimately leads to loading AdSense, but it just seems so cool...

MONETISE!

And the blog folds itself into a giant robot made of money.

> Have you heard Clutch?

They're like a muscle car careening on the highway with an irate water buffalo at the wheel.

I mean, really, who can name one of their albums Pure Rock Fury and get away with it?

> Randomly, I was wondering what the band Hanson were up to (yeah, I was into MMMBop... I was 10 when it came out). Turns out that apart from churning out albums (7 from the studio at last count) that noone has listened to for the last decade-odd, that family is a baby factory!

For starters, the three brothers in the band, Taylor (born 1983), Isaac (b. 1980) and Zac (b. 1985) are three of seven spawn from the parents, who seem to have stopped in '98 (capping it with a kid named with a Z - Zoe).

Each of the brothers has already started production of next generation models - Taylor (married 2002, aged 19) has four kids already (b. 2002, 2005, 2006 and 2008), with seemingly no end in sight.

Isaac (m. 2006), has two (b. 2007 and 2008), while supple, prepubescent Zac (or at least that's how I'd remember him - aged 12 in '97 in the MMMBop video) married in 2006 and on cue out plopped kid #1 in 2008.

Note that this is a tally of just the famous ones in the family..

And the Americans blame India for the food crisis?

overturing twitter

2009-03-30T00:59:00.002+05:30

> Discussing lunch plans on Ugadi:

A: Most of the shops are closed, but the Chinese place* is open.

B: Really? What, it's not like they're Chinese inside too...

* a grimy hole-in-the-wall joint outside campus.

> It's disturbing how the original Fast and the Furious is being talked about in some circles now as a minor classic (in anticipation of the latest entry in the series) - more an indication of just how bad the sequels were, perhaps.

> Mildly depressing to find myself accessing the iTunes libraries of other people to only listen to music that I'd already heard - and had in fact given to those people.

so it goes

2009-03-20T00:57:00.002+05:30

Taking a break from the reruns, here's a tag. Oh, whee.

Tagged by eyefry.

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions.

Pick Your Artist:
Pavement

Are you male or female?
Stereo

Describe yourself:
Grave Architecture

How do you feel about yourself?
Old to Begin

Describe where you currently live:
Half a Canyon/Western Homes

If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
Date with IKEA

Your best friend is:
Father to a Sister of Thought/The Porpoise and the Hand Grenade

Your favourite colour is:
Unfair

You know that:
Heaven is a Truck

What's the weather like:
Debris Slide/Roll with the Wind

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called?
Rattled by the Rush

What is life to you?
Range Life (particularly resonant, perhaps, with denizens of school grounds in Chennai)

What is the best advice you have to give?
Cut Your Hair

If you could change your name, what would it be?
Baptist Blacktick

Your favourite food is:
Loretta’s Scars/Best Friend’s Arm

Tagging:
Puddle
Bibi
Abhinav
Nina (one tag to the next?)
Shreyas

cue Jello Biafra

2009-03-17T20:58:00.004+05:30

written in/around March 2007. There were some pictures in the original post that are now seemingly long-lost, so any references to pictures should be excused. And, it's much to long to go through and clean up, so let it come as it is.

There's a part 2 too.

----

A caveat at the outset: exaggerations, misplaced spite, irrelevant detours and non-chronological interjections abound. Very little may end up having to do with the actual tangible sights of the country. And, very few names will be provided.

Aaaand…we’re off. Der Mozzer (dM) in tow.

Departure was a pain. Blue moon is international travel, and am glad. Was looking forward to bonding with D before she left for Australia (on a flight scheduled 15 min before mine), but blocks in the flow of things meant she boarded before I got past security, which meant no proper goodbye. Won’t see her for six months. Tch.

I don’t like flying in general; prefer to travel by land. Most beautiful and abundant starry night though. Well, every night, but this one I witnessed, high in the sky and above the smoke. When slightly high on wine. Red.

Side note: Booze is everywhere in Cambodia. EVERY. WHERE. Restaurants, departmental stores, the road-side, temples…everywhere.

Anyway, I’d forgotten that international flights serve booze. I was being all modest with dM sitting nextwards. Was quite tragic, especially with the different types of beer that were being shuttled across. Indians know how to take advantage of free booze. Observed on the flight.

Immigration is scary. I feel jittery and sweaty when the official looks up blankly to scrutinize each person passing through. I started giggling. Not a good idea, so ducked my head under the counter. Man was not impressed, but retained mask. Slight twitch of the eyebrow before handing back the passport. Recurrent at every airport.

There was this hot guy in a black tee shirt, shorts and pai chappals who was behind me at immigration. Not the hippie herb sort who wear Bob Marley, carry Che and seldom bathe. He was a clean chappie who wore GAP branded shorts. Delectable. Made a mental note to point him out to D. Obviously, that didn’t happen.

Transit at Bangkok. Bangkok airport is wonderfully Spartan in design (though that probably isn’t the word I should be using), and the toilets smell of bubblegum. Most wonderful it was. Best smelling toilet I’d ever paid a visit to. But, once relieved, that smell mixed with whatever is in urine to give of a scent most foul. Quite a letdown. Fidgeted in the lounge (a first. Bangkok Airways provides lounge passes for economy too!) and misled by the man sitting there vis-à-vis the boarding time, which almost led to missing the connection, but made it with a couple of people behind to assuage the guilt at holding up the bus. Landed in Siam Reap in the afternoon. Searing temperature.

Side note: It’s a trade-off for the Indian tourist vis-à-vis whether to escape to a destination that offers a climate cooler and more pleasant than home base, or to visit the discomfort of a place like Cambodia. The positive here is that the other tourists from the temperate regions all dress in mini mini shorts, the men are almost always topless and women in itsy-bitsies. Lots of sweaty eye candy for everyone.

The hotel did have a small pool, but it had been colonized by the French. French women look lovely when wet. It’s the way their hair smoothens out with the water running over it. The bikinis might also have something to do with it, but that isn’t really visible when they are in the water.

Ventured out in the evening to the market, and decided to sit in on a free concert (free being the operative word) advertised as ‘Music by Bach, songs by Beatocello’. Who Beatocello was, we had no clue, but was a pretty snazzy looking auditorium, which happened to be part of a hospital for children run by one Dr. Beat Richner (to paraphrase: I am Beat and this is my cello. Together we are Beatocello. And then he went on about Beatocellino, Beatocellisimo etc.). It was more a fund raising gig than a concert. One song was about the fund’s bank account number. He was a funny guy who reminded me of a Polar Bear stuck in a zoo.

Next morning, went to the Angkor Wat temple to see the sun rise over it. We missed most of it because we were stan ding in the wrong area. Took pictures of people taking pictures, and a couple of hazy ones of the sunrise itself. Hit Angkor Thom later on, which consisted of three (or four..or five) temples that remained in varying states of ruin, grandeur and seriousness. I divided my time between soaking in the place and stalking tourists. Unfortunately, had to delete most of the snaps of the other tourists when I started running out of space in the camera. However, a couple did survive.

Taking pictures was a chore, with dM instructing me to take X spot or Y bas-relief so that she could send it to her minions. After a point, I was egging the battery to die so that I could actually see the place (and people), rather than having to be at the end of many an ‘Isn’tthatnicetakeapicture’. Not to say that I didn't want any pictures at all, but to attack a monument camera-first seems wrong. She was also slightly irked that I was taking pictures of rubbish strewn around the place, or of someone's spit etc.

Went to a cultural dance in the evening, which was an hour of slow movement and dM c hatting up a family from Chennai who were sitting next to us. They were from T. Nagar. I must be alone in thinking that if I were that family, I wouldn’t want to be disturbed by general chatter about where children are studying etc. But, people from every country seem to gravitate towards each other (like the Iyengars below). Had my first taste of Guiness at this place, and dM took three fuzzy pictures of the process (only evidence that places me in Cambodia or this holiday).

Detour: The signs in and around Cambodia and Thailand were quite fascinating, even if utterly banal. The signs in Thailand were always most courteous, and also to the point of borderline apologetic when asking for a donation.

An interesting one (that I didn't take a picture of) was inside the Angkor Wat complex, which had around 8 symbols of things to do and not do. While the usual no smoking, no littering etc. were there, at the bottom was a white tee shirt encased in a circle with a blue background. Most European tourists roam shirtless, and so 'twas a warning to be clothed. Heh. Another sign in the royal palace (Phnom Penh) forbid sleeveless shirts and skirts/shorts that expose anything above the knee.

Ironic: A 'Please Respect the natural environment' sign nailed to a tree.

Anyway, the next day we visited the main temples of Angkor Wat, which are three creepy looking structures that were probably the inspiration for all the set design of Mortal Kombat. Or Shredder’s arm guard (probably not exclusive to him). It has a silent grandeur that isn’t moved by the chatter of the crowd.

The climb up to the chamber where the idols are kept is extremely steep, and I was unsettled during my ascen t by a German woman who kept shouting back to a companion below her to ‘luk dhown!’ It was finger and toe tingling stuff, and as I scampered up the final few steps, a thought about the statistics of the number of people who get injured there flitted through my head. dM had even more difficulty, she being afflicted with vertigo. But we both made it, and hopefully spent enough time up there to make it worth the effort. Up here was where I found the spit.

Back down, the four walls that surround it are absolutely infested with bas-reliefs that depict the Ramayana, Mahabharata and a couple of other Hindu tales. It contains enough for a fundamentalist to shit orange.

Side note: The Tuk-tuk, an auto-rickshaw type contraption that consists of a carriage hooked to a scooter is the cheapest mode of motorised personal transport in Cambodia (though the word in Bangkok refers to their iteration of the auto-rickshaws seen in India), and is a perfectly sensible and reasonably enjoyable vehicle to move around. But, I loathe the name, which, though probably derived from the sound of the scooter exhaust, seems destined solely to elicit squeals of delight from fat, middle-aged women who say the word and go into spasms of delight and want to pose in one so that they can show it to the eyes back home.

The next day was spent with the 2 Iyengars (which they themselves proclaimed to be their defining characteristic) of an advanced age we had run into earlier, thanks to dM who had coordinated with them for a variety of reasons (mostly pity, I think). One of them (anointed R) was writing a book on Angkor Wat, which, from what I gathered was to be based on a three day trip and ample cogging from literature provided by the Archaeological Survey. The other (M) liked to travel, say ‘madam’, prod a lot and correct the stringy pronunciation of the people there (who say ‘Hellooooo’ and ‘Pineappulllll’ with their voice trailing off towards the end). Both were also slowly killing the guide with questions and proclaiming the supremacy of Sanskrit over Khmer (local language derived from Sanskrit). R’s other hobbies included delivering unsolicited sermons to random tourists and hopping over restrictive fencing into prohibited zones. He also reminded me of Leslie Nielsen.

Ultimately, they weren’t able to actually visit the sites that were scheduled for the day, because of their weak legs and hilly terrain that was required to be negotiated. The first was a place considered sacred because of many lingas that were blessing a river (and quite worn out i n the run). Getting there was as much as the actual place. A half hour trek through a woody hill that strongly reminded me of Rashomon to get to the site where the lingas lay. The other two sites were small temples that had some exquisite carving (and where R did his rope hopping).

Side note: dM does not recommend Cambodia as a honeymoon destination, as seeing the place is too exhausting, leaving little energy for other things.

The next day, it was found that what we thought was the 1000 lingas wasn’t really the place, and had to go to another place to see yet more worn out (and decidedly less impressive) lingas immersed in the river side, with some river bed carving too. I think the people might have been doodling on route to some other destination. Next to this place was a waterfall that was a popular destination for tourists foreign and local, with an overpowering smell of foam, fish and coconuts. Also here was the ‘Reclining Buddha’, which is carved on an extremely large rock and has a little structure constructed at the top with stairs leading up to view it.One very intriguing sight was an old and pious looking woman who had her picture taken with a whole bundle of notes splayed across the base of the Buddha, and once done, stuffed all the notes back into her purse.

Side note: Only one dog in Cambodia was friendly towards me. No, I don’t repel animals.

From there, ploughed on to the floating village, a community of fishermen who live on the lake (egads..the name..the name) full-time, with floating school, two floating churches, floating basketball court and floating souvenir shop. I felt it was just wrong to take close-ups of the houses, especially the interiors, but most thought otherwise. Ah well.

In Siem Reap market, my burning question is about this picture. Been trying to find out who the artist is. Signed Luttrell, but copyrighted to one G.B. Lutrell (with only one t), google seems to draw a blank. Spotted at a restaurant. Nice way to live for the Italian proprietor, who married a Cambodian, hangs around all day while his staff does the cooking, and lives upstairs in a little bedroom.

Phnom Penh has a pizzeria by the name of ‘Happy Herbs’. Speciality being the happy pizza, or sometimes the extra happy pizza that turns off the light for a day or two. Disadvantage of travelling with dM. Hotel had a grumpy French owner by the name of Alexis who was also instantly ravishable, and was in the style of either a rehab clinic or a Columbian drug money mansion.

Over to Thailand, where by far the most enjoyable experience in Bangkok is the night market, where dM went hunting for a fake Rado watch (for a friend of a friend). Fake everything is over there, and with smiling Thais who make it extremely difficult to haggle with in spite of having full knowledge of a haemorrhaging wallet. Picked up seasons one and two of Grey’s Anatomy and season one of House M.D., and also Love.

Side note: When a mother wants to see a sex show, the son MUST refuse. It is a test. It is a test. It is a test.

Lingering image of an obese, large, half-naked, heavily tattooed and drunk American playing air-guitar and doing the sort of walk that KISS do on-stage.

In Bangkok airport, I saw a girl reading the novelisation of this movie.

Ugh.

day trip

2009-03-12T22:45:00.005+05:30

hadn't actually read through this before posting - realize belatedly how badly edited/formatted/written it is. plead clemency in lieu of fixing it.
--
The Taj Express was to leave for Agra at 715AM. Blathering unintelligibly in Hindi to the rickshaw driver who had fleeced me about bad things happening to him, I ran for the train at 650 in the morning wearing a tee-shirt and shorts. Ok, I’ve never been to Delhi before.

Once on the train, I stow my lone and quite puny looking backpack amongst the longer, thicker and definitely better endowed packs of the foreign tourists, they already having formed a gang to boss around my little pack, pushing it to the end of the line, leaving it cold and exposed.

Rescuing it from low temperature and exposure was this kindly looking gent, pushing 60 with a coat wrapped around one arm. Very harmless looking. People do touch other people’s packs for the purpose of stowing their own packs in the liberated room. But, this man didn’t have a pack. Ok. And this man was now walking away with my pack. Ok.

It was cold in the morning and I was snuggled into my seat, but behaviour of this sort was totally unacceptable. I should have been at his throat, calling him saale and chooth, the two Hindi words that I’d picked up from films. Instead, I politely prodding his ribs, asking him to return my bag. Please. After approximately the third intonation and seventh prod, the man slickly let go and kept walking. It really was a smooth and practiced release of the bag. He must have been at this for a long time.

So, back in seat and bag in tow, I had the feeling that this was going to be a bad day. Didn’t get better when on the train, the man sitting next to me spilt tea on my arm. Hot tea too. I should have definitely stayed in bed.

Once out in Agra, I was immediately accosted by a ‘guide’, one who guaranteed to show me around for Rs. 300, a massive pay cut from his usual fee of Rs. 475. Paying attention to him was my first mistake. To get to Fathepur Sikri, I had to buy a tour that used a bus. But no, this nice man on his auto insisted that was impossible. Believing him in my cold irritation was my second mistake. He very graciously proclaimed that he’d accept money only at the end of the day, after safely depositing me back at the train station. So guides make mistakes too.

Agra is a city where every individual looks to help out the economy. For example, if I ask someone to transport me to place X, I’d also have to beat away ten requests to buy shoes, leather bags, fabric and cane wheelchairs. Do they extract a commission from every sale made on a referral? Probably not. But their concern for the economy is touching.

So, once in the auto owned by Apu, though piloted by his brother to whom I wasn’t properly introduced, we set off for the Taj. Throughout the short journey, I silently berated myself for knowingly and willingly getting conned by these people.

En route, brother of Apu fills me in on the con artists who’d be working the Taj. Do not hire a guide. Do not buy anything. Marble is not cheap. Marble is not yellow. Mobile phones not allowed. You can surrender the phone to the cloakroom, or. Or you can give it to me. I shall keep it safe. For you.

Politely smiling, I stepped out towards the Taj, phone safely in pocket. A little winding road led up to the heavily guarded entrance. After removing my SIM card from the phone, I turned it in at the cloakroom, a place that inspired no sense of security.

As predicted, a guide latched onto me, offering his services for a mere Rs. 50, against his normal charge of Rs. 650. Even as my pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears, the surly looking soldier (later corrected to guard) picked me out for a random search, something that saved me from the guide. Scrutinizing my passport, he wasn’t convinced that I was suitable to enter the Taj. Well, until he looked at religion, gave the space and approving tap and grunted ‘Hindu’. Like that makes a difference at this place.

Once inside, I eavesdropped on the guides and rejoiced that I’d saved myself fifty bucks. Impressive monologues, but culled directly from plaques placed all over the place. I’ve mugged stuff for English recitation too.

The place is smashing, not drowned by hype, but personally, I found the people there more interesting, and took quite a few pictures of people taking pictures. Also pictures of people not taking pictures, pictures of engravings on benches and scribblings on the marble, children playing, couples, parrots, documentary filmmakers etc. And of the Taj too. I haven’t worn a watch in at least four years, and my source of time had been the phone.

Having surrendered that, I either looked to the sky or stole furtive glances at the not so naked wrists of other tourists. After what I’d estimated to be an hour and a half of soaking in the place, I left. Not because I wanted to, but because brother of Apu had told me to. In retrospect, what would he have done had I been late? Not much.

Still, once out, after collecting my phone from the room, I looked around. All paths were the same. Which way to Rome? Fuck. Picking one, I started, only to be blocked by hawkers and rickshaw-wallahs offering a ride to Agra fort. Breaking into a jog to avoid them, I broke free. And then I realized, the brother of Apu was nowhere to be found. With good reason, since this wasn’t the place where I’d left him.

Now, I’m guessing most people would have turned back. Even I would have turned back on a different day. But I was in no mood to encounter the hawks again, and so continued in the wrong direction, hoping to find a turn that’d lead me back to Brother. The turn never materialized. Instead, I walked to Agra fort.From inside Agra Fort, one can see the Taj. Drummed into my head just exactly how far I was from BoA. Spent the best part of four hours in there to avoid a (in all probability) pissed BoA and to kill time. While contemplating the immediate future, and watching overzealous photographers directing grumpy tourists to cup their hands so as to look like they were holding the Taj, Daeddy called.

After concocting lies about how wonderful the place was to the D, I decided to shadow this one tourist around the place. Alone and quite ravishing, it was fun being ten steps behind, in a stalking sort of way. He didn’t seem to mind. Didn’t take a picture of him though, out of respect. Yes, I am extremely aware that I make terrible first impressions.

Once I felt enough time had elapsed, I exited the fort to search for a place to eat. Carefully avoiding eye contact, I made my way to the dusty Hotel Akbar, dining house of kings. Only two tables were laid out, one occupied by an extremely noisy family (something of an epidemic in the North it appears). Too late to back out, and too hungry as well. Only a cutlet on the train and the liquid tea patch till 1600 hrs. I didn’t mind, but self imposed starvation usually leads to a terrible day-after. Something I had to avoid. Then again, I wasn’t so sure about that after sinking into their food.

Fed and watered, I needed a plan. No, fuck that. I just need to get out of here. But the train is only at 7. Let’s walk around then. Aligning myself in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the train station, I took off. Walking is wonderful in that it allows taking in the little things that would have been missed when speeding by in a bus or an auto. The gaudy fashion not included.

Pretty sure that I was lost, and with a steady drizzle slowly picking up, I waved down a rickety looking rickshaw. After turning down his looped offer to take me shopping, we started on our way to the station. This guy had been taking me in the wrong direction in the hope that I’d go shopping. Maybe the shop keepers offer transport too.

The man’s pedalling was the huffing-puffing-but-getting-nowhere sort. Excruciatingly bumpy and slow, at least the contraption had a hood that kept out the revving rain, only washing the mud off the hood onto the jacket draped over my knees. Like the heart monitor of an unattended patient going into cardiac arrest, the driver displayed fits of life before finally dying and declaring that his vehicle had sustained a puncture.

He helpfully flagged down another rickshaw and transferred me onto it. One without a hood. In the rain. And one with no discernible seat. And a wild-eyed driver with a penchant for tailing other rickshaws, occasionally nudging them and offering very hairy moments when braking. But, he did get me to the station in one piece, something I’m thankful for. Of course, he too offered to take me shopping.

At the station with over an hour to kill, I hid myself, fearful of having to encounter Apu or Brother of Apu. Yes, it was my fault. I was prepared to offer him cash too. Not 300, but 200. 100 for taking me to one out of a promised three sights, and an additional 100 for mental trauma that may have occurred. He never did come. Well, he might have, but once the train pulled in, I cemented myself onto my seat and looked at nobody until it pulled out of the station. I still think about him.

The three hour journey, extended to four, was made bearable by this Texan family who used phrases like ‘whipped yo ass’ and ‘who the chaymp’ while playing gin. And by an exporter of shoes who extolled his achievements over the past twenty years to the man sitting next to him, employing an accent that seemed to have an Australian tinge.

Back in Delhi two hours late, my only thought was to get into bed. I didn’t care that the auto driver was fleecing me. Again. After accepting the first offer tendered, and watching as his auto was extracted with Tetris like accuracy, we set off.

The auto sputtered and gagged. And stopped.

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Written sometime in early 2006, salvaged around 15 minutes ago from an archival website.