Charged Down

Music in my head: The whirring of a high speed synchronous motor.
Today's weather: Surprisingly, hot.

I am probably going through one of my leanest periods- mental health and happiness-wise. I had read about it in magazines and other blogs, and laughed at it; but I am laughing no more. This is by far the most depressed I have ever been in my life.
My charger had been scarred by ill-use since over a year now. I had three layers of tape over it when I left India. Two weeks ago I was taken by surprise as my computer turned off bang in the middle of a Whose Line Episode. For three days, I managed by contorting the wire to a shape in which the laptop had power. On the fourth day I ran out of shapes. I took out all the tape and tied two random loose wires together and it sputtered to life again. It survived for four days, and then gave up. The loose wires were now two little strands. I tried to keep them in contact with a small wire I nicked from the lab, but to no avail. As a last resort, I brought it to the lab where I soldered a length of wire onto two strands of wire that I had newly salvaged by cutting off the plastic. The light blinked for five seconds, then it was gone. I tried all possible things for another hour, and finally gave up.
In a depressed frenzy that evening, I sucked all the life out of my senile battery with five straight episodes of Whose Line. It was only nine in the evening when it died on me, and I had nothing to do. I walked around outside for an hour, wallowing in self pity.
I came back in and started reading a book. I slept off in half an hour. The book was called 'Sun at midnight', and it was nothing more than a soap opera based in Antarctica. I plummeted into greater depths of depression each day as I continued to follow the story of a pregnant superwoman in Antarctica being hit on by a super hunk and a sensitive sissy.
Then one day, as I was walking down the corridor I noticed a Dell Inspiron in the room next to mine. I knew the guy from all the fake hellos I offered him on our past meetings, and asked him if I could have his charger every night before he went to sleep. He happily obliged and things came back to normal.
But only for four days.
Now he is at home with his charger and I am wallowing in self pity again. I printed out Asimov's 'Foundation' so that I, at least, have something decent to read. I spend more time working. I don't go back to the room for lunch any more. I drink five cups of coffee everyday. I count off days to the weekend.
The weekend is the release. Last weekend was lovely. I went to Disneyland Paris with my friend Duck and his family. To say the least, I felt like a little kid again. I went on all the roller coasters, it was my first 360 degree experience. I even posed for a picture with Captain Jack Sparrow. But the real highlight of the trip was the pukka desi khana that Duck's mum cooked for us. Basmati rice, dal, sabji and achar with some spicy mixture on the side, my tastebuds felt like they died and went to heaven, after 5 weeks of trying to differentiate between cheeses of different flavours and sampling mayonnaise mixed with varying quantities of pepper.
So here I am again, waiting out another day, thinking of that veritable orgasm for my mouth. Tomorrow, I am going to Paris again. I'll spend the night with Duck and Arya, they're in Amiens, an hour from Paris. We'll go to Versaille on the weekend. Frankly, I don't care where we go, as long as we go.
One more weekend to look forward to after this one, and then home sweet home baby!

Hope

Music in my head: Anathema- Hope
Today's weather: A little sun, a little rain.

"I was not put here by anyone in fear.
I came alone as me,
Just an idea in a long chain of discovery,
Surrounded by the same you.

Sometimes your tide pulls me out to sea,
And I die in a thrashing curse.
Sometimes we are kind.
More often, I doze,
So far up the beach that those who try to reach are burnt alive in the searing
Heat of the desert of my dispassion.
So far removed, I never hear the water,
'Cept once or twice a month when I see a mirror.

And I refuse to believe in some of the things that are said to be here,
Let alone those that are not.
I'm trying to change my direction.
Ours is pathetic in my own humble estimation.

I love the planet,
The great benign she-wolf.
Benefactor.
Spinning gently on towards the red giant four aeons hence,
When all the rose gardens are consumed in the flash-fire of flying time
She'll leave alone to you."

- Anathema, Hope.

Fire Drill + Idle Mind

Music in my head: This Will Destroy- A Three Legged Workhorse
Today's weather: A big puddle.

Noisy alarm goes out of control,
Scares us out of our wits.
We run out into the corridor,
"It's a fire drill, step to, you gits!",

Says the big man in overalls,
Who has a bulbous nose.
I don't know why I'm rhyming now,
I could've just used prose.

But every man's first fire drill
Must be etched in stone.
And as I stand and ponder this,
The big man seemed to've grown.

"Close the door and follow me,"
The ape, he says to me.
And terrified by his barrel chest
I silently agree.

Fluorescent markers light our way
To the nearest exit.
I make my way out the door,
Still dazed by all this shit.

And I see the Frenchies lined up there,
Laughing, flirting, yapping on.
A couple of chinks were eating out
Of a picnic basket they'd brought along.

Well, a fire drill is more than just
A cumbersome activity.
"A fire drill everyday," I thought,
As I joined in the festivity.

Much Haiku over Nothing

Music in my head: Steven Wilson- Insurgentes
Today's weather: Hmmm...

Feeding a sandwich
On an overcast wednesday,
To empty stomach.

Some mayonnaise falls
Off the edge of this sandwich
Onto the white floor.

Now, mayo is white
So I decide to leave it
Sticking to the floor.

Son of a Beach

Music in my head: Rush- YYZ
Today's weather: A real bitch.

Don't ever get your hopes up about a beach party. Especially if a Frenchman tells you that in broken English. Because
1. Frenchmen think that 'at the beach' and 'near the beach' are interchangeable phrases.
2. Frenchmen wear black ties to said beach parties.
3. Frenchmen love seafood and serve almost nothing but seafood.
4. Frenchmen talk only in French, leaving you feeling like you are the novelty fish on the wall.
5. Frenchmen hang novelty fish on their walls.
6. The above applies to Frenchwomen too.
7. You cannot converse with the other novelty fish, including the ones on the wall.

The only positive feeling that a novelty fish can have during the whole rotten experience is one of profound thankfulness. Profound thankfulness for French fries and for the fact that he did not turn up in boxers and flip flops like he had originally planned to.
Beach party, my novelty a**.

For You

Music in my head: King Crimson- Prelude, Song of the Gulls
Today's weather: Soft Sunshine, Gentle Breeze.

A glistening sea, gentle waves,
Smooth as silk, caress the beach.
The wind is singing in my ear,
In perfect tune with seagulls' screech.
People pass by, as I sit and think,
Of time gone by, people I have known.
A ship sails by under the shadow of
A tribute to heroes carved in stone.
The gentle sun warms within,
And I think of home, of sunny days.
And as I close my eyes and smile,
All I see is your angelic face.
But clouds are gathering overhead,
A warning of a storm to come.
But still I keep my eyes shut tight,
For lost in you, helpless have I become.

-dedicated to the beautiful woman getting tanned beside me, on this lovely day at the beach in Saint-Nazaire.

French is not Sexy

Music in my head: Porcupine Tree- Normal
Today's weather: Well...

I can't get used to French. I hate listening to people shoot out sentences at the rate of knots and be halfway through their monologue before they realise from my dumb expression that I have no clue about what's being said. My internship guide took me to meet with another professor so I could explain to him what I had done so far. What ensued was an hour of me shifting my frame of vision from one rapid outburst of Francaise to another, trying desperately not to look at my watch.

But after the meeting, my lack of knowledge of French combined with another intern's lack of knowledge of English resulted in quite an awkward situation.

So after said meeting, I was on my way back to my room when I noticed a girl I had never seen before in the room next to mine. With my newly acquired greeting skills, I walked over to her.

Me: "Bonjour! I'm Krishna."
Girl: "Bonjour! Anglais?"
Me: "Oui, oui, parle pas Francaise." (Yes, I don't speak French)
Girl: "D'accord, ok. Moi Christine."
Me: "Hi Christine. I work in the next room." (Aided by flailing arm signals).
Girl: "Ah D'accord, good, good."
Me: "Ok. See you later. Bye."
Girl: "Ok. Bye."

Now as it turned out, we both walked out of our respective rooms at about the same time. And as all students in the area lived in the same complex, we started walking back together. And on the way,

Me: "So, what are you working on?" (repeat x 3, plus sign language)
Christine: "High Accuracy current sensors for VSIs."(Translated from a set of signs and disjointed words)
Me: "Ok. I'm working on control of a high speed synchronous machine."
Christine: "Zat is ze... ze... difficult?"
Me: "No, no. It's really quite simple."

She suddenly stops short and looks at me with a strange expression.

Christine: "Pardon, what deed you say?"
Me: "It's not difficult, its quite simple, easy."
Christine: "Ze... ze... sempa?"
Me: "Yes, yes, oui."

She shrugged her shoulders in a curious sort of way. I was sort of surprised. All right, maybe it wasn't that simple, but no matter how difficult it was, it didn't warrant a reaction like that. Great, I thought. Now she thinks I'm a pretentious know-it-all who thinks he's better than her.

We remained incommunicado for the rest of the walk back, and exchanged a courteous, maybe a little too formal and uptight goodbye before we retreated to our different buildings (there are two residential buildings in the complex).

I switched on my computer as usual and was in the middle of checking my email when I suddenly had a brainwave. Maybe simple had a slightly different meaning in French. Maybe it was used as a superlative, that explained the reaction. So I open google translate and start punching in words one by one.

'Simple' translated to easy. Nothing wrong with that. Then I remember her repeating 'Sempa'. 'Simple' is pronounced something like 'Seempluh'. But 'sempa'- no translation. Simpa. Nothing. Simpah. Nope. Sempah. Still nothing. Then, bingo.

Sympa. Translates to nice, sexy or friendly. Pronounced 'se(n)mpa', that is, sempa with a nasal twang. Well, the perverted French girl. That the first thing that came to her mind when I said 'simple' in my simple Indian accent was 'sympa' and not 'simple' is simply disgraceful.

But come to think of it, its also kind of sympa that her mind works that way. That's something we have in common for sure. I have to clear it up with her on Monday.

Then maybe we'll go out for lunch afterwards.

Away

Music in my head: Gentle Giant- On Reflection
Today's weather: Sunshine, finally.

Walking through mist on an overcast day,
Damp and cold, yet I plod away.
Away from warmth, from a sunny day,
Away from home I wander away.
"It's lovely, its fun, the flowers in May,"
As I walk away, I can hear them say.
It's lovely all right, but try as I may,
I'm chilled to the bone, whatever they say.
Many miles from home, almost light-years away,
The mist and the wind, they persist, they stay.
Always the summers are slipping away,
Find me a way for making it stay.

Hello World

Music in my head: Sigur Ros- Avalon
Today's weather: Overcast, I'm damn tired of this incessant drizzle.

Bonjour swapping with total strangers
Is really not my style;
But when I see them walk by me
I have to stop and smile.

Old man waiting for a bus,
A lady with her son;
Hot girl trying to cross the road,
A couple having fun.

You have to stop and say hello
To every one of them;
'Cause if you don't, then my dear friend
You have a big problem.

You show them that you really are
A stinking social retard;
They look at you and think you had
A childhood that was scarred.

But you alone know the truth
You alone can say;
That engineering in Tamil Nadu
Is what made you this way.

A world without greeting strangers,
That would be sublime;
But I can't think of any other word
To make this sentence rhyme.

Made in, guess where.

Music in my head: God is an Astronaut- New Year's End
Today's weather: Rain, as usual.

Ice cold winds and cloudy skies
May try to chill my core;
But made in China jacket keeps
Me from being sore.

Walking to the laboratory
Can be a real chore;
But made in China music player
Walks me to the door.

Sitting in the laboratory
Can really be a bore;
But made in China girl's here too
and I feel bored no more.

Now you may think that this Chink
I really do adore;
But her made in China jasmine tea
Is what I'm going for.

Her jasmine tea is very sweet,
I always want some more;
But made in China watch tells me
Its fifty minutes past four.

It's time for me to go back after
A hard day's work, for sure;
Under made in China blanket I sleep
For ten long hours or more.

Comic Relief

Music in my head: Anathema- Transacoustic
Today's weather: Gloomy

I've been going through all time classic comedies the last few days like a hot knife through butter. It all started after I watched 'Angels and Demons', or rather 'Langdonji ke arbit funde'. I knew that I needed some comic relief, and I googled for half an hour, made a list of classic comedies and started downloading them one by one and watching them.

It started with 'Airplane!' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080339/). It's a brilliant comedy, sarcastic at times, slapstick at times, but classic all the way through. For all you kinky bastards out there, there are a couple of seconds of nudity, so have fun while you're laughing.

I went on to 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071853/). Again, exceptionally humourous and way ahead of its time. It's a satire on how King Arthur his knights try to scour England on a shoestring, looking for the holy grail. The credits at the start of the movie are worth reading, so don't skip them.

Next came 'National Lampoon's Animal House' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0077975/). Some people may argue that it shouldn't be included in a list of classics, but you have to agree that it was a pioneer in its category, inspiring hundreds and hundreds of teenage comic flicks in the future, including movies like American Pie and Van Wilder, which, despite what the so called 'cultured' people would find, perhaps, disgusting, are extremely good ways to kill time. There's quite a bit for the kinky bastards too, so have fun.

Moving on now to 'Some like it Hot' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0053291/). The original gender-bender, on which so much of our modern day bollywood crap with Govinda and the like is probably based. The classic movie is on one hand typical of its time, and at the same time is light years ahead of it. With references to homosexuality, and of course cross-dressing, the movie is probably what put the wheels in motion for some of the brilliant movies of today which may not have been received so well in a more narrow minded world.

The last one, and probably the best one I saw was 'Dr Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0057012/). Surely one of the best movies I have ever seen. I watched some scenes up to three times and got three different meanings each time. It is packed with euphemisms and double entendres, and halfway through tongue in cheek quite well becomes tongue through cheek. Peter Sellers plays three roles in the movie, which is about a group of politicians trying to stop a mad general from enveloping the world in a nuclear holocaust. What I loved most about the movie, was the names of the characters. The mad general was named John D Ripper. The Russian premier is called Dimitry Kissoff (not sure about the spelling). But the award for the best name goes to one of the generals who is in the discussion with the politicians. General Buck Turgidson. Take out the 's' and you have a hard on, which is aptly illustrated by the fact that he is sleeping with his luscious secretary.

If you want to watch any of these movies and can't find links, tell me and I'll mail them to you. I don't want to post the links on the blog and make this and arbit links blog.

Afro-Asian Games

Music in my head: Opeth- Deliverance
Today's weather: Don't know, don't care.

It’s five thirty in the evening. I’m not completely hungry yet, but on close examination I could hear my stomach rumble. I decide, what the heck, I’ll just make dinner before the chinks come and crowd the kitchen.
I grab my bread, cheese, salami, ketchup and mayo and reach the kitchen, and I literally take a step back. There was this huge black guy with an afro about half his height, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of boxer shorts. I try to hide the look of surprise, mixed with a hint of fear, as I place the ingredients for my sandwich on the counter, waiting for him to finish using the grill.
Then I make a big, big, mistake. I smile, nod and say “Bonjour!”
It is customary in France to greet complete strangers when you see them. Even out on the street. Although I find this custom very useful when I pass by the ladies, I’ve never been quite comfortable with it, after having spent the last three years of my life looking the other way when certain people pass by. That’s normal if you are Indian. I’m sure there are people who look the other way when I pass by. But here, you have to bring out you great big fake smile and say your Bonjour before you can pass. It’s like the password to any building or street in France.
So I give him the password and smile my big fake smile. He looks at me for a while, as if to check if it was safe to let me near him. He narrows his eyes for a moment and looks me right in the eye. Then suddenly, he lightens and up, smiles and says “Bonjour!” As far as I’m concerned, that should be the end of the conversation. I stand silently, looking out the window, making sure that I don’t make eye contact with him again.
I had noticed that his oven timer showed ten minutes, so I start listening to some music. After a while, I start nodding to the music, slightly, leaning against the wall, looking out the window. Then I hear him say “Hello!”.
I turn around and my face is inches from his hairless chest. Startled, I pull back a little, and mutter a lukewarm hello back. This is the conversation that ensued:

Afro: “You like it za music?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Afro: “I like it za music too. What do you listening to za now?”
Me: “Camel, yeah.”
Afro: “Is zat like a za fiffaty cent? I like za fiffaty cent. You call it a za Gangesata.”
Me: (Just about understanding him) “No. Not really.”

Afro gives me a big, weird smile, turns and looks out the window. He proceeds to move his right hand to the small of his back and thrust his pelvis backward, causing his rear end to stick out, barely covered by the thin fabric of the boxers. I stand there, aghast, speechless and disgusted. I start contemplating leaving the kitchen and coming back later, when:

Afro : “Ze wezzer is a za good today.”
Me: “Yeah, yeah.”
Afro: “How are you?”
Me: (Incredulous at the misplaced timing of the question) “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
Afro: “Se bien, bien. I good, like a za wezzer. I am a za shining like a za sun.”

I am horrified at this juncture. What with the ‘shining like the sun’, the lack of clothes, the arm placement and the butt projection, I’m getting really, really freaked out. “That’s it,” I decided. “I’m running out.”
And then, like a godsend, the oven starts to beep. The ten minutes were up. He was going to leave.
He takes his food out the oven. I don’t see what it is. I don’t even look at him. My gaze is fixed on a tiny stain on the floor. “Bye,” he says. I bid him farewell without looking at him, looking down at my phone, pretending that I’m going to make a call.
I hear him leave. I wait for a few seconds just to be certain. He was gone.
I make my sandwich, get the hell back to my room, eat it as quick as I could, and listen to Master’s Apprentices at full blast.
I still can’t get that friggin image out of my head.

One day...

Music in my head: Parkway Drive- Romance is Dead
Today's weather: Rain

One day for power. One day for raw, untrammeled, uninhibited, unfettered, power.
One day for mesmerising brutality, for all-consuming hatred, for awe-inspiring evil.
One day for melting strings, for burning fretboards, for shattered keys, for broken drums.
One day for weak knees, for ruptured eardrums.
One day for banging heads.
One day for the rise of the machine, for the fall of civilisation as we know it.
One day in Mordor with the Nazgul of modern entertainment.
One day. Sunday, 21 June. Look for me on the DVDs.
One day in Hell.

Do naat do it, ji...

Music in my head: Radiohead- Sulk
Today's weather: Getting Cloudy

Cars wait for you to cross the road, so you don't have to dart through the traffic praying furiously.
Trains arrive exactly on time, to the second, so you don't have to hurl curses at random politicians.
People respect FCFS, queues are maintained, so you don't have to stand so close to the fat lady in front of you that you have to rotate your pelvis slightly.
Girls in the prime of life show skin, a lot of skin, so you don't have to make up mental pictures.
Public displays of affection are fairly commonplace, so you don't have to look too far to feel infinitesimally small.
People love seafood, so you don't have to have a keen sense of smell to feel nauseous.
Food is expensive, so you don't have to eat like a glutton any more.
Hardly anyone understands English, so you don't have to talk too much.
You have to use so many hand signals for communication that your arms ache, so you don't have to do the curls any more.
You walk so much that there's a new boil under your foot everyday, so you don't have to jog every morning.
Internet speeds are out of this world, so you don't have to keep your computer on overnight any more.
The bases of the walls are not moist here, so you don't have to cover your nose near fences.
There's no cow dung on the streets, so you don't have to watch your step.
It's not terribly warm, so you don't have to shower everyday.
Finally, there are thambi restaurants here, so you don't have to feel homesick.

Soup

Music in my head: Sigur Ros- Von
Today's weather: Sunny

It is not very entertaining to listen to a conversation in Chinese, contrary to what everyone might think. All I can hear is a nasal drone and the occasional really loud syllable. It's disturbing me from my work, which is all set to break a lot of ground. It's sad, really, considering that this is about as far away from China as it possibly gets (I'm in France. In your face.).

Now, lamenting gently about the dearth of Frenchmen in a small French town on the Atlantic Coast, my thoughts meander to a little trip I made to its even more Mongoloid dense centre, the pride of France, Paris. But this is not about the Mongoloids, not even about the Frenchmen. My thoughts go back to a quaint little bistro on a busy corner in the north of Paris. Cafe Foresta, they called it. It served Italian food and drink. And it was run by, wait for it, a thambi anna, forgive the oxymoron.

We did realise a strange familiarity about the waiter's face as soon as we entered. There was the weird French hairdo with lots of gel on, and the puffy French shirt and the pointy French shoes. But there was also the tropical complexion and an expression of what we thought was slight joy at seeing us that led us to believe that he was Indian. Of course, his perfect French belied our inferences, so we had to wait for a sign.

Oh yes, he did give us a sign. He wrote down our order, walked calmly over to the counter and shouted- " Anney, Oru Isabella, Oru Reims, Oru Vegitarienne, sighram!" We could just look at each other and smile. It's a small world.

The old tamil songs started playing and we were transported to a much warmer, more polluted place densely packed with sweaty people, although only the music was a common factor here. In that little instant, we went from Cafe Foresta to Motel Bamboos, and were back with a resounding crash when they brought our pizzas, and were slapped even harder right across the face with a sixteen euro per person cheque.

Sometimes home is the best place on earth.