But Brutus is an honourable man

Music in my head: The Mayfield Four - Eden
Today's weather: Slushy

My friend next door became an Indian Oil Baabu yesterday. A year from now he'll chewing paan and pushing papers, just like the esteemed administration at our own institute.
Although, of course, I'm very happy for my friend (whose butt in about twice its original size from a veritable artillery barrage of myriad shoe sizes), my lack of a really firmly fixed future leaves me, like the rest of us, a hardened cynic. Thus, now, I will bitch about our administration and their impressive inefficiency.
Starting with the Academic Department. I wanted to have my transcript and grade cards printed out. I went to bear man.
1 pm, July 23, Bear Man: Come at 2:30.
2:30 pm, July 23, Bear Man : Come at 4:30.
4:30 pm, July 23, Bear Man : Come tomorrow.
9 am, July 24, Bear Man : What, you did not inform me yesterday. Come at 2:30.
Pattern of July 23 repeats.
Pattern of July 23 repeats again on July 26.
I get my grade cards at 4:30 on July 26.
Pattern of July 23 repeats again on July 27, for the transcript.
In my frustration, I decided not go go again for two days. I'll go tomorrow, and you can guess what's going to happen.

Moving on to the computer support group. I was trying to access the Xilinx website, and I got a huge red flashing warning which informed me that I was being a naughty boy and trying to watch download pornography. I half expected a hand to magically spring out of the computer and spank me.
Au Contraire, the following was proudly splashed along with other notices at the most happening place in college, the juice shop (go ahead, laugh at us).
That is, of course, 'educational', but Brutus is an honourable man.

And while I was stranded at the juice stall, in the pouring rain, this is what I saw.
A T-shirt that says 'Hard and Dirty, Extremely Furny'. Furny brownies to anyone who can tell me what it means. A walking testament of the lack of real pornography, and the abundance of 'hot mallu aunties in red sari' on youtube, which, of course, is again a testament to our Brutus' honour.

Another furny guy lost his pen drive. This is how he appeals to the masses for help.
And one more year to go. It is certainly not 'a great pleasure to me'.
But then again...

Desert Haiku

Music in my head: Sigur Rós - Milanó
Today's weather: Dusty, Windy, Trichy

(This is a set of Haikus. Notice that the syllable count is 3-5-3 in the first one, 5-7-5 in the second one and 7-9-7 in the third one, all just for fun. I call it a progressive haiku.)

Matted hair,
Dust winds are blowing,
Dandruff born.

My back is sweaty,
Sunshine burning my skin up,
As I walk around.

Was caught in sticky red tape,
When I tried to pay the fees today,
I look beautiful waxed.

My dusty wasteland

Music in my head: The Mars Volta - Eriatarka
Today's weather: Dusty, windy, guess where?

If you book a prepaid taxi
To go to the railway station,
Cater for some extra change,
For rest and relaxation.
A man grabbed the ticket
Right out of my clenched fist,
Then he rolled my trolley on
Towards a man with a list
Of taxis that were idling,
Waiting for someone
To get onto the rickety machine
So they could have some fun.
I gave the trolley pusher
Twenty Indian Rupees.
I felt like Shantaram then,
He beamed and pocketed his fees.
Onto the taxi ride then,
It's lucky I didn't end up dead,
As the driver pulled a Rajini
With his hands behind his head.
High speed turns he negotiated
With a sudden flick of his hand.
I was beyond relieved when he
Pulled into the Station's taxi stand.
"Driver tip", he asked audaciously,
I pulled out ten rupees this time.
He stared at the tenner for a while,
Then at me, with contempt, the slime.
I just walked towards the platform,
My train for Trichy was at ten.
It was just eight o'clock,
I didn't know what to do till then.,
Until I found a waiting room,
Which had a power supply, hurray!
So I powered on my computer,
And replied to e-mails I received today,
Then fooled around on Facebook,
Until the train came around.
I got my ticket checked an then
In the thambi rhythm, I was drowned.

Heima, at last.

Music in my head: Porcupine Tree- Halo
Today's weather: Sweaty, and I'm loving it!

Home at last.

The journey lasted 24 hours, including all the waits in between different modes of transportation, starting with:
1. Bus from my hostel to train station.
2. TGV to Paris.
3. Air India to New Delhi.

The bus and the train were, in keeping with French custom, exactly on time, and thus I had 3 hours to kill at CDG. I watched ‘This is Spinal Tap’. Awesome.

Check in was messy. Only 8 kg of cabin baggage is allowed, which resulted in my smelly underwear being exposed to public eyes and noses on their way from one bag into the other.
Window-shopped at the duty free shops, thinking up much better ways I could have spent the money some dumasses were shelling out for bottles of perfume and, of course, wine.
And then, the flight. Some salient features of the trip, which can be extended to most Air India flights:
1. Fact 1: Half an hour late, of course.
2. Fact 2: Cabin crew comprising three male and four female attendants.
3. Fact 3: The male cabin attendants had less facial hair than the female cabin attendants.
4. Fact 4: One of the male cabin attendants had no cranial hair either and had visible arthritis.
5. Star attraction 1: balding old man with almost immobile joints demonstrating safety instructions. I finally smiled after a very long time.
6. Star attraction 2: lead cabin attendant who looked just like this old mallu actress, honest to God.
7. Annoyance 1: Old chinki attendant 1 woke me up by poking me at 2 am to serve dinner.
8. Annoyance 2: Old chinki attendant 2 woke me up by poking me at 5 30 am to serve breakfast.
9. Annoyance 3: Waited one hour for stairs to arrive so we can deplane. Waited twenty more minutes for bus to arrive.

But Air India, I forgive you, for I am finally home. And its all about food, isn't it? I have eaten the following since reaching home:
1. Four Parathas.
2. A lot of Palak Paneer.
3. Half a Tandoori Chicken.
4. Couple of Roomali Rotis.
5. A chicken kathi roll.
6. About half a kg of mum’s cake.
Everyone else at home is asleep now. I am three and a half hours behind them.

The Real Louvre Top Ten (PG Advised)

Music in my head: Estatic Fear - Chapter I
Today's weather: Mildly acidic rain.

When you hear Louvre, you think Mona Lisa, La Jaconde, as she is known here. But to a brutally logical and analytical engineering mind, she is unimpressive.
What made the whole three mile walk worthwhile was the abundance of perverted, and in some cases, outright sick paintings and sculptures. Go Old Masters! Here's my pick, the top ten in descending order.

Ten:A still from the 15th century slasher movie- Mummy's head IV.

Nine:

One for the feminists. The world's first six pack abs belonged to a woman.

Eight:Artifact from the collection room of a pre-christian sperm bank.

Seven:
Sunny Leone and entourage, back in the day.

Six:
The world's first orgy. Men, women, horses. Guy on the bed is probably thinking- "Why the hell didn't I think of this before?".

Five:
16th Century X-Rated spoof of 'Three Hundred'- 'Three hundred little Spartans'. Notice Leonidus in the centre grabbing attention with an erotic yogic stance.

Four:
One of the heads from 17th Century Futurama- known then as 'Futugabriel', as uttering the name of pagan gods was heresy.

Three:
Still from the prequel to "Meet your Meat"- the bovine messiah.

Two:
The first advertisement for milk- "Cobra bhi peeta hai".

And the winner is:
They pretty much speak for themselves.

So the next time you go to the Louvre, forget La Jaconde. And wear loose fitting pants.

Beedi Irukka?

Music in my head: Steve Von Til- The Grave is a Grim Horse
Today's weather: Melancholy

It was, to say the least, a grim affair. A black armband would have been the final touch. A party, my prof had called it.

I have to explain to you a few things about my prof before I proceed. He is around 25, has long hair, wears ripped jeans, chain-smokes and listens to 70s prog. He would've been me except for the smoking, the hair colour and the missing love handles. That's why I was so taken with him right from first sight- don't mistake this for anything else, it was just pure macho guy love. I had to stay at his mum's place at Nantes overnight after missing the last train to Saint-Nazaire. In the midst of a long and awkward silence, which I am quite used to now that I've been here so long, in an attempt to make some conversation, I asked her if her son lives alone. I did this because I had to spend a night at his place as well- I was getting there on a public holiday. She answered, and I quote- "He live alone. He live with Francesca (name changed), but she go away. Now he sad."

He was, indeed, living alone when I got here. But somewhere down the line, I don't exactly know when, he met another girl. I had seen her once, when she came to pick him up from the lab. I, of course, said my bonjours and tres biens. And I was quite taken with her too. So when he mentioned the party to me, I secretly jumped for joy, all the while maintaining a nonchalantly cool demeanor. Party means eye candy, and at his house, it also means ear candy- he also has a record player and among others, an In the Court of the Crimson King 1983 reissue LP.

And then the slap across the face. I fond myself at a restaurant near his house, sitting at a table with an average diner age of about 60. Needless to say, only one person in ten, conforming to the ratio here in Saint-Nazaire, knew enough English to conduct a primitive conversation. Thankfully, I was seated between two such people, my prof and another old prof.

I went around shaking hands and saying bonjour for a while and retired to my chair. A couple of minutes later the old prof (OP) joins me. I smile my fake French smile and start thinking of things to say. He initiates the conversation.

OP: Salut! Comment ca va?
Me: Oui, tres bien. Ca va?
OP: Oui, Oui, bien. (beaming) You speak ze goot Francaise.
Me: (polite smile) That's all the French I know. Je parle pas francaise.
OP: Ha ha ha! You are from India?
Me: Yes.
(Some tedious conversation about where in India I am from, and how one of his friends found Delhi beautiful, hot and polluted.)
OP: You know ze beedi?
Me: Pardon?
OP: Ze beedi, you smoke, like so (mimes smoking).
Me: Ah! Yes, yes.
OP: Is very goot. My friend bring back beedi from India.
Me: Okay. I don't smoke, so I don't know.
OP: (Regards me curiously) Beedi is a very... ah... very... (defeated smile) goot.
Me: Okay.
OP: It is, how you say, illegal here.
Me: Oh!
OP: But my friend bring some, and it goot. You can buy in ze Nantes and Paris, but is ze expensive.
Me: Okay.
(The conversation switched to other mundane things.)

The food was not exactly my cup of tea. I hate seafood, Saint- Nazaire is primarily a fishing port. So I had the chicken salad and a weird Greek dish with a chicken leg wrapped in a leaf. The dessert was decent, chocolate mousse and lemon souffle. And the wine was, apparently, excellent. I had a glass, but I lack previous wine-tasting experience, and hence I am not a qualified judge.

Anyway, on the bus on my way back, I started pondering, as I usually do, about how the Europeans are so weird (OP might be pondering about how Indians are so weird at this very instant). Beedis are in high demand here. A single beedi costs more than a meal. And they buy it, just because it is illegal. I'm no expert here, but I always thought that beedis were bought for want of resources to buy cigarettes, and yet, this anomaly, this abomination.

I think I'll be glad to be rid of these little abnormalitites and finally return to our own desi idiosyncrasies.

Drilldoze

Music in my head: The Who - Quadrophenia
Today's weather: Like Trichy in December.

I was having a very nice dream.
I had dozed off after eating two cheeseburgers. The time was around 6 pm as far as I can remember. And like I said, I was in the middle of a very nice dream, which, of course, I cannot recall now. I had been listening to Dark Side of the Moon in loop mode for the past two hours, and the music was still playing when I went off to sleep.
I can't be sure of this, but somewhere in the middle of my siesta, I thought I heard the intro to Time being played intermittently. And then thought I heard some really heavy beats. I must've assumed, all the while in a sub-conscious state, mind you, that the guys with Afros in the wing must be playing their annoying Bob Marley remixes.
The sounds must have grown louder and at some point I must have switched to conscious mode. I immediately heard a loud alarm (just like the intro of Time) and heavy fists banging desperately on my door. I could also hear running footsteps in the corridor. I jumped to my feet, ran to the door and opened it.
There stood a huge black woman, the prototypical hollywood black matriarch. She proceeds to grab me by the shoulders and give me thorough shake before going on into an angry monologue in rapid French. I can usually pick up random words here and there, but in this case I was totally lost.
The shaking had woken me up and I understood that it was a drill. Without a word, scared as a mouse, I put on my slippers and followed her out.
Once we were outside, I think my cute looks and just-out-of-bed hairstyle melted her heart of stone (no reference to the movie they used to show on CW, if anyone remembers the channel). She spoke, again in rapid French, but this time accompanied by a smile. I just said 'Je parle pas francaise' and 'I'm sorry!' and looked the other way, still slightly intimidated by both her bulk and her deep voice.
I don't know how long I stood out there. I was mostly staring at the floor. There were only a handful of people. Three black guys, a couple of chinese girls, a few Arab ladies and me. Everyone else had left for their respective homes, as the summer vacations here started on the 30th of June.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the ringing stopped.
I looked up for an instant, beamed at her, and almost ran to my room, never once looking back.

Prozac Wanted

Music in my head: Tool - Schism
Today's weather: Cold on the outside, warm on the inside.

Five more days.
And its over.
Fifty days of Europe.
Fifty days of bearing the crushing weight of the collective expectations of disillusioned, perhaps deranged, yet naive fools who believe that Europe is Eurotrip.
Fifty days of gawking at anything that moved, and that includes swanky convertibles.
Fifty days of eating bland Euro trash, and putting mayonnaise on anything that resembled anything that was even remotely edible- literally, not, as the disillusioned and the deranged might impishly conceive, figuratively.
Fifty days of internet connections faster than the speed of thought.
Fifty days of breathing clean, cold air, that smells like fresh croissants in the morning, stinks like seafood in the afternoon, and has no particular odour in the evening.
Fifty days of smiling facades beaming at other smiling facades in a society that is itself a facade draped over a freakishly fragile, seemingly sophisticated porcelain dummy that is set precariously at the very edge of a mantelpiece in a little wooden villa bang on top of a fault in the Earth's crust.
Fifty days of larger than life gangster graffiti and smaller than peanut average intellect.
Fifty days of first feeling minuscule about who I was and where I was from, and slowly growing to eclipse the 'civilised' and 'cultured'.
Fifty days now, and who knows how many more, of feeling minuscule about the unaccomplished, the very same naive expectations that I naively derided.
Fifty days of forty days and ten nights.
And its over.
Five more days.
I'd love to finally leave, but I'd love to stay.
But I'd rather leave.

Renaissance

Music in my head: King Crimson - Fallen Angel
Today's weather: Hot! As it has been for the past few days.

Went through Barrons from A to P,
And the Foundation Trilogy
In a week, cut off from humanity
Toeing the line of insanity.

Thousands of pages had I read,
Including Pamuk's 'My Name is Red'.
And most of what Mr. Barron said
In printouts strewn all over my bed.

Until a learned friend next door
Told me I need fret no more;
A computer sale since day before-
They're selling computers and chargers galore.

So I ran out to said hallowed place,
With hope writ large upon my face,
And there at the end of the maze
Was my ticket back to time and space.

I reached out to grab it with both my hands,
The Universal Charger for multiple brands.
I was so happy that I could dance,
But no time for that, I had other plans.

I came back and plugged it in.
Yes! My comp's alive and kickin'.
What a horrid week it's been.
Finally, I'm awake, I'm livin'.