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.
Showing posts with label afro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label afro. Show all posts
July 03, 2009
June 06, 2009
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.
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.
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