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.